Surrender Becomes Her (15 page)

Swearing under his breath, Marcus gave chase and his horse lunged forward, but almost immediately he realized that catching Isabel was only going to create more problems and, though it went badly against the grain, he jerked his horse and let her escape. Blast her! She’d won this time, he thought angrily, but by heaven the next round would be his.

Jack appeared out of the darkness. He hadn’t missed the noise of the departing horse and, cautiously approaching Marcus, he glanced in the direction of the fading sound and murmured, “Trouble?”

Marcus’s jaw clenched. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he muttered.

Jack’s brow rose, but he said nothing as he brought his horse alongside. Together they guided their mounts to the road and Jack asked, “You find anything interesting?”

Marcus shook his head, disappointment leaking into his voice. “Not a damn thing. And before you ask, yes, I looked at his boot heels and for a false bottom in his valise, but I found nothing.” Grimacing, he added, “The man owns a remarkable amount of jewelry; he has enough fobs and seals and quizzing glasses to open a shop on Bond Street. Sees himself as a bit of a dandy, but beyond that, there was nothing in his room that you wouldn’t expect to find.” Remembering that astounding moment when he’d discovered Isabel beneath the bed, he muttered, “And I looked everywhere—even under the bed—and believe me, I found nothing I was looking for!”

Jack stared between the ears of his horse, disheartened that Marcus hadn’t found the memorandum or at least a clue of some sort. He’d known that his task wouldn’t be easy and the odds were against them finding the memorandum so easily. But where, he wondered, had Whitley hidden it? His lips quirked. Assuming that Whitley had the dashed thing. It worried him that this might be a sleeveless errand and that Whitley was guilty of nothing more than being an unsavory society hanger-on.

“I assume that you found Whitley?” Marcus asked, interrupting Jack’s ruminations.

Jack nodded. “Had a bit of scare, though; he wasn’t present when I first arrived, and I was on the point of bolting to find you when he walked inside.” Jack looked thoughtful. “Our friend the major was in a decidedly foul mood when he
arrived. I gather he’d been gone to an assignation that did not go well. He made some ugly comments about the perfidy of women in general and especially the prime article that failed to keep the, er, appointment. I pity the absent ladylove when he eventually catches up with her—as he no doubt will.”

Marcus had a very good idea of the lady’s identity and, wishing to change the topic, he asked, “I take it, then, that you had no trouble making yourself agreeable to Whitley?”

Jack laughed. “Whitley wasn’t quiet about his dashed hopes for the evening and I didn’t have any difficulties in helping him drown his sorrows in several mugs of ale.” Jack frowned. “Thing is, I don’t think that Whitley’s meeting tonight had anything to do with matters of the heart. He didn’t give the impression of a man in the throes of thwarted passion. I could be wrong, but there was a note in his voice…” He shrugged. “Probably my imagination. At any rate, learning that I was your cousin, the major seemed quite interested in
you
, I might add.”

Marcus growled, “Impudent busybody.”

“He is that,” Jack agreed. “Whether he stole the memorandum or not, I discovered that I don’t care overmuch for Major Whitley. He is a blustering bully and a braggart, as well as an impudent busybody.” He shot Marcus a look. “I’d take damn care to keep Mrs. Manning well away from him; old friendship or not, he’s not a fellow I’d want any wife of mine to know.” His lips thinned. “
Any
woman for that matter. Fellow’s a damned libertine, the kind that seduces housemaids and boasts of his conquests. Don’t like him.”

Marcus frowned. “You and I share the same opinion of him, and I wonder what Hugh was at, allowing a bounder like Whitley to run tame through his house—which, from what Isabel had indicated, is precisely what happened.”

“Your betrothed seems to be surrounded by unsavory characters,” Jack observed idly.

Marcus sent him a narrow look. “And what precisely do you mean by that?”

“The major,” Jack said, “wasn’t the only new friend I made
tonight. Whitley and I were drinking at a table by ourselves when another gentleman came up and joined us. Just returned from London this afternoon. Fellow’s name is Garrett Manning, lives at a place called Holcombe Manor, claims it is not far from Manning Court. Says he’s Lord Manning’s nephew. That true?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Marcus sighed. “Garrett is not a
bad
man but he is a profligate womanizer and a reckless gambler—and believe me, Lord Manning gives thanks daily that it is his own grandson who will inherit the title and not his rakehell nephew.” Marcus half smiled. “Nearly everyone is of the opinion that, should Garrett inherit the estate and title, he would immediately turn Manning Court into a gaming den and brothel.” Marcus’s brow furrowed. “I am surprised that he left London at the height of the Season, though. I wonder why?”

