Even though half asleep, Isabel felt his body tense. "What is it?" she asked, alarmed.

"I was merely thinking of our friend Whitley," he admitted reluctantly.

"He's no friend of ours," she said sharply. "If you will remember, he shot at you just last night and it was only luck that he didn't kill you." She sat up, the sheet partially falling from her body, allowing Marcus an enticing glimpse of one rosy nipple. Shoving back her disheveled hair, she said, "In fact, I think it would be a good idea if we killed him."

His hand behind his head, Marcus regarded her thoughtfully. Though neither one of them had mentioned Whitley's name all day, he suspected that the major and the danger he represented had never been far from either of their minds. It was interesting that Isabel had just voiced the conclusion he had come to last night.

"Just murder him?" he asked carefully. "In cold blood?"

She looked taken aback, the reality of what she had just proposed sinking in. Biting her lip, she looked at him, troubled. "It would be in cold blood, wouldn't it?" she asked in a small voice.

He nodded. "One could even say with malice aforethought."

"I could kill him with my bare hands if he attacked someone I loved," Isabel began then stopped. After a second she shook her head and said wearily, "But I don't think I can sit here and calmly calculate a way to murder him."

"My sentiments exactly," Marcus confessed regretfully. "He wants killing, and in the right circ.u.mstances I could kill him without hesitation." He sighed. "I have a problem murdering him based on what he might do."

She c.o.c.ked her head to the side, thinking hard. "He doesn't have the locket. To our knowledge he has no one to collaborate his suspicions. How dangerous do you think he really is?"

"I don't know. If he started telling anyone who would listen about the companion who accompanied you to India-even if he just breathed one word that there was something havy cavy about Edmund's birth; that he'd heard the servants talking or whatever.... He could claim he'd talked to the physician who attended Roseanne-how could you disprove it? He doesn't need proof. All he needs is to breathe one word about there being something smoky about Edmund's birth and it will spread through the ton like wildfire. After the first t.i.tillating rounds, most of the ton will dismiss it for the scandal broth it is. But there will always be those who..." He flashed her a somber look. "Gossip could be as devastating as proof, and once it begins, the rumors will follow Edmund for the rest of his days. The question is can we risk the gossip-if Whitley chooses that path?"

Her expression miserable, she said, "And if we wait until he starts the rumor, it will be too late to kill him."

Marcus nodded. "Killing him then would only add fuel to the speculation. So the question is this: do we plan cold-blooded murder to try to stop something that might never happen, or do we take the chance that he will simply fade away and we will never hear from him again?"

"Oh, G.o.d! Such a terrible choice!" Her eyes flashed. "He's a terrible man and I'd like to wring his neck for putting us in this position."

"Don't blame you there," Marcus said. "But it doesn't answer the question."

"I know that," she snapped. "I would do anything for Edmund and Lord Manning, but I can't, tonight at least, bring myself to contemplate deliberate murder."

"I suppose," Marcus offered slowly, thinking back to Julian's killing of Lord Tynedale a few years ago, "I could force a duel upon him and kill him." The idea appealed. One could argue that the challenge was cold-blooded, but the actual duel would give Whitley a fighting chance. Thinking of his own prowess with the sword and the pistol, Marcus gave an icy smile. But not much of one.

"You will do no such thing!" Isabel shouted, furious with him for even considering putting his own life at peril. She hurled herself across his chest and, staring deep into his eyes, she demanded, "Promise me! Promise me right now that you will not fight him in a duel."

"I can't do that," Marcus answered levelly. "He may offer me provocation that I cannot ignore."

For a tense moment they stared at each other. Isabel knew from the implacable expression on his face that there was no swaying him and, miserably settling for what she could, she said thickly, "Then promise me you will not deliberately provoke him."

Marcus hesitated. Then reluctantly, he agreed. "I will not deliberately provoke him."

It was the best she could hope for and she fell into an uneasy sleep bedeviled by nightmares of Whitley, pistol in hand, standing over Marcus's dead body.

