Authors: Tina Gabrielle
“Isabel?” Marcus asked, his face etched with concern.
“I fear the evening has taken its toll.”
Marcus swung her up in his arms. When she made to protest, he cut her off. “We’re almost there. I don’t want you to pass out.”
“I told you many times before, I never faint.”
He ignored her and continued onward. Despite her complaint, she was glad for the comfort of his solid chest and muscular arms. The heat from his body seeped into hers, and she rested her head against his shoulder.
Marcus’s black-lacquered carriage came into view. Roman stood beside the horses speaking with the driver. When he spotted Marcus carrying Isabel, he rushed over.
“How is Isabel?” Roman asked.
“She’s exhausted,” Marcus said.
Isabel scowled. “I’m fine, Roman. Marcus insisted on carrying me.”
Roman grinned. “No doubt. Since I trust you are in good hands, I shall head back to the ball. I will stop by tomorrow morning to see you, Marcus.” Roman turned to leave.
“Roman, wait,” Marcus called out.
Roman stopped and looked back at his brother.
“Thank you,” Marcus said.
Roman nodded, then disappeared into the woods.
The driver opened the door to the coach and Marcus placed Isabel on the seat. Moments later, the vehicle jolted forward, and then swayed on the bumpy side road.
Isabel sighed and rested her head on the padded leather bench. “I was pleasantly surprised to learn you and Roman were working together again.”
“We were going to go after Gavinport tonight to obtain his confession, learn the location of the Gainsborough painting as well as the hiding place of his criminal lackey, Robby Bones. When Roman visits me tomorrow, we will finish what we had intended.”
Isabel was roused from her exhaustion as if a jolt of lightning had struck her. She jerked forward. “But Lord Gavinport is innocent! I had meant to mention it to you after Roman told me what you two had planned tonight, but in my fear for your safety when you had pursued Robby Bones, I had forgotten.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When I was in the gardens, I overheard Robby Bones speaking with someone he called his lordship. I don’t know who Bones was talking to, but I
know
he was the mastermind and he
wasn’t
Lord Gavinport.”
Marcus’s expression hardened. “Then we are back to the beginning. The only way to learn the truth is to find and interrogate Robby Bones.”
Her eyes widened. “No! The man is a cold-blooded murderer, Marcus! He confessed to killing Dante Black.”
A swift shadow of anger swept across his face. “It is of no consequence. It’s time to end this once and for all.”
Fear threaded in her belly for she knew Marcus was bent on seeking and destroying his enemy, no matter the cost.
Early the next morning, Marcus hastily descended the stairs and headed straight for the kitchen. He found Mrs. McLaughlin and Kate sitting at the servants’ table eating biscuits and sipping tea. They both rose, eyes wide in surprise, when he burst inside.
“Is something amiss, Mr. Hawksley?” Mrs. McLaughlin asked.
Marcus knew both women were clearly taken aback by the unusual appearance of the master of the house in the servants’ domain.
“Please sit, Mrs. McLaughlin. Nothing is amiss. I was merely concerned that Mrs. Hawksley is not yet awake. Is she unwell?”
Kate spoke up. “She is not sick, Mr. Hawksley, but tired after last night. I thought it wise if I did not rouse her.”
Marcus nodded. He knew Kate as well as Mrs. McLaughlin wanted to know why the mistress of the house arrived home from last night’s ball looking a fright, but both servants held their tongues. He suspected they would question Isabel when she woke.
He departed and sought the solace of his library. He attempted to work and picked up
The Times
which Jenkins had placed on his desk, but his eyes refused to study the fine lines of stock figures listed in the morning’s newspaper. His mind kept returning to Isabel and the prior night.
When Isabel had run into him in the gardens with terror, stark and vivid, glittering in her eyes, he had experienced a riveting fear. If not for her quick thinking and her guts in striking Bones with the shovel, she would have been killed. The panic and ensuing rage that had rushed through him was shocking. Blood lust had seized control of his brain, and he had fervently anticipated tearing Robby Bones apart limb by limb.
