A Perfect Scandal (22 page)

Marcus found Roman sipping a brandy and staring out the bay window of Brooks’s. Roman looked up as he approached.

“You came,” Roman said, cracking a smile.

Marcus pulled out a chair and sat. “I was tempted not to.”

Roman nodded as if this made perfect sense. “I thought we could talk…as brothers.”

Marcus’s brows drew together. Their relationship had progressed over the past months, but it wasn’t what he would consider
brotherly
. Marcus had been grateful when Roman had helped interrogate Dante Black even though their questioning had been cut short when Isabel had run into the criminal. And they had been civil, near amicable, at Marcus’s wedding. But still, the past hovered over them like a dark shroud, dampening their trust for each other.

At Marcus’s silence, Roman sighed.

Sitting before the bay window, in the unforgiving light of the afternoon, Roman appeared tired. His eyes were tight with strain, his normally immaculate attire wrinkled as if he had slept in his clothes.

“This is not easy for me, you know,” Roman said.

“What do you want, Roman?”

“For us to move forward.”

“Are you asking me to forget the past?”

“No, only for you to forgive
me
. I was too quick to judge you back then, and I failed you when you most needed me,” Roman said.

Marcus was stunned. When he had received Roman’s note asking him to meet at Brooks’s, he had been wary. He had never expected this…an apology after so many years.

He felt a ripple of concern for Roman and was surprised not to feel the familiar bitterness he had harbored against his kin for so many years. His focus seemed to have shifted—his resentment and hostility subsided—after Isabel had entered his life. His thoughts turned more to her lately than to his past or his grudge against his family.

Marcus looked Roman in the eye. Leaning forward in his chair, in a controlled voice he said, “Bridget was not worth sacrificing our bond as brothers.”

And just like that, it was over. The lingering animosity. The distrust. The glowering hatred.

Roman’s face lit up, and he gestured to a passing servant. “Two brandies.”

The glasses were delivered and the brothers drank together.

“You may have felt forced to leave the family home,” Roman said, “but I am the one now tortured by Father on a daily basis.”

Marcus found himself grinning. “He’s still nagging you to marry?”

“He has actually started bragging about your successful match and brings up the beautiful Lady Isabel every chance he gets.”

Marcus burst out laughing. “Ha! That’s a change for the old man. You’d best give in and find a wife on your own before he thrusts one upon you.”

“I’m considering it. Tell me, is Miss Benning taken?”

“Charlotte Benning? Isabel will be thrilled.”

“And how is Isabel faring?”

At the mention of his wife, Marcus stiffened.

“Something’s amiss? Tell me. Let me in,” Roman urged.

Marcus hesitated as he debated telling Roman the truth. He had become accustomed to keeping his own secrets, solving his own problems, but this was entirely different. Isabel’s life was at stake, and he knew deep in his bones that confiding in Roman was the right choice. Two heads were better than one, and surprisingly, he found himself trusting Roman.

“I received a note threatening Isabel’s life,” Marcus said.

Roman’s mouth gaped. “What? From whom?”

“That bastard Gavinport, of course. Who else?”

“You still suspect him behind the art theft?”

“I do. He has gone even further by having Dante Black murdered and now threatening Isabel.”

“I heard about Dante,” Roman said. “But to threaten your wife?”

Marcus raised his glass and took a deep swallow. “I told Isabel to leave for Paris.”

“Why Paris?”

“We had an agreement. Neither of us sought to marry. She seeks to go to Paris to live with her eccentric aunt and further her art studies. I led her to believe that I still lust for my former mistress, and I pushed her to leave sooner than planned.”

Roman grimaced. “Surely you do not have to take such drastic measures as to fake affection for another woman and send Isabel away to another country. I see how you look at her, Marcus. A blind man can see. Forget your agreement. Keep her.”

Marcus shook his head. “I can’t. It’s better this way. I must protect her until I can confront Gavinport and deal with the bastard once and for all.”

“Good. I’ll help. Tell me when and where.”

The words came easier now for Marcus. “According to Investigator Harrison, Gavinport’s out of town attending a private art auction at an unknown location. He’s to return for Leticia Benning’s birthday ball this weekend. It is the soonest I can beat him into a bloody pulp.”

“Surely you don’t mean a public duel.”