Whitley would have been delighted to know that he was disturbing Isabel's sleep and, perhaps to a lesser extent, pleased that he had placed both Marcus and Isabel on the horns of a dilemma. Of course, he would have had no such compunction. If he'd had his way, Marcus would be dead at this very moment.

It had been a stroke of luck that the opportunity to kill Marcus had come his way. He had been skulking about Sherbrook Hall considering another a.s.sault on the big, sprawling house when he had heard the sounds of people approaching. He'd barely crouched down behind some bushes when Marcus and Isabel strolled by. He had already a.s.sumed that it was Marcus and Isabel walking in the garden and the moonlight allowed him to confirm their ident.i.ty. Stealthily, he had followed the oblivious pair and, thinking of all that he had suffered at their hands, the ugly taste of revenge rose up so strongly in his throat that, consumed by rage, he had dragged his pistol free and fired.

He regretted taking that risky shot at Marcus last night. But not for the reasons one might suppose. His only regret was that he had missed Marcus and by doing so had put him on his guard.

While Marcus and Isabel had spent an enjoyable day together, Whitley had spent the day sitting in a corner of the inn, imbibing tankard after tankard of ale, brooding over the unfairness of fate. When darkness fell, he changed from ale to brandy and, as the hour grew late, his thoughts grew blacker.

Things were not going well for him. Even that b.l.o.o.d.y Collard, back from a run to Cherbourg two days ago, had not brought him the news that he wanted. Which was probably as well, he thought bitterly, because at the moment, he was in a rather awkward position. He scowled. Blast it all! If it weren't for Isabel and Sherbrook...

They were going to pay, he promised himself viciously. Isabel had upset his plans, beyond that first paltry amount, by refusing to be cowed into giving him money to keep his mouth shut about what he suspected. Then that d.a.m.n Sherbrook had nearly drowned him and taken from him the only thing he had to give his threats any credence. Sherbrook had humiliated him. Had not only stripped him of his clothes, but his pride and something far more valuable than a piece of trumpery jewelry. It was Sherbrook who stood between him and all his dreams of a tidy future.

In the time since the engagement of Sherbrook and the widow Manning, Whitley had convinced himself that he really had wanted to marry Isabel. Never mind that she wasn't to his liking; for her fortune, he would have made himself endure her scrawny body and hot temper. But not for long, he mused, no, not for long. Wives died all the time. His marriage to Isabel would have been of short duration and he would have played the grieving widower for all it was worth and taken great solace in her fortune. He smirked. Not hers any longer, but his.

He cast a bleary eye around the taproom of the Stag Horn and his lips thinned. Instead of having to put up with these country b.u.mpkins he could be comfortably ensconced at Manning Court-he glared at his snifter of brandy-and enjoying excellent brandy, instead of this swill that he suspected the innkeeper watered down. His money worries would be over. He would live in a fine home, servants at his beck and call, and it would be his wife's fortune that kept him in a style that had always eluded him.

While the thought of killing Sherbrook brought him pleasure, Whitley did not want to hang for it, and he knew, unless fate presented him with a foolproof opportunity, that killing Sherbrook was unlikely. It was probably just as well, he admitted morosely, that his shot had missed last night. For the moment, killing Sherbrook wasn't possible, but there must be a way that he could cause trouble....

A way presented itself, and a cruel smile crossed his face. He no longer had the locket, and approaching Isabel was out of the question, but what if...what if he called on Lord Manning? He liked that idea. The old man was just as vulnerable as Isabel had been and would, now that he considered it, probably be an easier mark. Yes, he should have thought of that approach first. Manning had the most to lose. Yes, he would call at Manning Court tomorrow. It would be just a polite visit wherein he mentioned that he was an old friend of Hugh's pa.s.sing through the neighborhood and had thought to call upon his old friend's widow...

