Chapter 8.

Isabel gaped at him. Torn between tears and laughter, she exclaimed, "And that's all you have to say? 'We'll get it from him?' Aren't you going to demand any answers from me?"

He glanced at her, a glimmer of a smile in the gray eyes. "Would you answer?"

She looked away. "I can't," she replied in a small voice. She glanced back at him, her expression woeful. "Oh, but Marcus, if I could...if there was anybody I could trust not to..." She swallowed and sent him a wobbly smile. "If I could tell anybody, it would be you."

"Thank you," he said gravely. He gave her a searching glance. "I trust someday that you will tell me."

Sighing, she nodded. "Yes, someday."

Though it went against the grain, with that he had to be content. Looking thoughtful, he asked, "Can you hazard a guess what it is that Whitley has? An indiscreet letter? A diary? What?"

"I've never kept a diary in my life." Ruefully, she asked, "Remember how my aunt used to nag me to do so? She said it would help change my writing from chicken scratchings into something a normal person could read. Believe me, it isn't a diary written by me." For a moment a pang of fear clenched her heart and she paled. But what of Hugh? she wondered frantically. Had he kept a diary? She cast her thoughts back to the days of her marriage. No, she would have known if he had. Hugh had not been the sort to keep a diary either, she reminded herself; he had been too busy keeping the accounts of the East India Company in order to waste any spare time on scribbling about the mundane events of his day. The notion of a letter held her attention for a second, but then she dismissed it. No, it could not be a letter.

She gathered herself together and confessed, "I cannot imagine what he has, or thinks he has; he has been very careful not to tell me anything that would help identify it." She bit her lip. "His note to me yesterday only stated that he had something of mine that, for a price, he would return. There was no hint what this item was, only that he had it and that"-she took a deep breath-"it would be in my best interests to have it back."

Frustrated by her unwillingness to trust him, he muttered, "Well, that's certainly helpful!" He glanced at her. "Perhaps he has nothing. Perhaps he is just bluffing."

"I've thought of that," she admitted. "But I dare not take the chance."

"And you're very certain you will not tell me what it is that allows him to make threats against you?" he demanded, his gaze intent upon her face.

Isabel shook her head. "Not until I have no other choice." Her expression imploring him to understand, she conceded, "I know I am being impossible, but..." She looked down at her hands holding the reins of her horse. "I cannot. I am sorry."

"Very well," he said disgustedly, "you won't tell me. So let us consider what I do know. You don't believe that it is a letter or anything in writing that he holds over your head. What do you think it is?"

"I don't know," she wailed. "I don't see how-" She stopped short. Bitterly she said, "I simply cannot take the chance that he is bluffing."

"Then we shall a.s.sume that he is not bluffing." Marcus frowned, turning over things in his mind. "You were to meet him last night...where?"

Uneasily, she said, "He's obviously made himself familiar with the area because he wanted me to meet him at the gazebo by the lake." Wryly, she added, "I had no intention of meeting him and, knowing he would be away from the inn, I took the opportunity to search his room. I didn't know you would be doing the same thing." She paused as if struck by something for the first time and her eyes narrowed. "What were you doing there? You never said."

"And I don't intend to," he replied imperturbably. "My reasons have nothing to do with you or your problem." Grinning at her expression of outrage, he added smugly, "If you can keep secrets, so can I."

Blocked and not liking it, Isabel stared hard at the s.p.a.ce between her horse's ears. She wanted to argue with Marcus, but she couldn't fault his words. But why, she wondered, had he been searching Whitley's room? Dismay smote her and she asked in a faltering tone, "He isn't blackmailing you, too, is he?"

Marcus laughed. "No, my sweet, he is not blackmailing me. I am too staid a fellow for someone like Whitley to know something about me that cannot stand the light of day. Now forget about my presence in his room last night and let us concentrate on your situation. I a.s.sume you have not yet heard from him again?" At her nod, he went on, "We can a.s.sume that he is not simply going to give up and go away. And we can be sure that he will contact you again." He looked at her. "You and Lord Manning are attending Mother's dinner party tonight?"

"To meet your cousin Jack," she said wryly. "The gentleman who was with you last night."

"You'll like Jack," he said, smiling. "And by then I shall have thought of some way to pull Whitley's fangs. In the meantime..." His smile faded and his face took on hard lines. "In the meantime, if you hear or see anything of our friend the major, you are to send a servant to fetch me immediately." He pinched her chin. "Without fail, Isabel. Without fail."

"Now why, I wonder, do I feel as if I am your ward again?" she asked of no one in particular.