Afterward—when he was finally alone with Isabel in the conservatory—he had fallen upon her like a man starved for her flesh. Her passionate response, heightened by her sense of survival, had thrilled him. Then, with her body writhing beneath his on the verge of a fiery climax, she had cried out that she loved him. His heart had lurched at her admission, and unbelievably his desire mounted higher, like the hottest fire, clouding his brain, and he exploded within her. The thought of withdrawing from her body, as he had the first time they made love, never entered his mind.
Dear Lord, she had said she loved him. It had been torture to pretend he hadn’t heard her. The sudden and extreme changes in his emotions made him wonder if he loved her, but his brain rebelled against his heart.
Bloody hell, he could not love her!
It was obsession, not love, he rationalized. She was a beautiful female who responded to his touch like hay to fire. She was a passionate challenge, hard for a flesh-and-blood man to resist. A sensual glance from her eyes could make his body temperature soar and his blood surge through his veins. He had wanted to keep her with him, if only to satisfy this voracious need, and in a selfish moment of weakness after their lovemaking, he had asked her to stay in London. He had promised to do everything in his power to keep her safe, and he had felt confident in his ability last night.
He had been certain that with Roman’s aid he could obtain Gavinport’s confession, find the painting, and learn the location of Robby Bones. With Bones and Gavinport either incarcerated or dead by his own hand, he thought to end it once and for all. There would no longer be a threat to Isabel’s life, and she could remain in London as originally planned. Surely this madness that robbed him of reason where she was concerned would be sated in six months’ time.
And then she had told him Gavinport was not the villain, and Marcus’s plans came crashing down around him.
He cursed beneath his breath. The threat to her life, that damnable note, came back to him in a rush of anger and helpless frustration.
A soft knock on the door disturbed his thoughts.
“Enter,” he said.
The door opened and Isabel came into the room. She looked lovely and very young in a pale yellow dress with modest neckline. Her thick dark hair was tied behind her back with a matching ribbon.
Clear blue eyes ringed with thick black lashes regarded him. “Kate told me you had asked for me.”
He rose and walked behind his desk to her side. “I was concerned. How do you feel?”
She smiled up at him, and his heart squeezed uncomfortably. “I feel tired.”
He reached out to trace the scrapes above her bodice. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” she sighed.
Taking her arm, he led her to an armchair by the fireplace and took a seat across from her. “Isabel, I was thinking about what you told me in the coach on the ride home last night.”
“About Gavinport not being the culprit we had suspected?”
“Yes. When we had discovered Dante Black’s body in Lord Gavinport’s town house, I had been wholly convinced he was the mastermind. But if Gavinport is not involved, then it must have been a coincidence that Dante Black was killed in his town house.”
Isabel stared at him, baffled. “What do you mean a coincidence?”
“We know two things: that Gavinport had utilized Dante Black’s services in the past, and that Gavinport is a great collector of Thomas Gainsborough’s works. What if Dante knew Gavinport owned the town house on Lombard Street, and Dante truly was hiding out there without Gavinport’s knowledge?”
“Is that likely?”
“I did not think so at first,” he said. “There was no evidence of forced entry. The lock on the front door was not tampered with, and when I returned that night, I checked all the windows. They were secure. However, Dante could have had a key. Lady Ravenspear said Gavinport may have stored art there. If Dante had sold Gavinport anything after his marriage to Olivia and after he owned the town house, Dante would have been given a key to deliver the merchandise.”
“But if this theory is true, then why was Dante murdered there?” she asked.
“Robby Bones could have followed Dante, learned where he was hiding, and then killed him,” Marcus said.
She shivered. “I still don’t understand the senselessness of Dante’s murder.”
“Maybe Dante outlived his usefulness after the Gainsborough painting was stolen or after he unsuccessfully accused me of the larceny. Or perhaps Dante refused to carry out a new order and threatened to expose the truth,” Marcus said.
