Midnight Raider Page 23

“Good day, monsieur.” Marcus escorted Elizabeth forward and opened the door for her.

  “Au revoir,” the man said cheerily.

  Elizabeth couldn’t reply, but felt her gaze drawn back to the stranger.

  He regarded her with that unnerving stare. “I am sure, madame, that we will meet again.”

  With that, he turned and strolled away.

  Only when the door had swung shut behind them did Elizabeth allow herself to lean fully on Marcus. He helped her to a seat in one of Nell’s striped satin chairs.

  Nell was engaged at the far counter, where it looked as if half the fabrics in the shop had been pulled out for the customer she was waiting on.

  A tea cart had been pulled in for the afternoon, and Elizabeth reached for the china pot but quickly changed her mind. She was trembling so badly, she was afraid she might drop it. Clasping her hands in her lap, she tried to calm her skittering nerves. The mysterious Frenchman and his questions—on top of everything else—had left her shaken.

  “This, Lady Tipton, is wonderful charmin’.” Nell gave Elizabeth a worried glance as she unwrapped a bolt of yellow kerseymere for the woman. “Would that I had a thousand yards of it.”

  Elizabeth shook her head in response to Nell’s concerned look, trying to convey that she wasn’t hurt. Only terrified out of my wits. Marcus thrust a cup of tea into her hand and she drank it gratefully.

  Nell was doing her best to get rid of her fussy client. “Really, yer ladyship. It suits yer face so well.” She held up the fabric to the woman’s plump cheek.

  Lady Tipton rubbed her fingers over it, then looked at the pile of rejected silks, cambrics, chintzes, German serges, and Manchester velvets on the counter. She nodded. “I’ll give you twelve shillings a yard.”

  Nell was still looking at Elizabeth, but her gaze suddenly snapped back to her customer. “Twelve shillin’s! Beggin’ yer pardon, but the weavers would come riot in me shop if I was to let it go at that price. Twenty.”

  The woman gave the kerseymere another shrewd appraisal, pursing her lips. “Seventeen. But I shall have the whole bolt.”

  Nell’s face lit up with relief. “Always a pleasure doin’ business with a person of yer fine taste, Lady Tipton. I’ll have it sent round to yer mantua-maker in the mornin’.”

  “Excellent,” the woman declared. She barely had time for a polite nod in Elizabeth’s direction before Nell hustled her out the door.

  “Good day to yer ladyship, and be sure to tell yer friends that ye got it at Osgood’s when they all tell ye how charmin’ ye look.”

  She paused only long enough to close and lock the door and pull the shades before she hurried to Elizabeth’s side. “Bess, are ye hurt? Look at ye! What did he do?”

  “I’m all right, Nell. Where’s Georgiana?”

  “She went home with one of her headaches. What happened at your meetin’?”

  “I found out what I went there to find out.” She looked up at Marcus, who had been standing beside her chair in foreboding silence since they came in. “Or at least some of it.”

  “You found out all you’re going to find out,” he said.

  “I’m glad yer not hurt.” Nell looked relieved. “But how did ye end up lookin’ all wrecked?” She went to the back of the shop and returned a minute later carrying a wet cloth.

  Elizabeth accepted it with a nod of thanks. “I smeared my own rouge and powder, Nell. I was upset.” She eagerly washed away all traces of Montaigne’s touch.

  “But what did Montaigne do to upset ye so much?” Nell shot an accusing look at Marcus. “Ye was supposed to be protectin’ her!”

  “Nell, there’s nothing to—wait a minute.” Elizabeth had washed up as best she could and was about to put the cloth down, but suddenly her fingers tightened around it. “What do you mean he was supposed to be protecting me? You knew he was going to be there?”

  Nell looked sheepish and discovered an urgent need to tidy the empty cups and saucers on the tea cart. “Well… he… er, he mighta’ mentioned it.”

  “You and Georgiana have been putting your heads together again, haven’t you?” Elizabeth stood up, glancing from her friend to Marcus. “I would appreciate it if the three of you would stop conspiring behind my back.”