He pulled her close, his mouth brushing tantalizingly across hers. "I'm very happy you are no longer my ward," he said huskily, "because if you were I could not do this."

His lips caught hers and he kissed her deeply, tasting, savoring her increasingly addictive flavor as his mouth moved hungrily over hers. When he raised his head, they were both struggling for breath and her gaze was dazed and unfocused and his own was dark and full of desire.

The colt, which had behaved nicely until this moment, took exception to the nearness of Marcus's horse and suddenly cavorted off to the side of the bridle path. Recalled to her senses, Isabel automatically brought the youngster under control and the moment was lost. Ignoring the emotions still vibrating through her, she told herself that she was glad the embrace had ended. Glad that he was no longer kissing her, glad that his touch was no longer urging her to surrender. Very glad.

His eyes locked on her mouth, his body aching for more than a mere kiss, Marcus fought against his baser desires. He was not, he told himself doggedly, going to drag Isabel off her horse and indulge himself like a rutting boar. And, he thought suddenly with a grin, she'd most likely b.l.o.o.d.y my nose if I dared such a thing. Feeling more like himself and less like a lovesick moonling, he tipped his head in her direction and said, "Unless I hear differently, I shall see you tonight at Sherbrook Hall."

She nodded and, fearing and longing to be in his arms again, to feel those warm lips against hers again, she jerked the colt around and disappeared down the bridle path.

Since the Season was well under way, the dinner party to introduce Jack to the neighborhood was smaller than it would have been at any other time of the year, but that suited Marcus and Jack just fine. Having left the arrangements in his mother's capable hands-as if she would have let him have any say in the matter-returning home, Marcus bore Jack off to his office and they spent an agreeable time solidifying their growing friendship. Naturally, a large part of the time they spent together was taken up with speculation about Whitley and where he might have concealed the memorandum he'd presumably stolen from the Horse Guards. They also discussed how soon Jack could do a search of Whitley's rooms and convince himself that Marcus had not overlooked anything.

Having a fair idea how late his mother's dinner party would run, Marcus said, "I suggest we strike tonight, after the guests depart. Most of the people you will meet tonight are not the sort to remain late; the younger, livelier set is in London for now. I suspect we will have bid the last of our guests good night by midnight-if not before." He shot Jack a derisive glance. "Once you have allayed your suspicions that I did not overlook the memorandum last night, the sooner we can turn our minds to other things-such as where he might keep the memorandum."

"You're taking my lack of faith in you remarkably well," Jack commented.

Marcus shrugged. "Searching the room of a suspected spy is not something I can claim to be expert in and, while faint, the possibility does exist that I may have missed some vital clue. Considering the importance of what we are looking for, it would be foolhardy not to have other, more...experienced eyes take a second glance."

Jack nodded. "So how are you going to keep Whitley occupied?"

Marcus smiled and something in that smile made Jack happy that he was not Major Whitley. "Oh, I have plans for Whitley," Marcus said. "Don't you worry about the major. I intend to keep him well away from the inn for quite a while; you will be able to search his room at your leisure."

The dinner party went smoothly and, though his mind was on other things, Marcus enjoyed himself-especially watching Isabel's expressive little face as toast after toast was offered to them and questions about their nuptials abounded. Isabel stammered and stuttered through most of the friendly interrogation and from time to time, Marcus took pity on her, deftly stepping in whenever she cast him a desperate glance. Everyone thought her manner charming and just as a bride-to-be should act, but Marcus wondered if he was the only one who saw that the coming marriage did not bring her great joy.

Several of the usual people were there: Lord Manning, Sir James and Lady Agatha, and Mrs. Appleton, along with a last-minute guest, her brother, Bishop Latimer-who had arrived unexpectedly that afternoon for a brief visit and had been hastily included in the invitation-to name a few. There was one person, however, whose attendance gave him pause. Having learned of his unexpected return to the neighborhood, Garrett Manning, Manning's nephew, was a last-minute addition to his mother's guest list and Marcus wasn't certain whether he was pleased or not to have the man sitting at his table.

Beyond his height and very blue eyes, Garrett bore scant resemblance to his uncle and the Manning family as a rule. Most of the Mannings were blond and fair skinned, but Garrett's coloring was dark, his complexion almost swarthy, and his hair as black as Marcus's own and, while charming, he did not exude the warmth and amiability that came so naturally to Lord Manning. There was a watchfulness about him and an air of dissipation that, oddly enough, enhanced his already handsome features. The wink of a small diamond stud in his right ear only added to the rakish air that hung around his elegant frame. As a gentleman with which to spend a pleasant evening gambling and drinking or to visit with at Tattersall's or other manly places of interest, Marcus could think of no one better. He smiled. Except, he admitted, his cousin Charles, the Charles of those reckless days before his marriage to Daphne. Garrett reminded him of that Charles in many ways and, like Charles, Marcus even liked him...a bit.

