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“I must know about Hawthorne,” she asked, leaning forward. “It’s driving me mad not knowing who he was.”
St. John removed his hat and ruffled his wavy blond locks with a large hand. “Nigel was your spouse. I prefer you to remember the man you spent a year of your life with.”
“But I don’t understand. If you were close to one another, how could he work with Eldridge without harming you or . . . or . . .”
“Acting as traitor?” he finished softly. “Elizabeth, I pray you leave such concerns outside the scope of your recollections. He was a good husband to you, was he not?”
“So I should only cling to the facets I knew and discard the others?”
He sighed and set his hat on the seat next to him. “Did your investigation reveal information about our father?”
Elizabeth sat back and bit her lip.
“Ah, I see it did. Touched, they call it. A bit off, half mad—”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” He looked down and examined his jeweled heels with unnecessary focus. “Did you hear of the violence? The ravings? No? That’s for the best. Suffice it to say that no steward would work for him and he was too daft to manage his finances properly. When he passed, Nigel discovered the title was bankrupt.”
“How? We never wanted for anything.”
“We met when I was ten. My mother had been raised in the village and when her condition became obvious, she was released from her position as scullery maid and returned to her family in shame. Nigel was two years younger than I, but even as children we knew. We looked too much alike, had certain mannerisms that were the same. Nigel would find ways to see me. I’m certain it must have been difficult living with our pater. He needed the escape of friendship and brotherhood.
“So when I learned of his financial difficulties, I came to London and learned what I needed to. I became friends with the people I had to, I did the things they asked me to do, I went to the places they told me to go. Whatever it took to make money, I did it.”
There was no pride in his voice. In fact, his tone held no inflection at all.
“Nigel asked me how I was able to pay off his debts, which, I assure you, were exorbitant. When he learned of my activities, he was furious. He said he could not stand by and enjoy his newfound wealth and stability while I placed myself in danger. Later, when I realized I was being investigated, Nigel went to Lord Eldridge and—”
“—became an agent,” she finished, her heart sinking as her worst fears were realized. “My brother was assigned to track you. Hawthorne used me to ingratiate himself with Barclay.”
St. John leaned forward, but when she shrank away, he withdrew. “It’s true that information learned through the agency allowed me to elude Westfield, but Nigel cared for you, don’t doubt that. He would have offered for you regardless of your brother. He admired and respected you. He spoke of you often and was adamant that I continue to look after you if something should happen to him.”
“The irony,” she muttered. “Westfield prefers I not use my widow’s pension and yet some of that settlement rightfully belongs to him, does it not?”
“In a way,” he conceded. “Proceeds from the sale of Ashford cargos were used to pay off the Hawthorne debt.”
Elizabeth felt the color drain from her face. This was worse than she could have ever possibly imagined. “There is so much I don’t understand. How did you come to have my brooch?”
“I was nearby when Barclay and Hawthorne were attacked,” he said sadly. “It was I who sent men to find help for your brother. I took the brooch because I was not certain I could trust anyone else to care for it and see it returned to you.”
“Why were you there? Was his death because of you?”
He flinched. “Perhaps. In the end we must all pay for our sins.”
“What is in the journal that makes it so important? Who wants it?”
“I cannot say, Elizabeth, for reasons I cannot explain.”
“Why?” she cried. “I deserve to know.”
“I’m sorry. For your protection, you must not know.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“Give the book to me,” he urged. “It’s the only way to spare you.”
She shook her head. “Westfield has it locked away. I don’t have access to it. It contains maps of various waterways in addition to the coded writings. He thinks the book may have detailed information about Nigel’s missions. If I were to give the book to you, a known pirate, it would be considered treasonous. He would question me, discover our kinship, Eldridge would learn of it—”
“Westfield would protect you. I would manage Eldridge.”
She swallowed hard. She couldn’t lose Marcus. Not now. “After what transpired four years ago, my husband does not trust me. If I were to betray him this way he would never forgive me.”
St. John cursed under his breath. “The book is worthless without Nigel. No one will be able to decipher it. If I take it off your hands, you can go away, have a honeymoon. Then I can draw the man out with it and end this.”