He chuckled to himself, imagining Isabel's consternation when she learned of his visit. She'd pay. She'd pay him anything to keep him away from the old man. Happy with his plans for the morning, and thinking he would enjoy some female companionship, he stood up unsteadily and staggered outside, calling for the stable boy to bring him his horse. An accommodating widow who enjoyed his patronage during his stay lived just a mile out of the village.

Whitley had been too engrossed in his drunken misery and vengeful thoughts to note any strangers in the taproom or the pair of intelligent eyes that idly watched his every move. If he had not been quite so drunk, he might have noticed the gentleman who had sat half-hidden at a table in the shadows by the stairs and have realized instantly that Collard had not told quite the truth about his trip to Cherbourg....

The stranger paid his bill and slowly wandered out of the inn, timing his progress so that Whitley had already mounted his horse and was riding down the road. He quickly reached his own horse tied out of sight at the side of the inn and, swinging into the saddle, discreetly followed Whitley.

He waited until they had left the village behind before he struck. Kicking his horse into a gallop, he bore down on his prey.

His brain befuddled by drink and lost in his thoughts, Whitley had no warning of danger until it was too late. He heard the approach of a horseman behind him, had only a moment to realize that the racing horse behind him was coming too fast and was likely going to collide with his own on the narrow track before his head exploded in a blaze of pain and blinding light.

Chapter 15.

Whitley woke with a ferociously aching head and the scent of the sea in his nostrils. Groaning from pain, he glanced around, astonished to discover that he was in one of the many caves carved out along the sh.o.r.eline by the powerful Channel waves. What the devil? He struggled to rise from the pebble-strewn floor of the cave and the first faint quiver of fear shot through him when he realized that he was bound hand and foot. And, as his gaze fell upon the gentleman leaning casually against the wall of the cave, that he was not alone.

"Bon!" said the stranger. "You are awake at last."

"Where am I?" croaked Whitley.

"It does not matter, mon amie," replied the other man. "What matters are the answers you shall give me to the questions I shall ask, oui?"

Thinking feverishly, Whitley tried to get his bearings, tried to make sense of what had happened. He remembered drinking at the Stag Horn last night, vaguely remembered riding on his horse...

Whitley twisted around, squinting at the faint light that filled the front half of the cave. It was daylight, so some period of time had pa.s.sed. G.o.d! He wished he could think clearly. If only the incessant pounding in his head would cease!

He glanced over at the stranger, taking his measure. The stranger, who regarded him with a cool smile, was tall, his build lean and muscular, and his clothes-from the nankeen breeches to the superbly fitted dark blue coat-were those of a gentleman. His features were even and not unattractive and his hair was dark, as was his complexion. From his speech, Whitley a.s.sumed he was French.

Excitement coursed through him. Dragging himself up into a sitting position, Whitley rested his back against the wall of the cave and muttered, "Collard did deliver my message, after all."

The stranger nodded. "Oui."

Uneasy with his position, but feeling a little braver moment by the moment, Whitley demanded, "But why did he lie to me? And who are you? Why am I being treated like this? Charbonneau shall certainly hear of your high-handed actions, I can tell you that-and he won't be pleased. We are good friends."

"Monsieur Whitley," said the stranger, "we will deal much better with each other if you allow moi to ask the questions."

"I'm not answering any of your d.a.m.n questions until you tell me what this is about," Whitley bl.u.s.tered. "You've had the audacity to tie me up like a common criminal, and I don't appreciate it one bit." Frowning, Whitley demanded again, "Who the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l are you?" The stranger's brow quirked at Whitley's tone, but he did not answer. More confident and angry, Whitley declared angrily, "This is an outrage! I am a British subject and this is British soil and you have no right to treat me this way. I insist that you untie me this instant!"

The stranger straightened from his languid position against the wall and walked to Whitley and calmly kicked him in the face. Whitley screamed from the pain, blood gushing from his nose and lips.

"First of all, I'm afraid that you are in no position to insist upon anything, and I did tell you, did I not," said the gentleman in perfect King's English, "that I ask the questions."

Blinking from the pain, Whitley stared up at him in horror. "You're English!"