Occasionally, when he could tear himself from Isabel's taking features, Marcus discreetly studied Garrett, wondering at his unexpected return, wondering at his sudden friendship with Whitley. Garrett didn't look like a man whose hopes had been cut up by Isabel's engagement and Marcus didn't see any signs of a thwarted suitor in him. His manner toward Isabel was everything it should be: polite and courteous with no excessive familiarity. Which is as well, Marcus thought idly, because I'd dislike drawing his claret.

Jack was a great hit with everyone. The ladies fluttered around him exclaiming over his bravery and the gentlemen peppered him with questions on his service and his opinion of the war with Napoleon. Jack was an excellent raconteur and was clever enough not to dominate the conversation.

As Marcus had predicated, shortly after eleven o'clock the coaches and carriages were being sent for and there was a general, leisurely exodus from Sherbrook Hall. There had been no time for private conversation, but when Lord Manning stopped to exchange a few words with Garrett on the steps of the house, Marcus, who was escorting Isabel to the Manning coach, murmured, "I presume you've heard nothing from Whitley?"

Isabel shook her head. "No." She frowned. "After I didn't meet him last night, I feared the arrival of another note today, demanding another meeting. But there has been nothing." She bit her lip. "It worries me."

Marcus nodded, as if her words confirmed something he already knew. "Don't fret over it, my dear," he said. "Remember, you're not alone in this any longer; you have me at your side, and I don't intend for Whitley or anyone else to destroy your peace of mind." His eyes hardened. "If he contacts you in any way let me know immediately."

"He isn't likely to just give up," she warned.

A wolfish grin crossed his face. "And neither will I."

Less than an hour later, the guests gone and Barbara having bid the two gentlemen good night and retired for the night, Marcus and Jack slipped from the house and hurried to the stables. After saddling their horses, they rode away.

Pulling up their horses a half-mile down the road for one last exchange before they went their separate ways, Jack asked, "How do you know he'll meet you?"

Marcus smiled without humor. "Because, as I told you, I sent him a note requesting his presence: he believes it is from the lady who was absent from their rendezvous last night."

Frowning, Jack studied him. Jack liked the idea of Whitley being well away from the inn when he crawled through the window into his room, but he was wary about certain aspects of Marcus's plan. How did Marcus know that Whitley hadn't made other plans with the mysteriously absent lady? The ability to write was not common among the sort of woman Whitley was most likely to be meeting, so how did Marcus even know the lady could put pen to paper? His gaze narrowed. There was, he concluded, a great deal that his cousin was not telling him. Marcus was playing another game and dashed if he could figure out what it was. Jack believed that any game involving Whitley was a dangerous one and he was troubled about this easygoing cousin of his confronting the man alone.

"It's a good plan-if all goes as we hope." Reluctantly, Jack admitted, "I don't know that I like the idea of you tackling him by yourself."

Marcus sent him a look. "Now that is insulting. It isn't enough that you doubt my ability to search his room; now you doubt that I am capable of dealing with a cowardly braggart?"

"It's not that," Jack said unhappily. "Whitley may be a weasel, but weasels have teeth and you've never dealt with someone like him."

"Oh, good gad!" Marcus exclaimed disgustedly. "You sound just like Julian and Charles-or my mother." Patiently, Marcus said, "I may not have led the adventuresome life that you have, or done some of the dangerous, reckless things that Julian and Charles have done, but I a.s.sure you that I can take care of Whitley. You just do your part and get to the Stag Horn and into Whitley's room. Don't worry about me." Something dark and fierce moved in his gray eyes. "Worry about Whitley, if you want something to worry about."

They parted, Jack riding in the direction of the inn and Marcus, taking a shortcut cross-country, heading toward the gazebo near the lake. Jack had the longer journey and it was less than ten minutes later that Marcus halted his horse and, after dismounting and tying the animal to a tree, from the cover of the trees carefully reconnoitered the area. He had chosen this place as much as because Whitley had named it in his original note to Isabel as the fact that he was very familiar with it. Taking one long, a.s.sessing look around, he decided that his choice had been wise.