“Yes, I remember now,” Isabel said. “When I overheard them, his lordship had said he never wanted Dante killed, but Robby Bones protested that Dante refused to cooperate by moving the Gainsborough painting. Bones was convinced Dante planned to go to the constable so he murdered him.”
A thought struck her, and she sat forward in her chair. “Perhaps Robby Bones was smart enough to know that we would be sidetracked into believing Lord Gavinport was involved if Dante’s body was discovered on Gavinport’s property.”
“Either way, things have changed,” Marcus said. “There has to be another involved, someone in the
beau monde
with money and motive. A rancid street criminal like Robby Bones could not plot and carry out such involved crimes on his own.”
“What do we do now?” she asked.
Marcus glanced at the mantel clock. “I expect Roman any minute. Now that we know Robby Bones’s name, we can track him down. With enough coercion or money, we can learn the identity of his employer.”
Isabel rose. “I need to eat something so I can be ready.”
Marcus stood and took her arm. “Wait, Isabel. I realize I asked you to stay last night after we made love, but that was before I had learned what you discovered.”
She stiffened beneath his hand. “What do you mean?”
“You should not cancel your travel plans.”
Her face drained of all color. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m as serious as the continued threat to your safety.”
She snatched her arm from his grasp. “As I recall, the so-called threat existed last night when you asked me to remain in London.”
“That was different. I thought I knew who was responsible for the note, and I had planned on taking care of him. Now that I know that Gavinport is no longer the suspect, the warning must still be heeded. Don’t you see, I cannot adequately protect you if I don’t know who is trying to harm you?”
Her lips thinned with irritation. “All I see is that I am a fool. You tell me to leave, and then in the next breath, you ask me to stay, only to demand I not cancel my travel plans a few hours later. Worse yet, you dangle your mistress before me, claim you miss bachelorhood, and then make love to me.”
Marcus ran his fingers through his hair and let out a burst of air. She was right. He had done all those things, but what he was hesitant to tell her was that he cared nothing for Simone or his bachelorhood, only her. If she believed him a total cad, then she would leave as planned and be safe.
She met his eyes. “I told you I loved you,” she whispered.
He looked away, unable to meet her steady gaze. “And I have come to care for you greatly, Isabel. That’s why I offer you my protection.”
She looked crestfallen. “You think I seek your protection? I never intended on falling in love with you, Marcus. It was the opposite of what I had planned. It just…happened.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat, and struggled with the foreign words buried deep within his heart. “Isabel, I—”
A man clearing his throat drew his attention. Jenkins stood in the doorway, Roman by his side. The library door had been left ajar, and from their stark expressions, it was clear that they had heard what was said.
“What is it?” Marcus snapped.
Roman strode forward, hat in hand, and sympathetically stole a glimpse at Isabel. She flushed and turned to leave, but Roman stopped her with a raised hand.
“I have news the two of you should hear,” Roman said. “Bow Street received an anonymous note as to the whereabouts of the stolen Gainsborough painting. When they arrived at the premises, there was an altercation with Robby Bones. The constable beat and killed Bones and took possession of the painting.”
“Where?” Marcus demanded.
A dilapidated studio in the artists’ district. Our investigator, Mr. Harrison, said the studio is now abandoned, but information leading us to Bones’s employer may have been left behind.”
Marcus turned to Roman. “Let’s go. Now.”
Isabel whirled toward him. “I’m going with you.”
Marcus opened his mouth to protest, but Roman spoke up first. “She has a right to know, Marcus. She has been involved from the beginning, and it is her well-being that is threatened by the anonymous missive you received.”
Marcus’s flat, unspeaking eyes held hers, prolonging the moment, until he curtly nodded at her. “Since I don’t trust you will stay put in this house, Isabel, I believe you will be safer with us.”
Isabel raised her chin, meeting his dark gaze straight on. “Good—as I’ve decided to no longer listen to you.”
The art studio was located inside a run-down building on the outskirts of Shoreditch. Weeds grew in abundance around its crumbling foundation, and rusted iron bars covered its windows. As they entered the building and stepped inside the small vestibule, the shabby interior was no better. Garbage and cigar stubs littered the area and the walls were painted an uncomely green.