Marcus’s mouth twisted wryly. “No. Gavinport does not deserve an honorable duel. The Bennings have vast gardens. I plan to get him outside alone.”

Roman’s eyes flashed like summer lightning. “Isabel is my sister-in-law, Marcus. Count on me to help.”

“Something’s amiss,” Charlotte said. “His behavior is odd.”

Isabel looked up from the canvas before her. She was sketching the outline of Charlotte’s face with charcoal, while her friend sat on a stool in the corner of her studio.

“What makes you say that?” Isabel asked. It had been a week since she had walked in on Marcus and Simone Winston, and she had confided only to Charlotte.

“Why would the man invite you to luncheon at the Ship and Turtle and then, at the same time, engage in a tryst with his former mistress?” Charlotte asked.

“Marcus said Simone Winston’s visit was unexpected.”

Charlotte slid to the edge of her stool. “It makes no sense. You said yourself that his note was affectionate, and that he was looking forward to meeting you.”

Isabel gave an impatient shrug. “So? By his own admission his repressed roguish behavior has resurfaced. Whether the man sought out temptation or whether it came to him, it all leads to the same truth. The intimacy we shared meant much less to him than it did for me. I acted the complete fool.”

Charlotte pushed stray wisps of hair from her face and shook her head. “As I am not emotionally involved, I see things in a different light, and I am not convinced. How do you explain his uncharacteristic overprotectiveness lately?”

Isabel gripped the charcoal in her fist. Charlotte was right, Marcus
had
been acting strangely. She had avoided his presence, choosing instead to stay in her studio and work on her projects. It had not been difficult as he spent much of his days at the Stock Exchange or at his office on Threadneedle Street, and when he was at home, he was squirreled away in his library office.

There had been only a few occasions that Isabel had desired to venture out to go shopping or to visit Charlotte, but all had been met with strange reluctance. Isabel had been delighted to learn that Lady Victoria Ravenspear had given birth to a daughter. When Isabel had sought to buy baby gifts, Jenkins had advised that he was under strict orders to have two footmen accompany her. The footmen were unlike any her father had employed in his household. Both men were over six feet in height, heavily muscled, and resembled looming Moors.

Isabel chewed her lower lip. “Marcus’s dictates have been ridiculous of late. Perhaps you’re right and something is amiss. His affection for Simone Winston would explain why marriage does not suit him, even why he would want me to leave for Paris, but it does not explain his new henchmen.”

Charlotte’s eyes lit up. “What if he had contact with the criminal that had threatened your life? That would more likely explain the new bodyguards, his concern for your safety, and also why he claims to want you to leave for Paris.”

The charcoal fell from Isabel’s fingers and skidded across the hardwood floor. She turned to the window, startled by the thoughts that flashed through her mind.

Could Charlotte be right? Dare she hope that something else was behind Marcus’s swift change in behavior? Why would he be overly concerned for her safety if he wanted her gone so badly?

Sensing she had found a nerve, Charlotte pressed further. “Ask yourself this: How could he tire of marriage so swiftly when you had only been together for two weeks?”

“Yes. How could he?” Isabel said numbly, her thoughts whirling as she gazed outside.

Charlotte stood. “He has feelings for you, Isabel. I saw the way he looked at you at your wedding. I saw because it is the way I yearn for a man to look at me. Such affection is what my mother has unsuccessfully searched for and still has not found after four husbands, my current stepfather being no exception.”

Isabel’s eyes snapped to Charlotte’s face. “There’s only one way to find out if what you suspect is true. I must confront Marcus. If his odd behavior is because he had a run-in with the criminal or with Lord Gavinport, then he owes me the truth.”

Charlotte walked around the easel to view Isabel’s work. “Marcus is not the only one acting oddly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Since when do you draw portraits? I thought you preferred landscapes.”

Isabel sighed. “I used to, but after Marcus gave me my own studio, I felt a creative urge to paint a portrait.” It remained unspoken that she had desired to paint
his
portrait.

“Which leads me to another point,” Charlotte said. “Why would a man who wants you imminently gone to a foreign country give you an art studio in his own house?” She waved to the partially unpacked trunks of art supplies in the corner. “And why in the world would he arrange to have your supplies delivered here?”

Why indeed?
Isabel mused.
What was going on?

To radically alter his behavior, something had occurred in between the time Marcus had left her bed that fateful morning and when she had met him at his office.