The man smiled. "I am," said the stranger, "whatever I wish to be. English. French. Spanish." He shrugged. "Whatever the situation calls for."

Confused and uneasy, Whitley sought to make sense of the situation. This man could not have come from Charbonneau. Which meant that his cleverly worded message to his longtime acquaintance on Napoleon's staff had fallen into the wrong hands and that could only happen if...Fright bloomed throughout his body. "Collard betrayed me," he said dully.

The gentleman nodded. "Collard and I have served each other's needs well over the years," said the stranger. "And when we met on his latest trip to Cherbourg, he mentioned you and said he thought you were up to something that might interest me. For a generous price he gave me your letter to Charbonneau."

Whitley had been very careful in what he had written to Charbonneau, fearful of what would happen should his letter fall into the wrong hands. On the surface his letter had simply been that of one old friend to another. Thankfully, he had written no specifics, but he had alluded to previous mutually beneficial meetings, meetings that could be construed as only references to former pleasant times and leaving the door open to another, hopefully delightful, meeting with Charbonneau.

A surge of confidence went through him. This fellow may have read his message to Charbonneau and, while he might think that there was something in it for him, he couldn't know anything.

"I'm afraid that I don't quite understand," Whitley said. "What could my letter have to do with you? I have known Charbonneau for years. We often correspond with each other."

"Via a smuggler?"

Whitley flushed. "France and Britain are at war. The normal avenues of communication are not open to me."

The words had hardly left Whitley's mouth before his captor kicked him again in the face. Harder.

As Whitley writhed and howled on the floor in pain, the man bent lower and said softly in his ear, "Do not waste my time. Tell me what is so important that you sent a seemingly innocuous letter to a member of Napoleon's inner circle. And do not tell me again that it was merely a note to an old friend."

"Go to h.e.l.l!" Whitley spat, scooting as fast and as far away from the other man as possible.

"I shall no doubt do just that," the man said, pacing beside Whitley. He kicked him again, this time in the ribs, and added, "And if you do not answer my questions, I a.s.sure you that you shall be there before me."

Whitley felt a rib snap and pain splintered through his chest. Breathless from pain, fear gnawed in his gut. He risked a glance at the other man and the cold glitter in those dark blue, almost black eyes terrified him, but greed overrode his fear. "I don't know what you're talking about," he cried. "I swear to you, I merely wrote to an old friend."

"Have it your way," said the stranger and spent the next several minutes viciously applying his boot to any part of Whitley's thrashing body he could reach. When he finally stopped, Whitley lay unmoving with his back to him, only a shuddering whimper now and then giving sign that he was still alive.

"Tell me what I want to know," said the man in the same calm tone he'd used earlier. Whitley only mewled and struggled to wiggle away. The stranger sighed.

Removing his coat and lying it on a large boulder, he extracted a knife from his boot. He flipped Whitley over to face him. Squatting on his haunches, and with his face only inches from Whitley's, he asked quietly, "Do you truly wish to die? Is what you have worth your life? Wouldn't it be better to simply tell me...and live?"

Through his battered lips, Whitley managed, "Why should I? You're going to kill me anyway."

"Not if I like what you have to tell me."

The man showed Whitley the slender-bladed knife he held in his hand. "I am very adept with this little instrument. I can keep you alive for hours, but before you die you will tell me, mon amie, what I want to know." He smiled. "Of course, you could tell me now and save both of us time and pain."

"If I tell you, you won't kill me?" Whitley asked eagerly.

"I already told you I would not."

His body one long shriek of agony, Whitley eyed the knife. How much more of this torture could he bear? Was it worth dying for? Sickly, he realized that there was no safe way out for him. If he didn't tell, he would die. If he told, he might live. And so he told.

When he finished speaking, he held his breath. Would he live? Or die?

His thoughts turned inward, the stranger remained silent for a long moment. Then rising gracefully to his feet, he said, "You are a fool. Too foolish, almost, to live."