Gleaming like gla.s.s in the moonlight, the large lake that separated the Manning estate and his own from that of Isabel's uncle spread out endlessly before him, the far edges melting raggedly into the darkness of the night. In front of him and some fifty feet back from the lake a small gazebo shimmered ghostly white. The lattice-sided building was flanked and dwarfed by two enormous stone-rimmed goldfish ponds and had been built many years ago as a gift from Lord Manning to his wife. Tall, three-tiered stone fountains graced the center of each pond, the sound of the cascading water whispering through the quiet night. During Lady Manning's lifetime the area had been the scene of many happy gatherings of family and friends but in these latter years it was seldom visited.

Marcus had deliberately arrived early, well before the two o'clock time he had written to Whitley, but he was still cautious in his approach to the gazebo. As he had expected, the place was deserted and, having satisfied himself that Whitley had not arrived early, he approached one of the fishponds and stared down into the black depths. The occasional flash of gold in the faint light revealed that Lady Manning's goldfish still thrived amongst the reeds and water lilies that threatened in some places to engulf the pond. The ponds were enclosed by a short stone wall and finished off with a wide flat rim used by the ladies to sit and feed the fish. His booted foot resting on the smooth rim of the pond, Marcus smiled. He wondered if the major liked water. He hoped not.

The gazebo and fishponds were located in an open area, and he knew that if he wanted the element of surprise, he would have to catch Whitley before the other man left the concealment of the woodland that ringed most of the lake. Knowing which direction Whitley would be coming from made his task easier, and he walked into the trees and took up a position he decided would best fit his needs.

Well before the stated meeting hour of two o'clock Marcus heard the approach of a horse and smiled to himself. It seemed that he wasn't the only one who had wanted to be here early. Listening intently, Marcus moved silently through the night, tracking the horse and rider as they came nearer to the edge of the woodland.

When Whitley finally halted his horse and dismounted, Marcus was in position and he waited only until Whitley had tied the horse to a small larch sapling before striking. Spinning Whitley around, he hit him with a powerful right fist to the jaw. Whitley's head snapped back and Marcus followed the first blow with a sharp jab of his left fist to the stomach and another right to Whitley's jaw. Gasping and dazed, Whitley hit the ground. Marcus flipped Whitley onto his stomach and bound his hands behind his back as if he habitually did this sort of thing. The tasks completed in mere seconds, Marcus swiftly tied a black silk scarf over Whitley's eyes.

Marcus thought the scarf a nice touch. Whitley would most likely recognize his voice, but it was possible he wouldn't. Marcus didn't care one way or another if Whitley guessed his ident.i.ty; his purpose in blindfolding Whitley was to keep him off guard and increase the sense of vulnerability the major was no doubt feeling at the moment.

Dragging Whitley upright, Marcus shoved him in the direction of the lake. Whitley stumbled and staggered and Marcus grabbed his arm and hustled him toward the gazebo.

With great calm, Whitley said, "I have money. Let me go unharmed and you can have it all."

Marcus laughed grimly. "I'm not a robber, my friend, and I don't want your b.l.o.o.d.y money."

Whitley started at the sound of Marcus's voice and his head turned in that direction. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Do I know you?"

"Now, why would I take the trouble to blindfold you, if I was going to tell you who I am?" Marcus retorted cheerfully.

"What do you want?"

"Just a little something you have that belongs to a lady."

Whitley stiffened and stumbled to a halt. "Never say that Isabel hired you?" he exclaimed.

"Ah, now that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

To his astonishment, Marcus was enjoying himself. It was a fine night; he was doing a n.o.ble deed and teaching a piece of offal a lesson in the bargain. He smiled. And the best part was yet to come.

Reaching one of the goldfish ponds, Marcus shoved Whitley to his knees and dragged his upper body over the stone rim. With Whitley's head inches above the water of the pond, Marcus said, "If you want this to end now, you only have to give me what belongs to a certain lady."

Whitley laughed tightly. "You don't even know what it is, do you?"

"I'm afraid that doesn't matter to me. I want it, and if you're wise you'll hand it over."

"And if I refuse?"

Marcus didn't answer him. In a heartbeat, he plunged Whitley's head into the murky waters of the fishpond. Marcus waited a few seconds before pulling the major's head from the water. As Whitley sputtered and swore, Marcus said, "That was just to get your attention. The next time, I'll hold you under longer. Now, are you going to give it to me? Or do I have to continue?"

Whitley cursed viciously and Marcus said, "Ah, I take it that's a no?" And promptly submerged Whitley's head under the water once more. He left him there longer, and when he finally pulled him up, Whitley was choking and gasping for breath. "So," Marcus said softly, "do you want to give it to me?"

"Go to h.e.l.l!" snarled Whitley.