  Marcus took the cloth from her hand. Which prevented her from throwing it at him. “Elizabeth, calm down. If we’ve been ‘conspiring,’ it’s been in your best interests.”

  “Georgi and me just want to keep you safe, Bess.”

  “Nell, I know that. But allow me to point out to you—both of you—that I managed Montaigne quite well on my own today.”

  “And what about our French friend out there?” Marcus nodded in the direction of the door. “How do you plan to manage him?”

  Elizabeth sank back into her seat. “Who the devil was he?” She looked up at Nell. “Have you seen him around the shop before?”

  “Who?”

  “The Frenchman outside,” Elizabeth said. “Expensively dressed and rather forward. By the name of Ro-sham-something-or-other.”

  Nell looked perplexed. “I’ve never seen any Frenchman ’round me shop. Nor heard any customers mention him.”

  “No one may have noticed him before, but he seemed to know all about Elizabeth’s comings and goings.” Marcus glanced down at her with a familiar, unyielding expression. “The only thing for you to do is lie low. Starting right now. You can forget about your party on Wednesday.”

  “This is no time to panic,” she insisted. “We need more information and I need to meet with Montaigne again to get it—”

  “And what if you meet this Frenchman instead? You can’t take the risk. This entire facade of yours could be close to coming down around your ears.”

  “That man could have been a lunatic for all we know, just… babbling,” Elizabeth looked to Nell for support, but found none. To her chagrin, her friend was nodding at everything Marcus said.

  “Or he could’ve been a thief-taker.” Marcus’s voice had a hard edge. “He mentioned that, if you’ll recall.”

  “Well, if he were a thief-taker, he’d be foolish to let me know I’m being followed. Wouldn’t it be better to hunt me from afar without revealing himself?”

  “Perhaps he’s been hunting you for some time. Perhaps he’s getting frustrated and hopes to scare you into doing something reckless.” Marcus bent down and braced his hands on the arms of her chair. “Fortunately for him, that isn’t particularly difficult.”

  “I have to warn ye, guv,” Nell told him. “Our Bess, she doesn’t listen to reason real well.”

  “Well, she’s going to bloody well start!”

  “She knows the risks and she is a grown woman capable of making her own choices!” Elizabeth’s glare encompassed Nell. “And she is getting tired of everyone else making decisions for her!”

  Nell turned and pushed the tea cart against the wall, the cups and saucers rattling in the tense silence. “Bess,” she said tentatively, “what if his lordship here has a point? What if this Frenchie has somethin’ to do with our intruder?”

  “What intruder?” Marcus didn’t loosen his grip on Elizabeth’s chair.

  “Nell!” Elizabeth hissed.

  “What intruder?” Marcus repeated, turning his glower on Nell.

  Nell gulped and looked down at her hands. “I… well, ye see…” She threw an apologetic glance Elizabeth’s way and proceeded to spill the whole thing. “While ye both were in Northampton, someone was in here, in the shop. Nothin’ was stolen, but everythin’ was a bit out of place, includin’ Bess’s highwayman outfit, even though we keep that locked away upstairs. It was like someone was… lookin’ for somethin’.”

  Marcus straightened, swearing vividly. “And how did this intruder break in?”

  “Georgi and me couldn’t figure that out.” Nell shook her head. “Even the door to the upstairs was still locked, like it hadn’t been opened.”

  Elizabeth shut her eyes, not wanting to see Marcus’s reaction. Oh Lawks
, now she was well and truly in the soup.

  “Marvelous. That’s marvelous,” he ground out. “It would have taken a sophisticated thief to pull that off—or a sophisticated thief-taker.”

  “And speakin’ of upstairs,” Nell added quickly, “I almost fergot, I haven’t cleaned me… uh, me rugs this week, so I’ll leave the two of ye to discuss what ye want to do about all this.” As she made a hasty retreat, she called back over her shoulder. “Just let me know what ye decide, Bess. I wouldn’t want ye to think I was interferin’.”

  A fine time to get a conscience, Elizabeth thought. The door to the upstairs apartments shut with a bang.

  “Look at me, Elizabeth.”

