Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (7 page)

Despite the clatter of city noises, it seemed as if a bubble of tense silence encased the gig.

It took only a few minutes for Marcus to regain his bearings; it took many more for the final flames of his fury to dissipate.

Composed once more, Marcus steered the conversation back on track, “If you cannot present the appropriate façade, then stay away from the board. Send me to the gatherings that you would otherwise attend. I will come bearing your apologies.”

His father seemed relieved to be discussing a new topic. “I suppose that’s easy enough.”

“We might suggest that the orphanage is undergoing a crisis of sorts that requires your steadfast attention. Finances being low would probably do.”

“Not far from the truth,” Dunn muttered.

“How so?”

Dunn shrugged. “Society’s pinchfistedness. The war, bad investments and the like. It seems to go in waves, but we are definitely at a low ebb.”

Marcus could not imagine anything critical threatening the orphanage. It seemed so immutable. “How serious?”

“Nothing I have not faced before.” Dunn sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Your presence on the board might actually improve the situation. Everyone loves a war hero.”

In his typical fashion, his father would utilize every resource to help his precious orphanage. Even his own son. With his emotions under control now, it hardly bothered Marcus. Hardly at all.

T
he hairs on Catherine’s neck stirred, as if a cool breeze had penetrated the small office. But that was preposterous, as there was no window in her tiny study. Distractedly, she rubbed her collar and patted the loose bun to make sure that her unruly hair remained in place. Then she went back to examining the high bill for tallow from last month’s supply of candles.

Odd, yet the feeling remained. She frowned, puzzled. Her skin prickled, as if…
someone
were watching.

Slowly, she peered over her shoulder.

Marcus leaned on the doorpost languidly, as if it were the most comfortable chaise at White’s.

Her heart leaped and then cantered. How long had he been standing there? Hastily, she jumped from her seat, crashing the chair backward onto the floor with a loud crack. She’d been watching every doorway for three days, wondering when she might encounter Marcus Dunn again. Every time one of the lads would announce a visitor, her heart would gallop and her palms would grow
sweaty. Now that he was finally here, her mouth was dried to dust and all of the arguments she’d planned in her head evaporated into mist. Her mind was abysmally blank.

“Allow me.” He loped forward on his crutches as she stood transfixed. He no longer wore his uniform, but an azurite blue coat that somehow managed to match perfectly his brilliant eyes.

With astounding grace for a wounded man, he leaned over on his crutches and lifted the chair with one bare hand, righting it. He pushed it against the wall to the left of the secretary and stepped near the desk. He was so close she could smell the cloves on his breath and the sandalwood pomade he used to sweep back his hair. It was a spicy, yet refreshing combination. She could even discern the new growth of whiskers on his clean-shaven face, ready to darken his chiseled cheeks within hours. His body’s heat filled the tiny office, making her feel suddenly warm.

She wished to step back, to find her equilibrium once more. But that was not possible in the small space. So instead, she turned her back to him and adjusted the ledgers on the desk, barely moving them so as not to lose her place.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, irritated that her voice was unusually shrill. “It was clumsy of me.”

She was glaringly aware of her drab gray dress, staid chignon and dowdy apron. The idiotic thought of Headmaster Dunn’s offer of new gowns flitted through her mind. It was another of his odd turns of late, one that she’d emphatically refused. But never had she felt so painfully aware of her aged apparel. At least there were no cobwebs in her hair, this time. Still, why did she even care?

“It happens to all of us,” he murmured in that honey-and-steel voice.

She could not in good conscience stand with her back to the man, so after taking a steadying breath, she turned, unhurriedly, and clasped her hands before her.

He seemed in no hurry to speak, simply stood there watching her, with an infuriatingly amused glint in his eye. Although he had his father’s broad brow, sharp cheekbones, strong jaw and aristocratic nose, the wide-set shape of his eyes and those smooth peach-colored lips had to have come from Mrs. Dunn, who had died before Catherine had come to Andersen Hall. Yet, Catherine had pored over the lady’s portrait in the headmaster’s study often enough to gather that Mrs. Uriah Dunn had been a pretty, if somber lady.

Marcus had never been somber. Fiery, devilishly stirring: That was Marcus Dunn as a lad. Always up to one mischief or another. The girls had adored him and his devil-may-care attitude. The lads had followed him about wishing they were he.

He still had that aura of excitement, but it had changed somehow. Now, there was an added sense of…
danger
about him. A hardness beneath the charm. Like he would play cards with you one moment and slit your throat the next.