"You'll beat me there," Marcus drawled and once again Whitley's head disappeared into the depths. Marcus couldn't deny that he'd taken a measure of pleasure from dunking Whitley but by now it was growing tiresome. Determined to end this as quickly as he could, despite Whitley's frantic thrashing, he held him under as long as he dared.

Finally yanking Whitley's head out of the water, his heart almost stopped and dismay filled him when Whitley lay unmoving. Fear as much as anything caused him to violently shake the man, and he was relieved when Whitley coughed, gagged, and gulped in a breath of air. He didn't want to kill the man...at least not this way.

Staring at Whitley's prostrate form, listening to his labored breathing, Marcus almost felt sorry for him until he remembered that this man threatened Isabel and, if Jack was right, England herself.

His voice full of silky menace, Marcus said, "Last time. Either give it to me, or the next time, I let you drown." When Whitley made no reply, he sighed and reached for him.

"Wait!" croaked Whitley.

"Don't waste my time. Either give it to me or..."

"I'll give it to you...but I don't have it with me."

Marcus knew a lie when he heard it and jerked him half upright. "Then I guess it's the pond for you, my unfortunate friend," he said cheerfully, certain that Whitley would cave.

He was right. As Marcus's hand tightened on the back of his neck, Whitley cried out in terror. "Wait! Wait! I lied to you. I have it. I swear I have it with me."

Marcus dragged him from his humiliating position bent over the rim of the pond and flipped him onto the ground. After making certain the black silk scarf remained in place over Whitley's eyes, he roughly pulled him up until Whitley was slumped against the short wall surrounding the pond.

"Make no mistake," Marcus growled, "if you play games with me, we'll start all over again-only I won't stop until I have what I want or you're dead. Your choice."

Whitley shuddered and muttered, "No games."

"Then give it to me."

"You'll have to untie me," Whitley whined. "I can't reach it with my hands tied this way."

Marcus slapped him. "Do you take me for a fool? Tell me where it is."

Whitley hesitated and then in a defeated voice, he said, "It's my watch fob. It's in my vest pocket."

Marcus's fingers found the heavy gold fob and pulled it free. Examining it in the frail light of the moon, he realized that it was an unusually large object for a fob and closer inspection revealed that it wasn't a fob at all. It was a woman's gold locket. The urge to open the locket was unbearable but, reminding himself that he had no right to pry into something that Isabel had gone to great lengths to keep secret, he quelled the desire to discover what it was that seemed to have so much power over her. Besides, he admitted wryly, he wanted her to tell him herself. Unhooking the locket from the chain, Marcus slipped it into his own vest pocket.

Rubbing his chin he studied Whitley. He had been so focused on retrieving what belonged to Isabel that he hadn't considered fully what he would do once he possessed it. He couldn't just leave Whitley here bound and blindfolded, although that idea held appeal. Nor could he untie him and simply ride away. Whitley might be suspicious of his ident.i.ty, but the moment the blindfold was removed, all doubt would be gone. And then there was Jack. Marcus had promised to keep Whitley occupied while Jack searched his rooms, but if he had figured the time right, Jack had accomplished his search and was even now riding back to Sherbrook Hall.

Marcus considered the matter for several seconds and then, whistling softly, he hoisted Whitley upright. Taking a knife from his boot, he performed a trick he'd learned from his cousin Julian. Against vehement protest from the major, Marcus proceeded to strip him naked by cutting away his clothing and slitting the sides of his boots down to the soles. He tossed the ruined boots and clothes into the pond; the major could go fish for them.

That ch.o.r.e done, Marcus turned his attention again to Whitley, who stood naked and shivering in the cool night air. Ignoring Whitley's startled yelp he carefully nicked the rope that tied Whitley's hands, making certain that several strands still held. Even with the weakened rope, he decided, it would still take Whitley a while to free himself-long enough for Jack to be well away from the inn before the major returned.

With his goal completed, Marcus said, "It's been a pleasure, my friend, but the hour is late and I'm afraid I must leave you now. You'll find your clothes, er, what's left of them, in the pond."

Shutting his ears to the virulent curses the major hurled at him, Marcus swiftly walked away and disappeared into the concealment of the forest. He thought about taking Whitley's horse, but decided that he had tortured the man enough for one night. Still, it wouldn't do to make things too easy for the major. He rode his mount to where Whitley's horse was tethered and, noticing the major's greatcoat neatly tied across the cantle of the saddle, he freed the garment and secured it to his own saddle. Whitley, he decided grimly, was going to have to make do with the clothing from the pond to hide his nakedness. But there was one more thing he needed to do and, leaning down, he nicked the girth of the saddle. He smiled. By his estimation, the cut girth would hold for a few miles before it gave way.