  That deceptively soft tone unnerved her in a way his angriest shout never did.

  Reluctantly, she opened one eye, then the other.

  His arms were folded over his chest, his expression ominous. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “I didn’t think that Nell’s intruder had anything to do with your half of our agreement, that’s all.”

  “My half, your half. Why do you insist on keeping everything so damned neat and separate?”

  “Because it’s better that way.”

  “Well, this intruder of yours changes everything. Consider ‘your half’ finished. You are not going anywhere this week. You are going to stay at home and pray to God this Rochambeau doesn’t have enough evidence to prove anything!”

  Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around the padded arms of her chair. For Marcus’s sake, she had to get more information. The raid would be too dangerous for him otherwise.

  But he wouldn’t listen to that argument.

  “I can’t cancel my arrangements for Wednesday,” she explained as calmly as possible. “Now that I’ve started this little charade with Montaigne, I have to finish it.”

  “And what if you finish it by swinging at Tyburn?”

  His staccato question shattered the last of her composure. “Then you would have all the gold.” She thrust herself out of the chair. “Along with everything else you’ve ever wanted—your estates, your aristocratic life, and your high-born bride!”

  He flinched as if she had struck him. “If you actually believe that’s everything I want,” he said roughly, “then you apparently don’t know me at all.”

  “I know you better than you realize! I know that you’ll forget me! I’ll be just another of those people you write down in your poems and file away in your little books and forget—”

  “Stop it—”

  “It’s rather convenient, isn’t it? You write people down and put them on a shelf and only take them out when it suits you. But I don’t want to be one of those people in your books, Marcus!”

  He turned on his heel and stalked away. “My God, you women are absolutely the most unfathomable, illogical creatures—”

  “As if men are always so sensible. When was the last time you saw two women fighting a duel?”

  “Don’t change the subject. I have no intention of putting you on any shelf, Elizabeth, or forgetting you.”

  “You said we have to go our separate ways after we split the gold!”

  That brought him up short and he looked at her in astonishment. “Because you said you’re leaving England. You’d rather live in some hovel in Spain than stay here with me!”

  “I can’t stay here with you! How could I? As your mistress?”

  “Elizabeth,” he said in that deep, compelling tone. “Allow me to tell you exactly what it is that I want.” He walked back toward her, slowly. “My family has held an honored place in English society for generations. I don’t want to be the one who loses it all. So yes, I want to reclaim my estates and restore my family’s rightful legacy.” He stopped directly in front of her. “But I also want you.”

  “I won’t be your mistress.” She shut her eyes, trembling. “I could never accept that kind of life. And you would never do that to Priscilla and you know it—”

  “Hellfire and damnation, there is no Priscilla! There isn’t going to be any Priscilla. Elizabeth…” He took her face between his hands. “I want to marry you.”

  Lifting her lashes, she gasped in shock. “But… but an innkeeper’s daughter can’t become a countess—”

  “No,” he said, a slow grin bringing out the dimple in his cheek, “but Lady Barnes-Finchley could become a countess.”

  Her mouth formed an ‘O’ of astonishment.

  “I’ve been thinking about it since we returned to London,” he explained, “and I believe I’ve worked through every detail. Lord Barnes-Finchley, your fictitious husband in Italy, will meet his fictitious demise in Italy. You can claim he fell off an Alp or drowned in a canal in Venice or some such. Then, after a suitable mourning period… Lady Barnes-Finchley, the vivacious beauty who has swept London society off its feet, could accept my proposal.”

  She simply gaped at him, unable to summon words.

  “I believe this may be the first time I’ve rendered you speechless.” He brushed his thumb over her lips, his smile widening. “I think you’ll discover there’s much to enjoy about life as a countess. Security and comfort. Rather large homes. Servants. All the books you could ever possibly read…”

  When she still didn’t reply, some of his cheerfulness faded.

  “Elizabeth, would you please say something?” He let her go. “I can’t speak from experience, but I believe that generally, when an earl makes an offer of marriage… it’s greeted with a bit more enthusiasm.”