“Your engagement,” Jack said, “is apparently the reason for his return. I couldn’t decide whether the engagement was agreeable to Manning or not, but the news certainly brought him hotfoot home from the city.” He glanced at Marcus. “I wonder why your engagement to Mrs. Manning interests him so much? It should make no difference to him.”

Marcus stared ahead into the darkness. “Hugh did well during his years in India, amassing a respectable fortune, and Isabel is an heiress in her own right—not counting the fact that her father-in-law dotes on her and would do anything for her. It is possible that Garrett had his eye on Isabel’s fortune and planned one day, when it suited him, to court her. Since she rarely goes to London and is considered on the shelf, he probably assumed that she was his for the taking—when he got around to it.”

Jack sent him a look. “He didn’t, uh, consider you competition?”

Marcus grinned. “No, I’m sure he didn’t. My fiancée and I have a rather tempestuous history and I am the
last
man Garrett would expect Isabel to marry.”

Jack looked as if he’d like to ask more questions, but the subject was dropped and the two men turned to a discussion of tonight’s activities. Arriving at Sherbrook Hall, they left their horses at the stables and walked to the house. Inside, they made their way to Marcus’s office.

After poking the dying fire into life, Marcus threw on more wood and poured them each a brandy. They settled themselves before the fireplace, both contemplating the orange and scarlet flames in silence for several seconds.

“Perhaps Whitley does not have the memorandum,” Marcus said eventually.

Jack shrugged. “That has already occurred to me, but it is telling that he departed London the very next day after his visit to the Horse Guards for a part of England where smugglers are known to be quite active.”

Marcus snorted. “Which, I would remind you, includes nearly half the coast of England. But you are correct: we do have our share of smugglers, although I would have thought that Kent or Sussex would have been better for his purposes.”

“I agree, but if he is trying to throw us off the scent, Devonshire, while known to be a smuggler haunt, isn’t quite as obvious a location.”

Marcus nodded. “And his professed longtime friendship with Mrs. Manning would make the destination seem logical.” Silence fell for a few minutes before Marcus asked, “So what is our next step?”

Jack looked disgusted. “I don’t know, but if he has the memorandum, he has to have it stashed away somewhere nearby. If he is planning on making a run for French-held territory, he’d want it close at hand. I can’t imagine that he’d have left it in London.” He cast a considering glance to Marcus. “Are you positive you searched everywhere in his room tonight?”

“Yes, I’m positive,” Marcus said dryly. He’d heard the note of doubt in Jack’s voice and didn’t blame him; if their
positions were reversed, he’d be doubtful, too. And would want to inspect Whitley’s room himself. Marcus studied Jack and could almost see his brain turning over ways to get inside Whitley’s room to make his own search. Wryly, he asked, “You’re going to take a look yourself, aren’t you?”

Jack had the grace to look guilty. “It isn’t that I doubt you….”

“You won’t find anything,” Marcus said. “And, in the interest of fair play, this time I’ll run interference for you with Whitley and keep him at bay while you’re busy in his room.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, grateful that Marcus hadn’t cut up rough at having his thoroughness questioned or of having a second search done. Having Marcus keep Whitley distracted while he went through Whitley’s things was another boon, but then he recalled the reason Marcus had been the one to search Whitley’s room in the first place. “Won’t he be suspicious of friendliness from you?” he asked. “You said your only meeting with him was not friendly.”

“I said I would run interference,” Marcus remarked dryly. “I didn’t say I would be friendly.”

Aware of Isabel’s habits, Marcus was waiting for her just after seven o’clock the next morning on the narrow bridle path that ran between the two properties. As he waited for her, he realized that he knew far too much about her life and habits than the disinterested party he had believed himself to be should have known. It was, he admitted uneasily, as if a part of him, a part buried deep inside and unacknowledged until now, had always been keenly focused on her, always aware of her even as he kept his distance.

Riding a fractious black colt, Isabel came into sight and, thrusting his uncomfortable ruminations away, he urged his horse forward.