Isabel straightened, her ire rising. He was keeping a secret, a critical piece of information from her. They were supposed to be partners, and he was purposely pushing her away, perhaps even using Simone Winston’s unexpected visit as a weapon to do so.

Her breath grew ragged, and she fought against the urge to behave rashly. There had been something amiss when Marcus had looked at Simone. Isabel had been too shocked to analyze his response, but thinking back, he had barely spoken to his former mistress, and when he had glanced at Simone, his eyes had been cold, hard…aloof.

“From your expression, I take it you are casting off your self-pity and despair and coming to your senses,” Charlotte said.

Isabel stooped down and picked up the piece of charcoal. Tossing it in the air, she caught it in a tight fist. “I believe it’s time for a confrontation with my
husband.
”

Charlotte smiled. “For once I’m glad to see that stubborn glint in your eye. I almost feel bad for Mr. Hawksley.
Almost.
”

Marching across the hall, Isabel barged into Marcus’s library office without knocking. He was seated behind his oversized desk, piles of papers on both sides of him. Startled, his head jerked toward the door. When he spotted her, he frowned, his brooding eyes level under drawn brows.

She stalked forward, threw the lump of charcoal at his chest, and hissed, “You’re a bloody liar, Marcus Hawksley!”

The coal hit his chest dead center and clattered across the surface of his desk. His eyes widened, and he looked down at a prominent, black smudge across his starched white shirtfront.

He met her glare. “I take it there’s a logical explanation for this outburst.”

She stomped her foot. “Logical? You want logic when you tire of marriage after two weeks?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Ah, is this about my dissatisfaction with my marital state?”

“No, it’s about your swift change in behavior, or more simply put, it’s about your deception.”

“My deception?”

Walking close, she rested both palms on the surface of his desk and leaned forward. “You’re keeping something from me, and I want to know what it is.”

“I heard the front door close minutes ago, and I assume Charlotte Benning has left. Whatever conspiracy you two have conjured up is false, I assure you.”

His arrogant tone infuriated her. She came around and sat on the edge of his desk, glaring down at him. “I insist upon the truth. I am not leaving until you confess.”

His lips twitched as his gaze dropped from her eyes to her breasts and down to her derriere perched mere inches from his hand. “Do you recall the last time we were in this room together?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.

She blinked at the change in topic. She met his eyes, and the invitation in the smoldering depths was as unmistakable as it was arousing. The pit of her stomach churned, and a now familiar shiver of awareness ran down her spine. Her gaze lowered, and her cheeks grew warm.

Did she remember?

Oh, yes, she did. Only
she
had been seated in his chair, and he had skillfully touched her body and had awakened her womanly passion. The reality of his lovemaking had far surpassed her girlish fantasies.

She raised her chin a notch. “Do not think to distract me from the topic at hand.”

He cocked his head to the side. Seconds passed as he seemed to consider her request. “You’re right, Isabel. It is unfair of me, and you have proven yourself to be honest and courageous.” He opened a slim desk drawer, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to her. “I received this on the Exchange floor less than an hour before you came to my office the day we were to go to luncheon.”

She took the paper, unfolded it and read it to herself.

Lowering the paper to look at him, her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. Who sent you this?”

“It was delivered anonymously by private messenger. I can only assume it was sent by the mastermind who sought to frame me for the art theft, the same man who hired Dante Black and the criminal who threatened you.”

She stood and dropped the paper on his desk. “You believe the note refers to me? That I am what you love most in this world and therefore what will be taken from you?” she asked incredulously.

His expression turned grim. “It matters not what I love most in this world. All that matters is what the author of the note believes.”

She flinched at the cold honesty behind his statement.
Fool! You know he does not love you!

Then why was she so devastated to hear it from his lips in such a chilly, efficient manner? His admission affected her more than it should have. Hiding her hurt, she looked him in the eye. “Is the note the reason why your two henchmen have been accompanying me whenever I leave this house?”

“I do not think the threat should be taken lightly. Until you are safely in Paris, I believe the utmost precautions should be taken.”

“The note says you killed something he loved most in this world. Whatever did you do to Lord Gavinport?”

Marcus stood, and ran an impatient hand through his hair. “That’s just it. I have done nothing to Gavinport.”

“Are you certain? The night of Dante Black’s death, at the Carrington ball, Lord Gavinport had mentioned a painting he desired.”