  “Marcus, oh God… I wish…”

  “Yes,” he suggested, reaching out to take her hand. “The word you’re trying to think of is yes.”

  “But… but I don’t think you’ve worked through every detail,” she explained, aching even as she said it. “How long will it be before someone discovers that I’m a complete fraud? That Lord Barnes-Finchely never existed? How long did it take you, Marcus?” She shook her head. “When I created my false identity as Lady Barnes-Finchley, I only intended it to last a few months, not a lifetime.”

  Unable to bear seeing the hope vanish from his eyes, she pulled her hand from his, turning away. “And I can’t… I can’t even imagine living the rest of my life among the aristocracy.” She moved to one of the counters strewn with expensive fabrics, bracing her fists against it. “I find most of them unbearable. They live for nothing but gossip and adultery and flaunting their wealth.” She hung her head. “And I am so tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. I want to stop lying and hiding behind disguises and just… live as myself again. As ordinary Elizabeth.”

  “You are anything but ordinary,” he said hoarsely.

  Tears stung her eyes as she turned to face him again. “I could never fit into your world, Marcus. You know I couldn’t. I’d be an utter failure as a countess.” She reached up to unfasten her wig, tearing at the hairpins, letting it fall to the floor. “I am better suited to a commoner’s simple, rustic life in… in Morocco.”

  “Morocco?” he asked in confusion. “You mean Barcelona.”

  “No.” Elizabeth sighed, running her hands through her tangled black hair. “Morocco. When we returned from Northampton, there was another letter waiting from my sister. Emma and her husband have moved again. He wants to paint some famous palaces in Marrakesh, so I’ll be—”

  “Leaving England to become a desert nomad?” Marcus choked out. “That’s the life you would choose? Wandering from place to place with your sister and her vagabond husband—never having a home of your own, a family of your own—”

  “I… I don’t want any more babies.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks and she turned away from him again, leaning on the counter. “Don’t you see that this idea would be an utter disaster? Marrying me won’t help you secure the Worthington name for future generations. Marrying me would cost you everything that you have fought for and wanted for ten years.”

  His voice became stark. “So you still intend to leave England… to leave me?”

 
“There’s no other choice,” she cried. “Why do you have to keep asking?”

  There was a long pause. “Elizabeth, you may be reckless and too soft-hearted and so independent it drives me mad,” he said quietly, “but you are also intelligent enough to know the answer to that.”

  She heard his bootsteps as he walked toward her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You already know.” He stopped directly behind her.

  She flinched when he touched her shoulder, his fingers like a brand even through the silk of her gown. She couldn’t catch her breath.

  “I came to see you every day for a fortnight,” he reminded her gently. “You were the one who refused to spend any time alone with me.”

  “Because it makes no sense to keep tormenting ourselves. Because we can’t—”

  “Why not?” He started to knead her tense muscles, just as he had that night at the inn. “What happened to that daring lady I met on Hounslow Heath, the one who rode right beside me, willing to face any risk? Don’t give up so easily now. Stay beside me. Take the risk. When there’s something you want, you have to fight for it.”

  His words and his touch sent emotions rioting through Elizabeth. God, how she wanted to believe, to hope that they could have a future together.

  Wanted to be his.

  “Elizabeth,” he said gruffly. “What I am standing here like a moonstruck cowherd trying to say… what I am trying to tell you is that—”

  “Marcus, please, don’t—”

  “I’m not going to keep denying it. And I’m not going to let you deny it either. I don’t understand this any more than you do, but there’s something between us, something I’ve never felt in my life.” He slipped an arm around her waist, his voice deep and intimate, so close to her ear. “I came to see you every day for a fortnight because I can’t stand to be apart from you. I want to be with you, and around you, and so damn deep inside you. And the thought of losing you…” He expelled a harsh breath. “Stay with me, Elizabeth. Today and tomorrow and always.” He turned her to face him. “Because I love you.”

  Fresh tears spilled onto her cheeks as his mouth captured hers, deeply, passionately. He put all his strength and his soul into that kiss, and she felt as if she were soaring. She gave herself over to it, to him, swept away by need and tenderness… and love.