Isabel’s stomach churned as the stench of cheap tobacco, rotting refuse, and oil paint assailed her nostrils. She had heard of such dilapidated studios where the poor, struggling artists of London awaited recognition and fortune that almost never befell them. Her experiences were limited to exhibitions and sales at the dazzling Royal Academy of Arts—far from such squalid desperation.
“Robby Bones was hiding on the second floor,” Roman said, breaking the tense silence.
Marcus turned to her. “Stay behind us, Isabel.”
She nodded and followed Marcus as they climbed up a rickety wooden flight of stairs. As she reached the top step, the wood splintered beneath her foot and a loud crack rent the air.
She gasped, hands flailing for the banister. Marcus spun around, grasped her arm, and hauled her up to the landing.
“I’m fine,” she rushed to assure him before he could ask.
His mouth was tight and grim as he glanced down. The splintered step was still intact, but clearly posed a hazard for the next user. “These steps are a death trap. Bones probably knew which rotting one to avoid.”
She swallowed, her throat dry as old, parched paper. “Let’s keep going.”
The trio continued down the hall until they came to the first of three doors.
“Harrison said the other two studios in the building are abandoned,” Roman explained. “Bones was found in the first one. The lock was broken by the constable.”
Marcus reached for the door handle, and when it opened easily, he stepped inside. Roman followed next, and only when she heard them say it was empty and safe was she permitted to enter the studio.
The pungent smell of paint and turpentine that immediately engulfed her was almost overwhelming, and she coughed. She scanned the studio, her eyes widening at the sight.
Roman whistled between his teeth. “Bones must have put up a good fight.”
Paints in different hues were splattered across the wood floor and walls in what looked like a gruesome display of violence and mayhem. Bottles with their caps missing, dirty rags, sponges, shattered glass jars, and brushes were scattered everywhere. The wooden shelves were bare except for heavier cans of turpentine, which were knocked over. One of the shelves had tipped on its side and rested against a splintered easel. Ripped canvases were torn off the far wall, and paper littered the floor.
“If Bones was this violent, then no wonder the constable had to kill,” Isabel whispered.
“The bastard got exactly what he deserved,” Marcus said coldly.
Heavy footsteps sounded down the hall, and Benjamin Harrison appeared in the doorway. “Bludgeoned to death by Bow Street’s finest, so I’m told,” he said as he walked forward, kicking an empty can out of his path.
Isabel recalled previously meeting the investigator in Marcus’s home. The straight slash of his bushy eyebrows over intense brown eyes reinforced her earlier impression that he was a shrewdly observant man.
Benjamin Harrison inclined his head in her direction. “Good morning, Mrs. Hawksley.”
She smiled. “I suppose one could call it that.”
Harrison leaned against a worktable and crossed his arms over his barrel-shaped chest. “I’ve been through here and couldn’t find much to reveal who Robby Bones was working for. The lease is in the name of H. Turner, which tells me nothing as it is a very common surname. The owner of the building never met the tenant face-to-face, and he never cared to as the rent money was always timely delivered by Bones.”
“What about the stolen painting?” Marcus asked.
“It was found in the rear of the studio, wrapped in plain brown paper. I suspect Bones had planned on moving it and soon,” Harrison said.
“Where is it now?” Marcus asked.
“It went back to its rightful owner, Lord Westley’s heir, who had originally planned to auction it off at the estate sale when it was stolen. I’ve heard it has already been sold to an affluent collector.”
“Not Lord Yarmouth on behalf of the Regent?” Marcus asked.
Harrison looked up from beneath craggy brows. “Why? Were you interested, Mr. Hawksley?”
Marcus laughed. “No. That painting has brought me nothing but trouble. I can only imagine the bad luck I would have if it were hanging over the mantel in my home.”
Isabel experienced an odd twinge of disappointment at Marcus’s words. He failed to mention that if it wasn’t for the theft of the painting, they would never have married.
