What Isabella Desires (6 page)

The paper crunched between his fingers.

“Do you recognize the handwriting, my lord?” Kurp’s voice was expectant, hopeful.

Marcus relaxed his grip and examined the looping l’s and t’s and the scrawl of the base letters in the faint light. “No. He is too smart for that. He’ll have had someone else write the letters. Still, I’ll run it by Stephen.”

Marcus sensed the disappointment through the hedge, and felt its echo. They all wanted answers. They were all relying on him.

“Send a purse to Fletcher’s wife and tell her about the place in Dover. What about Kramer?”

“Had a pint with him a few hours ago.”

Relief washed through him. Relief that at least a few of his men still survived. “Good. He’s holding on, then?”

“He said he wasn’t worried. Y’ know how Kramer is. Would take someone cuttin’ out his bleedin’ heart before he showed fear.”

Marcus watched a guest stumble toward the gardens, before another man grabbed him and steered him back to the terrace. “Will you see him again this week?”

“Should.”

“Tell him to stay low instead of doing his routine at the docks next weekend.”

Silence greeted that announcement. They had never pulled back before, and it would grate on the boys to show fear of what was happening.

Marcus turned his pocket watch end over end in his palm, closing his eyes briefly. “I know, Kurp. It’s not what I like either, but I want to get a handle on this before going forward. Things have gotten out of control since the shake-up.”

“Yes.” Kurp sounded resigned, then determined: “We will find this bastard and give him his collar day.”

Marcus gave a mirthless grin. He had the feeling that the man responsible wasn’t going to make it to a formal execution. If nothing else, one of the men would probably “slip” while transporting him. He could just imagine it. “Sorry sir,” they’d say to him, “My knife slipped from my hands. Right between his ribs. Right queer it was.”

It wasn’t a question of whether he and his men would find the man responsible. They would. They always did. And after murdering two of their number already, and with another missing, blood lust and resolve had taken hold.

“Yes we will, Kurp. You have my schedule for the next week?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Send someone tomorrow night around one. I’ll have some papers.”

“Aye.”

Marcus felt Kurp slip away, though the man was silent as usual. He looked at the terrace doors and saw a pair of dancers twirling inside, though music no longer played, the musicians having long since retired. The woman was blond, but his vision overlaid dark hair caressing a revealing navy dress that was more seductive than he was used to seeing against such dark hair and light skin. His grip on his watch tightened and he slipped it back into his pocket.

He felt old all of a sudden. Barely thirty-six, and old already. As if life was passing more rapidly then he could grasp.

At this age his father had already…well, best not to think of that.

He carefully placed the threatening note inside his jacket. He hoped they could find something there, but held little belief that they would. The man doing this was desperate, but clever. A dangerous combination. And he couldn’t discount the possibility that more than one person was involved.

On the other hand, if someone else had truly written the note—that person was a liability. If they could capture the note writer…

He smiled grimly.

Two men dead, and a third body most likely waiting to be found. He had too many enemies to list, but no one before had taken such systematic measures in eradicating his network of informants.

There were at least two bills in the House that could be the cause, and any number of actions on the streets or overseas—they all blended together at this point. He had ruined three men in the last year, all deserving of it, but all with justifiable reasons for revenge.

And now others were paying the consequences. People who counted on him. People with families that counted on him.

He loosened his fists as he strode back inside the nearly empty ballroom. At this point he would do anything to find the man responsible and make sure he was destroyed. And he would use anyone and anything in his path to make it happen.

Marcus watched with growing vexation as Isabella changed one partner for another on the dance floor. She was wearing some light blue gown that he had seen before but couldn’t remember being quite so low. He resisted the urge to walk over and tug the bodice up, and turned to James, who was watching him in amusement.

“Something on your mind, Angelford?”

“I can’t figure out whether you resemble a jealous husband or an irate father.”

“What the devil are you on about?”

“Every time Lady Willoughby comes within your sight, you get this sort of green-tinged, puckered expression on your face. It’s quite amusing.”

“I’m delighted for you.”

“So which is it?”

He flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “Which is what?”

“You know very well what I’m asking.”

“Whether I’m green-tinged or puckered? Neither is very appealing.”

Unfortunately, James didn’t seem put off in the least. “Are you a jealous husband or an irate father?”

Marcus watched Isabella twirl. “Last I recall, I was neither married nor a father to some poor bastard.”

“I think you’re jealous.”

“That is your prerogative, of course.”

James whistled. “Damn, but you are a closemouthed bastard.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” a voice chimed in from the side. The Duke of Wellington stepped into view. “What is Roth being a bastard about now?”

Marcus didn’t move, but his eyes tried to encase James in ice.

“We were discussing the vote last month,” James said smoothly.

Marcus decided his friend could live another day.

“Ah, yes. Bit of a mangy beast that.”

“Always said you were a mangy beast, Wellington,” Sir Robert Peel piped in from the other side, insinuating himself in the group as well.

