“In any case.” William’s gaze narrowed. “You are taking this rather well for a man discovering someone wishes to harm his future wife.”
“That discovery was made a few days ago. I’ve had time to consider it. Of course this cannot be allowed to continue. No one can live like this, reacting after the fact. The threat has to be dealt with.”
“I should have told you sooner.” William grimaced. “I assumed I had some time to find the best way to present it. What does one say in a situation such as this? Too many questions and not enough answers. But things have been hectic, and you both are so bloody popular. You are always in a crowd. I thought the sheer volume of witnesses would keep her safe, but she’s not inviolable anywhere. A ball for Christ’s sake! One would have to be mad to attempt absconding with the guest of honor at such a well attended event. And the knife!”
Marcus stilled. “What of it?”
William flushed. “Nothing of importance, just—”
Rising, Marcus moved through the door to his chamber and retrieved the knife. He turned it over in his hands and examined it in the light of day. He’d meant to do this earlier, but the need to watch over Elizabeth was a lure he couldn’t resist. The blade could wait, it was not going anywhere.
Now he studied it carefully. It was well made and costly. The gold handle was intricately designed with vines and leaves, which gave the hilt a textured grip. The base of the handle was monogrammed with the initials NTM. Nigel Terrance Moore, the late Viscount Hawthorne.
Marcus looked up as William entered the room. “Where has this been?”
“I assume whoever killed Hawthorne took all of his valuables. He always carried that, and it was with him the night he was killed.”
Lost in thought, Marcus attempted to put the pieces of the puzzle together, but they didn’t fit—no matter how many various ways he assembled it.
Christopher St. John had returned Elizabeth’s brooch to her, the brooch Hawthorne had been carrying when he was killed. Now another item from that night had reappeared.
The clues laid blame at St. John’s feet, but the attacks on Elizabeth were out of character. St. John was successful because of his cleverness and pinpoint precision. Both of the assaults against Elizabeth had resulted in failure, something the pirate would never have allowed to happen once, let alone twice. While it was possible St. John was the culprit, Marcus could not shake the feeling that something else was amiss.
Why take the risk of attacking Elizabeth at a ball where hundreds of people were in attendance? She would not be carrying the journal during such an event.
But if St. John was innocent, a possibility that infuriated Marcus, there was someone else who was aware of the journal, and desired it enough to kill for it. Acknowledging that his own efforts were not enough, he regretted he could not confide in William, but he would honor Elizabeth’s wishes for the moment. In the end, her safety was paramount, and he would elicit all the help he needed to ensure it.
Elizabeth’s gasp from the doorway startled them both. Dressed in a simple night rail and dressing robe, she stared at the dagger in shock, all color draining from her face. She looked so tiny, so childlike with her disheveled hair and fidgeting fingers.
His chest tightened, and Marcus shoved the feeling aside ruthlessly. His deepening affection for her could only bring more trouble, as had already been proven. Dropping the knife back into the drawer, he hurried to her side. “You should not be walking around yet.”
“Where did you find that?” she asked in a barely audible whisper.
“It was the blade used to stab you.”
Her knees buckled, and Marcus supported her gently in his arms, paying careful attention to her wounded hip. He walked her back to her room with William close on their heels.
“That was Hawthorne’s,” she whispered as he returned her to the bed.
“I know.”
William moved to the other side. “I will explore this matter further, Elizabeth. Please don’t worry, I—”
“You will do no such thing!” she cried.
He squared his shoulders. “I will do what is best.”
“No, William. It is no longer your duty to protect me. You must look after your wife. How could I ever face Margaret were something to happen to you on my account?”
“What can Westfield do?” he scoffed. “I am in a much better position to acquire the information we need.”
“Lord Westfield is a powerful and influential man,” she argued. “I’m certain he has important connections as well. Leave this business to him. I will not have you involved in any way.”
“You are being ridiculous,” he grumbled, his hands on his hips.
“Stay out of this, William.”
Leaving the side of the bed, he stalked toward the door. “I must do something or go mad. You would do no less for me.” He slammed the door on his way out.
Elizabeth stared at the portal with mouth agape. When she lifted her gaze, she was crying. “Marcus, you must stop him.”
“I will try my best, love.” He stared grimly at the door, trying to ignore the way her tears tore at his conscience. “But your brother is as stubborn as you are.”
After a light meal with Elizabeth, Marcus took his carriage and collected Avery James. Together, they traveled through town to meet with Lord Eldridge.
Staring pensively out the coach window, Marcus barely registered the bustle of the London streets or the calls of vendors to sample their wares. There was too much to consider, too much awry. He didn’t say a word until they reached Lord Eldridge’s office, and then he filled in the details he’d been unable to expand upon through the post.
“First of all, Westfield,” Eldridge began when he’d finished, “I cannot leave you on this assignment. Your impending marriage destroys any hope for objectivity.”
Marcus drummed his fingers on the carved wooden arm of his chair. “I maintain I am in the best position to protect her.”
“At this point we know so little about the danger. The best protection would be to keep her locked away. But her safety is not our only aim. And before you protest, consider the alternatives. How else can we apprehend the culprit, other than to draw him out?”
“You want to use her as a lure.” It was not a question.
“If need be.” Eldridge moved his gaze to Avery. “What say you about the attack on Lady Hawthorne, James?”
“The reasoning eludes me,” he admitted. “Why attack Lady Hawthorne when she does not have the book with her? What purpose does that serve?”
Marcus stilled his fingers, and shared his conclusion. “Ransom. Lady Hawthorne for the journal. They know the agency is involved. The brooch and dagger suggest they were at the site where Hawthorne was murdered so they know Barclay is involved as well. The move against her was rash, yes. But it was truly the only time since Hawthorne’s journal surfaced that she has been without escort.”
“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 f
ell 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.”