Catherine blinked, appalled that she would think such a terrible thing about Uriah Dunn’s son. No, he might be roguish and up to no good, but he would not harm her, not intentionally; at least some of Uriah Dunn’s blood flowed in his veins.

With that comforting thought, Catherine lifted her chin. “How can I be of service to you?”

“Service to me?” he echoed, making the offer sound anything but innocent.

Her cheeks burned, and she decided that at least one of them needed to be frank. “You obviously want something. What is it?”

His brow lifted at her discourtesy. “I’m recently back in town. Can I not stop by to pay a visit to an old friend?”

The idiocy of the comment fueled her suspicions that all was not as Marcus was trying to make it appear. “You are very good at rewriting history,” she charged, crossing her arms. “I wonder why. What are you up to, Marcus Dunn?”

He leaned back on his crutches. “Must I have a hidden purpose?”

“You show up after years of stalwart silence and suddenly wish to make amends? Don’t forget, I knew you as a lad. I am not so easily played.”

“Ahh. Old hurts still sting. So what was it? A frog in your pocket? A pine needle on your chair?”

Digging her nails into her arms, she fought to cool her mounting irritation. Oh, how she hated dealing with irascible males. They were always trying to deflect the blame to others. “I have no concern for the past. My thoughts bear only on today. I am speaking of your swift turnabout. It seems contrived, to say the least. Whatever your game, I will not be so easily duped.”

His blue eyes glittered with calculation and…amusement.

Her fury swelled. “There’s nothing droll about how you are manipulating your father. Lord help you if you hurt him.”

His gaze hardened. “I would never injure my father.” Somehow he seemed taller, broader, looming over her in the small room.

Resisting the urge to step back, she took a steadying
breath. “Then what are your intentions? The orphanage has little enough for you to steal—”

“I am no petty thief.” His tone had edged to iron.

“Then what are you about?” She lifted a shoulder, defiant. “Because you are certainly not a man prayerful for forgiveness. You, Marcus Dunn, don’t have a begging bone in your body.”

The bastard smiled then. The wretched knave actually grinned. She wanted to throttle him.

“Seven years I’ve been gone, yet you find it so easy to mark me?” he asked, coolly amused.

“People don’t change.” Thinking of Prescott, she amended, “Except in extraordinary circumstances.”

“And my confrontation with death is not one of those extraordinary circumstances?” Exasperatingly, the man seemed to be enjoying verbally sparring with her.

“I don’t trust you,” she declared, crossing her arms. “And leaving you free to wreak havoc on this worthy institution or hurt your father, even his feelings, is a negligence I will not endure.”

“My, you’re quick to play judge, jury and executioner.”

“Lord help me, if you keep this up, I will contact every member of the board of trustees and see you exposed as the charlatan that you are.”

“You have no cause.”

“If enough questions are asked—”

“I’m on the board already, one of
them
. You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

They stood silently, like pugilists waiting for the call to come to blows.

After a long moment, his dark brow relaxed, and he exhaled softly. “Very well then.” He dropped backwards into
her chair, setting his crutches beside him. “May I?” he asked, after the fact.

Stiffly she inclined her head. The man
was
injured, she was not about to deny him a little rest.

Removing his hat, he raked his fingers through his hair, sending a whiff of sandalwood pomade her way. He set his hat on the open ledger on the desk. The man undoubtedly knew how to make himself comfortable.

“Would you please close the door?” he asked.

She did not move. Being alone with him was bad enough, a closed door was inviting speculation.

“I cannot speak candidly to you if the world is to hear,” he added.

Begrudgingly, she unwound her arms and stepped over to the entry. After taking a quick look down each end of the passage and seeing no one loitering, she closed the door with a thud. Her stomach churned and her cheeks felt overly warm at being closed in such small quarters with him, but she was not about to let anything stop her from securing the truth.

Taking a deep breath, she turned.

He lounged in her chair with his shiny black Hessians crossed at the ankles, making his eggshell-colored breeches cling to muscular thighs like cream on milk. A slight bulge showed where his bandages covered his wounded thigh and above that…She lifted her eyes from that unsettling view. She supposed his gilt-buttoned azurite blue coat was the latest cut, but Prescott would know better than she. Marcus wore it over a discreetly patterned waistcoat that looked to be silk and an intricately tied neck cloth of snowy linen.

The man did not have the right to be so wretchedly gorgeous, especially when she was such a frump. But her dress was paid for with honest wages. From where came the hefty coin for his fashionable ensemble?