Wellington sent an unimpressed look Peel’s way. The two were often combatants, sometimes friends, occasionally collaborators, frequently allies. This looked like an evening for the former.

“Still on about the police force, Peel? I thought we had reached the end of that discussion.”

“We’ll never reach the end of that discussion, Wellington. What about you, Roth, how goes it backstage maneuvering the Corn Laws’?”

Marcus turned his back to the dance floor to keep focus. “A mess at the moment. Can’t get Rogers and Cartwright to stop fighting in chambers. They actually took to boxing the other day.”

“Boxing? Each other? Oh ho! I bet that is a right treat to see.”

Marcus smiled. “Yes. And if you ever have need to brush up on your cant, all you need do is lurk in the vicinity—Rogers must be hanging around the docks these days.”

“Tell me it at least makes them more productive?”

“Yes. I expect them to settle themselves into a full partnership soon.”

Peel nodded, satisfied, as Marcus knew he would be. He’d gotten the implicit message that they had formed some solid outer party ties that would help them repeal the Corn Laws in the years to come.

“I don’t understand why you deign to be involved, Roth,” Wellington muttered, nudging a fallen ribbon with his dark boot.

“You never know when finding allies in one place will help you with another.”

And he thought the Corn Laws were wretched, but he didn’t verbally espouse his beliefs often. He much preferred staying behind the scenes to manipulate the players. Much like playing a game of chess.

However, it could be excruciating to wait for all the players to get in place and for the game to begin. It was fortunate that patience was one of his better qualities. He had enough bad ones as it was.

On the flip side, sometimes things took too long and the players withered, or crumbled where they stood. It was all part of the risk of the overall game.

“That is true,” Wellington said. “Allies are sometimes hard to find. And are sometimes blinded by their pet projects.” He gazed pointedly at Peel.

“All it takes is a vote for my police force,” Peel replied. “We can compromise. London for now, the country later. We’ll have you in the prime minister’s chair in no time, Welly.”

“Peel, do we need to meet at dawn?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Have a new mistress now, didn’t I tell you? Still going strong in the dawn hours. Much better use of my time.” Peel waggled his brows.

Wellington pointedly ignored him, turning to Marcus instead. It actually took a lot to impress the man these days. But he was still a fair man. And more importantly, he still listened to Marcus.

“Roth, I will see you in the morning. Angelford.”

Marcus inclined his head and James did the same, while Peel just smirked.

James excused himself to dance with his wife, and Marcus gave Peel a look as they were left to themselves, on the edges of the crowd. “Amusing yourself?” Marcus asked.

“Wellington can be as starchy as a twelve inch cravat.”

Marcus tried not to be amused. Peel could be just as starchy. They were both good men. Friends of his, after a fashion, but too involved in politics and the like to dig more deeply into a real friendship. They both made excellent tools. And he knew they used him as well. While they played the public faces, he was the one with the contacts—with the network that stretched across London, through areas like Mayfair and the east end equally.

Not every bill or act that became law was to his taste, but that was unfortunately the way things worked. He wasn’t sure when that had ceased to be depressing. He wondered if he was already well past jaded.

He also wondered if Isabella would be appalled if she knew. She could be pretty rigid on what she deemed right and wrong. Politics didn’t allow for a lot of that.

Not that it would matter much longer.

“Are you working on the new bill?” Peel asked.

“I’m working on Sanderson. He’ll work on the bill.”

Isabella swirled around the floor in Ellerby’s arms. Damn the man.

“Ah yes.” Peel smiled wryly. “How could I think otherwise?”

He turned to Peel. “Does that bother you?”

Now why on earth had he asked that?

“Why on earth would you ask me that? Has it ever bothered me in the past?” He shot Marcus a queer expression. “I know where things stand. I know where you stand. Usually. That is enough for me. I trust you at the heart of it.”

Marcus kept the surprise from his face, merely nodding and accepting the compliment. He had never cared about how someone else might see his background machinations before. Why would he suddenly care now? He knew Peel didn’t care. Maybe he had gone past jaded and landed in soft.

Peel turned back to watching the crowd. “I’m going to try and find Rogers. See if his cant really is up to par. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Too many damn loose ends to tie up before everyone leaves London.”

Marcus nodded, but didn’t watch as Peel slipped back into the crowd. He watched a light blue dress instead.

Isabella twirled around the floor. She was having a marvelous time dancing. Ellerby had taken to her side, doting on her and making sure she was always in motion. He was an excellent dancer, and she could see now how his partners had always shown so well on the floor.

She had never danced with him before the masquerade, having been far beneath his notice. But tonight he had noticed her right away. She supposed it was hard to miss. Most of the people were regular attendees. It didn’t take much of a stretch to put together that she had been the person at the masquerade. Ellerby’s face had shown surprise before a slow smile had wound its way across his face. She wondered if she should be worried.