But he doesn’t want you,
her inner voice taunted.
Why act surprised?
Isabel turned away from the men, and wandered the perimeter of the room. She paid careful attention to where she walked, lifting her skirts and stepping over paint and shards of glass as she went. She reached the back of the room, where a pool of red paint caught her eye. The same color was also splattered on the wall. She bent over to get a better look, and then backed up a step as she realized it was not paint, but blood.
“Was Bones killed here?” she asked over her shoulder.
The men approached. Harrison squatted down and touched the red substance. Rubbing his forefinger and thumb together, he said, “Definitely blood.”
At the investigator’s proclamation, her hand fluttered to her chest.
Marcus’s eyes were drawn to the movement, and he touched her sleeve. “Do you want to leave, Isabel? I do not wish you to relive Dante Black’s death.”
She shook her head. “No. This is different. I’m glad Bones is dead. To be honest, I had hoped I’d killed him with the shovel.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow, and a slight curve touched his mouth.
She ignored him and walked away, continuing her perusal of the room. She took a deep breath, hoping to calm the throbbing tension in her body that gnawed away at her confidence. Despite her best efforts to appear brave, the specters of Dante Black’s death did loom in the recesses of her mind. But her pride and stubbornness remained, and she refused to reveal her vulnerability to Marcus—not after his cold treatment of her earlier in his library office.
She had said she loved him, not once, but twice. There had been a tangible bond between them during their heated lovemaking in the conservatory. His eyes had darkened with fierce desire and something more—an intense, almost desperate
need
. She hadn’t imagined his powerful, potent response.
Yet today he had rejected her. He had told her to be gone, and he now clearly wanted nothing to do with their marriage or with anything they had shared. Her emotions were like a whirlwind inside her head. One moment sorrow would choke her, and the next wild rage would rip through her. Both extremes left her shaken and unable to think clearly.
For all their intimacy and shared confidences, Marcus Hawksley was an enigma, more a mystery to her than ever before.
She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger and forced herself to concentrate on the scene before her. Her eyes focused, and were drawn to the art materials haphazardly scattered across the floor. She roamed about, pushing brushes and bottles aside with the tip of her shoe, and then bit her lip as a nagging suspicion solidified in her mind.
When she’d finished and returned to the spot where she had started, she raised her head. “Whoever lived here was not an artist himself,” she said.
All three men turned to look at her.
“How can you tell?” Roman asked.
“The oil paint is old. The cakes of watercolor are crumbled from age. The brushes are splintered and dried out, their bristles missing. The canvases are old as well; not an ounce of fresh paint is on them.”
Harrison’s brows drew downward. “What about the paint spilled on the floor? It wasn’t dried out.”
“No. But I suspect it was left behind when the previous tenant leased the studio,” Isabel said. “This building is in the artists’ district. I assume it has been occupied by many faceless artists over the past decade. I have heard of landlords forcibly removing prior tenants without notice and then turning around and renting whatever supplies the poor artist had to the next available tenant. That is what must have happened here. Whoever the tenant was, when he leased this studio, the painting supplies were included in the lease.”
“She’s right,” Marcus said. “I should have seen the signs myself.”
“If he was not an artist, then why rent a studio? There are plenty of moth-eaten apartments for rent in London,” Roman said.
Marcus spoke up. “It would be easier to carry stolen artwork here, wrapped in inconspicuous brown paper, without raising the curiosity of the neighbors. Plus no one would question the comings and goings of a well-known art auctioneer such as Dante Black. Those interested in buying a stolen painting could view the work here without raising suspicion as well.”
“Your theory makes sense,” Harrison said.
“There’s something else,” Marcus said. He walked to where a newspaper was thrown on the floor and picked it up. The front page was splattered with paint, but the name was legible. “What poor artist would bother to read
The Morning Chronicle
? I check this paper for stock prices, and as far as I’m aware, not one column is dedicated to the arts. Whoever H. Turner is, I believe he is the mastermind and is a member of the upper class.”