Marcus nodded. “The George Stubbs painting,
A Grey Horse
, which is currently in my collection. I acquired it from a banker’s heir. I never took it from Gavinport. He wasn’t even present at the auction. It makes no sense for him to believe I had stolen it from him.”

“It is well known that Lord Gavinport is fanatical when it comes to his art collection,” she said. “Perhaps he is mentally unbalanced and believes the loss of one painting would make his entire collection, which he loves most in the world, inferior.”

“Perhaps,” Marcus said, “but we also must consider the possibility that he learned we had broken into his town house and discovered Dante Black’s body.”

“The news of Dante’s murder was in the papers,” she pointed out.

“I know. Bow Street does not suspect a connection between Gavinport and Dante Black. But if Gavinport knows we invaded his property, then he must also be aware that we believe there is a connection between the two of them. He may have penned the note to divert us.”

“Then we must not allow it to do so,” she said matter-of-factly.

Moving swiftly, he cupped her chin and searched her upturned face. “Not
us
, Isabel. You are to leave for Paris soon after Leticia Benning’s birthday ball, remember?”

Startled by his touch, she stepped back and stiffened with challenge. “I am not easily intimidated, Marcus. I want to see this to the end.”

“
I
shall confront Gavinport and see it to the end. Afterward, I will gladly send word to you in Paris of the outcome.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” she snapped. “An anonymous note is a weak excuse to change our plans.”

“No, I’m not the ridiculous one. I told you before that I long for my days as a bachelor. Even though our marriage cannot easily be annulled or dissolved, I find myself eager to resume my former lifestyle.”

She stiffened as though he had struck her. “You mean eager for Simone Winston’s attentions.” She bit her tongue the moment the bitter words spewed from her mouth, not wanting him to see how much his callous attitude had wounded her.

“I will not dissuade you of your assumptions,” he said curtly.

Rage bubbled inside her like a volcano on the verge of erupting. Glowering at him, she set her chin in a stubborn line. “Fine. As Leticia Benning’s birthday ball is this weekend, I shall start packing.”

She spun on her heel and slammed the door on her way out.

Marcus fell into his chair and exhaled. Her subtle perfume of lilacs lingered in the air. He closed his eyes, recalling her face breathless with fury and her vivid blue eyes blazing with anger. Her nearness had aroused him; her anger had heated his blood.

The volatile combination put his iron will at risk.

For no matter how much she resented him, the memory of their lovemaking in this room remained pure and clear in his mind.

He should not have been surprised by her behavior. Isabel had been intelligent enough to suspect he was hiding something whereas most women would never have picked up on the signs. He had willingly shown her the note, not because he wanted to confide in her, but because he thought that if she knew the truth, she would take precautions for her safety. He should have guessed that Isabel would not back down or be intimidated, but rather, rise to the challenge and thumb her nose at the threat.

She was the most magnificent woman he had ever met.

She believed he harbored feelings for Simone, when it took every ounce of his willpower not to throw Isabel on his desk, pluck the pins from her glorious hair, and kiss her senseless.

It was his cross to bear, his punishment, that Isabel was so close, yet so unattainable. He had seen her disappointment, her hurt, and he had wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms and whisper erotic words in her ear. If he was truthful with himself, he had no desire to send her away, but would rather keep her with him for the planned six months. Maybe then this hunger and fascination for her would pass.

But it was not to be. For how would he live with himself if she were harmed? If she was injured because of
him
, it would be so much worse than Bridget’s ghastly fate.

Bridget had killed herself. But if Isabel was murdered…

He would never recover. His soul, black as it was, would be lost. If Isabel leaving for Paris was the price to pay for her safety, then he would force the issue.

The note was real, the threat imminent. He would not rest until he had ruthlessly pursued the man who had tried to frame him and had dared threaten Isabel. It mattered naught that the authorities did not suspect him for the theft of the painting. The mastermind had to be punished, and it had to be by his hand.

He had searched Gavinport’s private gallery and his reclusive town house property, but to no avail. His initial plan to search for the painting by clandestine methods was taking too long. Isabel’s safety was now in jeopardy, time was of the essence, and Marcus’s anger had become a scalding fury. He would confront Lord Gavinport face-to-face and learn the truth by whatever means necessary. And the upcoming Bennings’ ball offered the perfect opportunity.