“Lady Willoughby, have I told you how marvelous you look tonight?”

“I don’t think ladies ever get tired of hearing such things, Mr. Ellerby.”

“Fenton. Please call me Fenton.”

“Oh, I think I’ll stick with Mr. Ellerby for the time being. I wouldn’t want to be too hasty.”

Same girl, different dress. Blossoming was tougher than it seemed.

“Haste is the very nature of such gatherings,” he replied with a smile.

Isabella looked around. This wasn’t such a racy gathering. Perhaps not as staid as the ones she normally attended, but the masquerade had been more wild, and the party tomorrow was rumored to be a scorcher. All in all, other than the freer dancing, it was pretty average.

“Mr. Ellerby, are you sure?”

It was meant to be a teasing challenge, but instead it emerged as an outright challenge. Flirting was just not her strength.

His fingers traveled along the back edge of her dress, but she barely noticed. It had all the effect of a maid fixing her collar. His fingers grazed the skin, but no pleasant shivers accompanied the action, no flutters to make her heart skip. If anything, she was nervous about how terrible she was at flirting. How was she going to flirt with Marcus if she couldn’t flirt with Ellerby?

“All you are seeing now is the main area of the house. How many couples have slipped away to the back or into rooms? Have you missed seeing anyone on the floor? Anyone you notice that has slipped away?”

Marcus was the only one she was keeping an eye on. She could care less about the others. She had felt her reputation pretty safe ever since stepping foot inside the Hennings’ ballroom.

“Like how you and Roth slipped into a closed room for nearly twenty minutes at the masquerade. Twenty minutes is a long time, Isabella.”

She tensed, focusing on Ellerby’s smirk. Perhaps she had better rethink the status of her reputation. But she could stand to lose a few notches if she gained Marcus.

“We were talking, is all. And I didn’t give you leave to call me Isabella. We were hardly gone any time at all.”

“You thought it went unnoticed, didn’t you?” His voice was amused as he ignored her previous statements.

“I don’t see why anyone would notice. It was a masquerade.”

And that was as false a statement as she had ever uttered. She lived and breathed the rules of the ton.

“I can’t decide if you really are this innocent or if it is all a delicious act.”

She wasn’t innocent. She was just sometimes caught up in her dreams, not that she was going to let Ellerby in on that thought.

The dance thankfully ended. “It was a delight, Mr. Ellerby.” Well, it had been a delight until they had started talking. “Thank you for the dance.”

But instead of bowing and letting her go, he grasped her hand. “Oh, no. I mustn’t let an innocent morsel such as yourself go unattended. Please, allow me to escort you to the refreshment table. A glass of champagne, or some punch perhaps?”

She nodded. Politeness dredged up automatically, even though she’d rather be somewhere else.

Ellerby filled two glasses and switched back to being the inveterate flirt, straying only to safe topics. She relaxed and sipped the tart punch.

She watched Marcus as he talked to the other guests. He seemed to detach himself quickly from the females and collude with the more powerful members of the House.

That he didn’t stay with any of the females trying to gain his attention pleased her. The light shone off his dark hair in a mockery of a halo, and his whiskey eyes caught hers.

The air buzzed around her. Her breath caught. Was there a flicker of interest there? A flicker that hadn’t been present a few days ago?

He broke contact and turned to the man next to him.

She bit her lip and took another sip. It was a dangerous game she wanted to play. Marcus wasn’t the type of man who sought her out. Oh, they were friends and enjoyed an odd camaraderie over their love of chess. But she had never pierced his internal shield. She used to think she could see beyond it back when they were young, but something had happened to him at school or home. When his parents had retired to their estates, disappearing from public view, Marcus had gone too. He hadn’t returned the same boy. Hadn’t returned a boy at all.

He was a dark and capable man who ruthlessly took what he wanted, and she had learned that there was little that ever stood in his way. No, beyond friendship, he was not attracted to her type—the calm, friendly sort who issued few passionate vibrations or sexual intentions.

She took another sip, Ellerby’s voice droning in the background. She was completely fooling herself if she thought there was interest there. Marcus showed the interest of a big brother. One who had never had a little sister, and had adopted her instead. An overly protective friend.

Trembles ran through her chest as she stared at the parquet floor. Golden eyes that would never be.

The maudlin thought had her lifting her glass again. She paused as the ballroom tilted. Strange. Ballrooms rarely tilted. And she rarely got so down in spirit. She looked at the glass in her hand. What number was this? Her third?

A moment of clarity pierced her maudlin veil—the tart taste of the punch. It had probably been drenched in alcohol. She didn’t usually drink much, but between watching Marcus and absently nodding to Ellerby, she had been lifting her glass. And Ellerby had kept giving her new ones. It was an old trick. One she castigated herself that she should know better to watch for. She internally mouthed an unladylike swear word, followed by an uncharacteristic giggle.