Isabel was so busy convincing the young horse she was riding that it would be impolite to unseat her that she wasn’t aware of Marcus’s approach until the colt stopped and half
reared at the sight of another horse. She fought to bring the black under control and, once that was accomplished and the colt was content merely to dance and snort, she sent Marcus a wary glance.

“I’m surprised to see you out and about so early this morning,” she said politely, ignoring the jolt of half pleasure, half panic his presence caused.

“You shouldn’t be surprised,” he said levelly. “I believe we have something to discuss.”

She’d lain awake half the night trying to come up with a logical reason for being in Whitley’s room but absolutely nothing occurred to her. Dreading the next meeting with Marcus, she had hoped to postpone the confrontation with him for as long as she could and intended to keep well away from him. He had, she thought miserably, just put paid to that frail plan.

She tried to rouse a healthy anger, tried to tell herself that it was none of his business and she didn’t have to tell him anything at all, but even anger failed her this morning. The strain of dealing with the threat Whitley represented, the amount of dogged courage it had taken for her to climb into his room, and the terror she experienced when Marcus had found her had all taken their toll. Exhausted from a restless night, frightened of Whitley and what he might do, she felt as helpless as she ever had in her life. Not even in the horrible days after Hugh’s death, alone in a foreign country with her very young son dependent upon her to bring them safely home, had she felt so alone and vulnerable. She was, she admitted, at her lowest ebb. And like an avenging god, Marcus was waiting for answers she could not give…dared not give.

She cast him a quick glance from beneath her lashes, her heart quaking just a little at the sight of those cool gray eyes and taut mouth. She knew that expression of old and she knew that he would not be dissuaded from his chosen path.
Her spirits sagged. Until she told him why he had found her in Whitley’s rooms he would be relentless in his demand for an explanation. And he deserves an explanation, she admitted fairly…but I have none to give him.

Unaware that Isabel’s expression reflected her inner turmoil, Marcus fought against the insidious urge to comfort her, to let matters rest. He knew in his very bones that, whatever her reasons for being in Whitley’s room, they were of monumental importance to her and it had only been jealous rage that had prompted his accusation last night. His knowledge of her and some quiet reflection dictated that Isabel and Whitley were not lovers, but she was clearly, desperately unhappy…and frightened. The fright more than anything disturbed him. Isabel could be stubborn, infuriating, and utterly maddening, but she was no coward. He never questioned that unarmed and alone she’d face a pack of ravenous wolves defiant and unafraid, ready to fight to the death. Yet she was frightened now; something, someone had frightened her. Though he tried to hold onto it, the last remnants of his temper faded and a fierce desire to destroy whoever had caused that look in her eyes overrode every other emotion. Except that of comfort, he thought ruefully. At the moment his arms ached to hold her and he wanted to let her know that whatever lay in front of her, she was not alone.

Furious with himself that she could so easily distract him from his purpose, he growled, “I’m waiting, Isabel. Why were you in Whitley’s room last night?”

His tone of voice brought her chin up and she said angrily, “May I remind you that I am no longer your ward? Do not speak to me as if I am an erring child.”

“I have not,” Marcus said, “thought of you as my ward—or a child—for a very long time.” He brought his horse alongside the now-quiet colt and touched her lightly on the arm. Softly, he coaxed, “Isabel, sooner or later you’re going to have to tell me.” When she remained silent, he said, “Sweet
heart, whatever it is, it can’t be so very bad that together we can’t fix it. Surely you have done nothing so shameful that you cannot tell me.”

She stared stonily ahead, fighting the urge to burst into silly, feminine tears at the kindness in his voice. Damn him! Why couldn’t he rage and rail at her like any other decent man would have when confronted with the situation he had found last night. But, oh, no, she thought dispiritedly, he had to be
understanding
, undercutting her defenses and making it so much harder to resist his persistence. She wanted to cast herself on that formidable chest of his and pour out everything, knowing that while he might be shocked and appalled, perhaps even disappointed, he would not abandon her. For a moment, she was comforted by that knowledge, but then she took a deep breath and pushed aside the treacherous emotions that threatened to swamp her. Her jaw firmed. For his own good, she could not involve him any more than he already was, but she also knew that he would not give up until he had at least some of the answers. She half smiled. Stubborn didn’t even begin to describe Marcus Sherbrook. He would keep at her until she told him something. Could she tell him why she had been in Whitley’s room without creating more problems? Did she dare?