“After the incident with the brooch I am certain St. John is involved,” Eldridge said, rising from his seat and turning to take in the view of the thoroughfare. “The men assigned to watch him have a gap in their accounts of his whereabouts the evening of the betrothal ball, an hour of time close enough to the stabbing to be suspicious. Although underlings could have performed the deed, I would think something of this delicacy would be a task he would perform himself. He’s a bold one.”
“I agree,” Marcus said gruffly. St. John was not averse to doing his own dirty work. In fact, he seemed to prefer it.
“There is one person who can help us,” Avery suggested. “The individual who scared away Lady Hawthorne’s attacker.”
Marcus shook his head. “No one came forward at the ball, and I certainly cannot interview everyone on the guest list without revealing the nature of my inquiry.”
Eldridge clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Troubling to be sure. I wish we understood the contents of that journal. The key to this whole affair is locked away in there.” He fell silent a moment and then, casually, he mentioned, “Lord Barclay came by this morning.”
Marcus stifled a groan. “I cannot say I’m surprised.”
“He came looking for James.”
Avery nodded. “I will speak with him when he comes to me. Hopefully, he will allow me to research the matter on his behalf.”
“Ha!” Marcus laughed. “Those Chesterfields are a stubborn lot. I would not count on his easy complacency.”
“He was a good agent,” Eldridge mused. “I lost him when he married. If this would bring him back into the fold—” He shot a pointed glance over his shoulder.
“You once told me that young, foolishly adventurous agents are easy to acquire,” Marcus reminded.
“Ah, but there is no substitute for experience.” Eldridge returned to his chair with a slight smile. “But it’s just as well. Emotional detachment is necessary to put the mission first. Barclay would lack that. As, I suspect, do you, Westfield. It is extremely possible that your emotional involvement with Lady Hawthorne will jeopardize her life.”
Avery shifted nervously in his seat.
Marcus smiled grimly. “It already has. But it won’t happen again.”
Eldridge’s gaze never wavered. “You are certain about that, are you?”
“Yes.” He’d forgotten, for a few brief weeks, how deeply she could hurt him. He’d thought himself beyond that. Now he knew he was not. It was best, for both of them, that he keep his distance. He refused to need her to survive. She’d already proven she did not need him. First, with her elopement, and then with her ease in ending their affair. There was no doubt he was expendable to her.
“All men succumb eventually, Westfield,” Eldridge said dryly. “You are in great company.”
Marcus stood, effectively cutting off the line of discussion. “I shall continue to work on the journal. The wedding is only a fortnight hence, and then she’ll be in my home, where she’ll be far better protected.”
Avery stood as well. “I will speak with Lord Barclay and see what can be done to allay his concerns.”
“Keep me advised,” Eldridge ordered. “As it stands, unless we learn more about the journal we can only wait, or use Lady Hawthorne to draw out her attacker. It won’t be long before we must decide which course to take.”
Sunlight sparkled in the puddles left by the early morning’s light rain. The day was momentous, the day of his wedding, and Marcus turned from the window to finish dressing. He had ordered the creation of a jacket and breeches in a pearl grey with a silver waistcoat heavily embroidered with silk thread. From the top of his wigged head down to his diamond-studded heels, his valet took great pains to make Marcus’s appearance perfect, and the act of dressing took well over an hour.
Once finished, he walked through the adjoining sitting room, then beyond into the lady’s chamber. Most of Elizabeth’s personal belongings had already arrived, and he’d scattered them about the room in an effort to make her feel welcome and less alienated. Touching her things had seemed so intimate, he hadn’t allowed the servants to do it. He would keep his emotional distance as he had the last fortnight, but he had rights now and after all he’d been through for her, he would damn well enjoy them.
Glancing around the room one last time, Marcus made certain everything was where it should be. His gaze came to rest on the escritoire, where a small likeness of Lord Hawthorne sat. Marcus picked it up, the image bothering him as it always did. Not because of jealousy or misplaced possessiveness: No, the image disturbed him because of the niggling sense that he should be seeing something he was missing.
As often happened in recent days, his mood turned pensive. How different his future would have been had the handsome viscount lived. When Elizabeth married, Marcus had thought she would be forever out of his reach. Seduction had crossed his mind. Despite the Hawthorne title, he’d always thought of her as his, but when he’d returned to England she was already widowed, negating that course of action.
He returned the image to the escritoire, where it joined likenesses of William, Margaret, and Randall Chesterfield. The past was gone and best forgotten. Today, a great injustice that had been done to him would be righted, and then his life would return to some semblance of the normalcy he’d known before Elizabeth.
Moving downstairs, Marcus collected his hat and gloves before vaulting into his coach. He was one of the first people to arrive at the church and he breathed a sigh of relief to learn Elizabeth was already in the bride’s ready room preparing for the ceremony. Truth was, he’d half feared she would fail to appear. Until she spoke her vows, he couldn’t quite allow himself the satisfaction he longed to revel in.
Smiling, he spoke with family, friends, and important members of society as they arrived. With safety paramount, agents were spread out liberally among the guests. Aside from Talbot and James, who sat together, he was unaware of who they were, he knew only that they were there.
A curious sort by nature, he couldn’t help cataloging the personages in the pews, wondering who amongst them lived an agent’s life like he did. He also noted the marked reticence between peers and their wives, and wished he also felt such detachment from Elizabeth.
Would they have lost their minds, as he nearly had, if their spouses had been threatened? Was their every breath contingent upon the safety of their wives? He doubted it. It was unnatural, this fascination. Without its curse, his failure to protect Elizabeth would never have occurred, and he would not feel as restless as a caged animal.
Oddly, the only way he could conceive of finding peace was to wed himself to his torment. For four years, the loss of Elizabeth had been the thorn in his side. Now, he could pull it free. Now, he would be rid of the ache that plagued him. From this moment on, his mission and his own sanity could take precedence. Elizabeth would be his, and the world would know it. Those who thought to harm her would know it. She would know it.
There would be no more running, no more chasing, no more frustration. He’d wanted closure.
Today he would have it.
Chapter 16
“You’re trembling,” Margaret murmured.
“It’s cold.”
“Then why are you perspiring?”