“He most likely used a fake name on the lease,” Harrison said.
“Could it be your nemesis at the Stock Exchange, Ralph Hodge? He would read
The Morning Chronicle
.”
Marcus shrugged. “I still don’t believe so, but I am going to confront him nonetheless. He has no connections to the art world and wouldn’t recognize a valuable piece of artwork if it landed on top of him, but hatred is a powerful motivator.”
“Who else would have reason to hate you so?” Roman asked.
A muscle flicked at Marcus’s jaw. “I have asked myself that question a thousand times. I have professional adversaries at the Stock Exchange, but none that I can think of who would despise me to such an extent as to attempt to implicate me in a theft or to threaten to kill ‘what I love most.’”
“Who gave Bow Street the tip that Robby Bones was here?” Isabel asked.
“No one knows,” Harrison said. “Bow Street received an anonymous note.”
“It was the mastermind,” Marcus said. “He wanted Bones killed. Isabel had overheard them arguing over Dante Black’s death. He probably resented Bones taking matters into his own hands and wanted him dead. He must have known Bones would not have surrendered to the constable, but would die fighting.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about regarding my safety,” Isabel said. “With Robby Bones dead, there is no one left to harm me. I doubt the villain would risk getting caught.”
Marcus’s eyes bored into her. “You’re wrong, my dear. He can just as easily hire another vicious street criminal to carry out the deed. I suspect he has already done so.”
A terrible tenseness enveloped her body. She wanted to argue with him, but his logic, no matter how brutally honest, made sense.
Harrison stroked his jaw. “I suggest questioning the neighbors in the adjacent buildings and across the street. Someone must have seen something that may aid us in identifying the tenant.”
Marcus nodded. “Offer them a monetary reward for information. Money always loosens the tongue.”
“I’ll start right away,” Harrison said, tipping his hat on his way out the studio. “I’ll be in touch with any information I learn.”
They left soon after Benjamin Harrison. Roman’s crested carriage and prime team of horseflesh awaited outside. Next to the run-down buildings, the resplendent conveyance gleamed like gold beside rust.
Marcus assisted Isabel inside and sat beside her while Roman took the seat across from her. In the small confines of the carriage beside the long-limbed, muscular brothers, Isabel felt small and feminine.
She glanced at Roman beneath lowered lashes. The elder Hawksley was extremely handsome with chiseled features, green eyes, and a swath of jet hair that she suspected he styled to look as if it fell casually on his forehead. As the heir to an earldom, he had acquired a polished veneer that drew the female eye.
But it had always been—and remained to this day—Marcus Hawksley who captivated her. There was a firm strength, a coiled power, within him that came from ignoring society’s dictates and carving his own way to success that she found irresistible.
Isabel pulled her drifting thoughts together and lifted the tasseled shade to look out the window. There was no sense brooding over Marcus; he had made his intentions clear.
Fool!
she thought.
If only it was that simple.
The bitter truth was she knew cleansing him from her mind and heart would be a slow, painful task.
The carriage turned onto St. James’s Street and came to a stop outside of the town house.
“Let me know what Harrison discovers. I’ll either be at home or at White’s,” Roman said.
Marcus nodded and jumped out of the coach. He held out his hand for Isabel.
She placed her gloved hand into his, stepped down, and followed him up the porch stairs. Marcus held the front door open, and Isabel swept inside the vestibule.
“Marcus!”
At the sound of the familiar female voice, both Isabel and Marcus turned their heads.
Simone Winston stood in the doorway of the parlor, obviously waiting for their return. When she spotted Marcus, her lips parted and she rushed forward. Her enormous breasts threatened to pop out of her daringly low-cut bodice as she ran, and her azure gown strained against her shapely hips.
“Marcus, darling,” Simone breathed as she reached his side. She touched his sleeve and the gluttonous gleam in her eyes was blatantly sensual. “I have information I must share with you regarding the whereabouts of the painting you were accused of stealing.”