When Whitley whined and shrank away from him, the man said disgustedly, "Oh, stop that. I have no intention of killing you."

Leaving Whitley where he lay, he turned away and, after slipping the knife into his boot, he shrugged into his coat. He looked at Whitley and said, "I suggest that you consider another continent for your retirement. I understand that there are parts of America that remind one of England." His gaze icy, he added, "Be aware that should you cross my path again or should I hear of any further meddling in things that don't concern you, I shall make it my business to hunt you down and slit your throat-as I should do now. Understand me?"

Hardly daring to believe his luck, Whitley nodded vigorously.

The stranger swung on his heel and began to walk away.

"Wait!" called Whitley frantically, struggling against his bonds. "What about me?"

"I'll send Collard," the stranger said without slowing his stride or looking back. "He'll set you free. And Whitley: I suggest you leave this area within the hour of being set free." He glanced back at him. "If I hear that you have not..."

Whitley gulped and nodded and breathed a sigh of relief when the man disappeared. Alone in the cool, dim cave, despite the agony knifing through his body, Whitley fought to escape the ropes on his hands and feet. Had the man lied? Had he left him here to die?

The bonds held tight and, when the pain racking his body grew too great, Whitley simply lay there panting and exhausted, hoping the stranger had told the truth. He waited what seemed like hours, testing the ropes from time to time, but always ending up flopping back down flat on the rough surface of the cave, defeated. When he finally heard the sound of someone scrambling over the rocks near the entrance of the cave, he could hardly believe it.

"Collard! Collard! Is that you? I'm in here!" he shouted.

It was Collard and, seeing the man's stocky form in the faint light filtering in from outside, Whitley had never been so happy to see anyone in his life. "Thank G.o.d you came," he cried happily, forgetting that Collard had betrayed him.

Collard said nothing. He walked up to where Whitley lay and, taking out his knife, knelt down on one knee behind him.

Eagerly Whitley thrust his bound hands out for Collard to cut. Collard snorted, grabbed Whitley's hair, jerked his head back, and sliced his throat as neatly as a butcher dispatches a goat.

Whitley bleated once, twitched and lay still. When he was certain Whitley was dead, Collard stood up, carelessly wiping his blade on his pants. "I don't care what the man said," he muttered to himself, staring down at Whitley's corpse. "It never pays to leave behind a witness."

The newlyweds heard nothing about Whitley's disappearance until Sat.u.r.day afternoon when Garrett came to call. Marcus and Isabel spent a pleasurable morning wandering through the stables and barns, Isabel pointing out the changes she wanted to make and, since he thought her ideas were excellent, Marcus nodding in agreement. They smiled and laughed often, their hands touching and their bodies brushing against the other's as they walked. Anyone observing them could tell in an instant that they were lovers and deeply in love. When Thompson announced Garrett, Marcus was in his office trying to catch up with various estate matters and Isabel was closeted with the housekeeper, familiarizing herself with the routine of the household and discussing the few changes that having a boisterous twelve-year-old boy in residence would require. At Garrett's entrance, Marcus threw down the sheaf of papers duly presented to him that morning by his bailiff with relief and rose eagerly to his feet, hand outstretched.

After the two men shook hands and exchanged warm greetings, they seated themselves in a pair of overstuffed chairs on the far side of the room.

"I do apologize for barging in on you this way," Garrett said ruefully, "but I felt it was important that you know that Whitley has apparently disappeared."

Marcus looked shocked. "Disappeared? What do you mean? He left the Stag Horn?"

"I mean precisely what I said, 'disappeared.' Whitley rode away from the inn on his horse very late on Wednesday night and no one has seen him since. Keating admits that Whitley was foxed when he left, but not too drunk to mount his horse and ride away. Most disturbing of all, his horse was in the stall when the stable boy woke Thursday morning, but there has been no sign of Whitley since then."

Frowning, Marcus said, "I a.s.sume that no one has found him lying with a broken neck in a ditch somewhere?"