No, she would not be deceived by his smooth veneer. He could have been Adonis for all she cared. He was up to no good and she would do whatever necessary to protect Uriah Dunn and Andersen Hall Orphanage.

“If you would?” Marcus waved to the small stool in the corner that she used when one of the children visited. A few of the lads called it the “chicken claw” for its scrawny three-legged foundation.

Catherine did not like that he was taking over her office, but she was willing to go along with him, for the moment. Lifting the stool, she positioned it as far from him as possible, near the exit.

Awkwardly, she sat. Trying to appear authoritative on a chicken-clawed stool was not an easy endeavor. So she clasped her hands tightly in her lap and set her back up against the wall, toes forward, ankles together but un-crossed.

Running his hand through his sable hair, Marcus let out a deep breath. “I cannot afford to have you running about stirring up trouble—”

She stiffened. “Is that a threat?”

His hand lowered quickly. “I do not harm females.” Memory seemed to flash in his azure gaze. “Well, unless they have a knife at my back.”

She had no idea to what he was referring, but declared, “If your intentions are foul, then I will run to the board, or the constable, as fast as my feet will take me, and will cause you no end of trouble.”

He shifted forward, leaning an elbow on his uninjured knee. “Let me ask you this, Cat. Does your protective streak run just to my father and this institution? Or does it run deeper?”

“Deeper?”

“Are you patriotic, for example?”

The question took her by surprise. “I’m no anarchist, if that’s what you mean.”

“And Napoleon?”

“A powermonger.”

“You don’t approve of him?”

“The man lives for war, so he can amass land, prestige, power. He does not ‘free’ anyone except nations from their treasuries.” Her eyes widened and her heart began to pound. “You don’t work for Napoleon, do you?”

He stiffened as if offended. “I’d sooner slit my own throat.”

Relief swept through her. “That, at least, is one point in your favor.”

Marcus smiled. She was judging
him!
She really believed that she could trounce him if the need presented itself. Astounding. And inspiring. The little kitten had grown the heart of a lioness in seven short years. Her gaze was steady, her hands held firmly before her, giving the sense that she had nothing to fear. Her chin was lifted in an almost regal manner. She reminded him of a pixie version of Lady Justice.

Still, why was she so quick to conclude him immoral? Did she know his secret and why he left London seven years before? There were few who did and they would not utter a word for fear of the repercussions. “Do you hold anything against me, besides for returning unexpectedly after an extended and taciturn absence?”

“You left on bad terms with your father, the kindest of men. And oh, how he grieved. Then suddenly all is well. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

So she liked Shakespeare. Well so did he. “Pray you now, forget and forgive,” Marcus quoted King Lear.

“This is real life, not a theatrical production. I want to
know what you’re about and will settle for nothing less than the truth.”

Distantly, he wondered if her skin was as silky as her voice. It did not matter, as he would never find out. “I will tell you the truth of my presence here, but only if you swear on…” He wondered what would be most precious to her. “Didn’t you have a little brother?”

Fear flashed in her smoky gaze. So that was her weakness.

“If you swear on your brother’s life, I will tell you what you need to know,” he finished. He ventured her word alone would have been good enough, but he wanted to weigh her reaction.

Her chin lifted a notch. “I will make no such pledge. For you to even suggest it is perverse. Tell me what I ask, then I will decide if it is worthy of secrecy.”

Good for her. He really was enjoying this little session more than he rightly should. “My father said that you were a sharp one. He left off the part about your mettle.”

“Stop shilly-shallying and tell me the truth.”

He leaned forward, meeting her frosty gray gaze. “I’m here to obtain money to fight Napoleon.”

Her pink lips pinched in disbelief. “Obtain?”

“Not to steal it. But simply to gain some funding, some support needed for certain supplies necessary for the war.”

“Why send you?” Doubt shimmered in her stormy gaze and one golden brow lifted. She’d never make it on Drury Lane with an expressive face like that. “There are plenty of influential officers. You have no connections.”

“Not true,” Marcus countered, enjoying how she challenged him. “I saved a certain nobleman’s son and my appearance here in town is intended to invoke his gratitude. I
can say no more of the circumstances as they are quite confidential.”

She stared at him a long moment, then exhaled noisily, sending him a hint of minty breath. “All of that…” She waved her hands mockingly. “
Drivel
about patriotism, secrecy, Napoleon…And this is the best story you can come up with?” She rose, setting her hands on those luscious hips. “Whatever you’re up to, Mr. Dunn, I will not let it stand.”