“You know more about the journal than you are telling me,” she accused. “If it were worthless, my life wouldn’t be in danger.”
“The man is mad,” he growled. “Mad, I tell you. Think of the attack on your person at your betrothal ball. Were those the actions of a rational person?”
Her lips pursed. “How did you learn of the stabbing?”
“I’ve had men watching out for you. One of them was there at your betrothal ball.”
“I knew it!” There had been someone else in the garden, someone who chased away her assailant.
“I am doing my best to assist you—”
“You’ve been absent for weeks,” she scoffed.
“On your behalf,” he corrected. “I have been searching.”
“Find him! Leave me out of this mess.”
He dropped his glass carelessly inside the door panel. “I have been scouring England, and during those times you have been assaulted on two occasions. He knows me too well. He plans his attacks when I am out of Town.” St. John grabbed her hands and held them tightly within his own. “Find a way to give me the book and this can all be over.”
Shaking her head, Elizabeth pulled her hands away. “Tell me truthfully: Does the book have anything to do with Nigel’s murder?”
St. John remained bent over, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at her with clear eyes. “In a way.”
“What does that mean?”
“Elizabeth, you already know too much.”
Frustrated tears filled her eyes. There was no way to know if St. John was sincere or simply very cunning. She strongly suspected the information in the journal had something to do with him. If she were correct, her husband would want to use the information to bring the pirate to trial. For Marcus, it could be the chance for justice he’d waited years for.
“I must think about this. It is too much to absorb at once.” She sighed wearily. “I have had little enough happiness in my life. My husband has been my one true joy. You and your brother’s machinations could be the end of that.”
“I am truly sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, his sapphire gaze dark with regret. “I have hurt a great many people in my life, but to have hurt you is a sincere lament of mine.”
St. John opened the carriage door and began to descend. Suddenly he turned about. Hunching in the doorway, he kissed her on the cheek, his lips warm and gentle. Then he leapt from the carriage and reached for her hand. “You now know my direction. Come to me if you need anything. Anything at all. And trust no one but Westfield. Promise me that.”
She gave a jerky nod and he backed away.
The footman waited patiently, too well trained to show any emotion.
“Return to the house,” she ordered, her head throbbing painfully and her stomach twisting with dread.
She couldn’t help feeling that St. John would be the end of her happiness.
Marcus studied Elizab
eth from the doorway of his bedroom. She slept, her beautiful face innocent in slumber. Despite her betrayal, his heart swelled at the sight of her cuddled peacefully in bed. Next to her, on the small table, sat two open packets of headache powder and a glass of water, half full.
Slowly she stirred, the force of his presence and the heat of his gaze penetrating her sleep. She opened her eyes and focused on him, the instant tenderness of her gaze quickly shielded by guilt-heavy lids. He knew in that instant the reports were true. He held himself upright by will alone, when all he wanted to do was crawl to her and bury his pain in her arms.
“Marcus,” she called in the soft, throaty voice that never failed to arouse him. Despite his anger and torment, he felt his cock stir. “Come to bed, darling. I want you to hold me.”
Traitorously, his feet moved toward her. By the time he reached her, he had removed his coat and waistcoat. He stopped at the edge of the bed. “How was your day?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
She stretched, the movement of her legs pulling down the sheet so that her torso was exposed through the thin shift she’d worn to sleep. He grew hard, and hated himself for it when his thoughts drifted to the secrets she kept. Nothing could temper his response to her. Even now, his heart struggled to forgive her.
Wrinkling her nose, she said, “Truthfully? It was one of the most horrid days of my life.” Her mouth curved seductively. “But you can change that.”
“What happened?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Tell me about your day instead. It was certainly better than mine.” Pulling back the covers, she silently invited him to join her. “Can we have dinner in our rooms tonight? I don’t feel like getting dressed again.”
Of course not. How many times would she want to dress and undress in one day? Maybe she hadn’t undressed at all. Maybe St. John had merely pushed her skirts up and . . .
