Marcus shook his head. “Their relationship was never particularly warm. She wasn’t happy about his gallivanting around London with another woman, but I suspect she was grateful it kept him from her bed. It was her embarrassment and the disgrace at his being found out to be a traitor that did her in.”
Griff scrutinized him as though Marcus had hidden away a wooden puzzle piece that his brother needed in order to complete the puzzle. “If she wasn’t his mistress then what did she gain by associating with him? She struck me as a woman who required more than baubles, trinkets, and jewelry to remain loyal.”
Marcus knew whatever was spoken within this room would go no farther, that Esme’s secret would be safe. “She’s”—an incredibly intriguing woman and already he regretted his display of temper that he’d cast her way—“an agent of the Crown.”
Griff sputtered on the scotch he’d been sipping. “Pardon?”
“I was as surprised as you to learn she works for the Home Office.”
“I’ve never heard of a woman employed in such a capacity.”
“I suppose that’s one of the reasons she’s so effective at it. No one suspects her of holding that sort of position. Apparently, she was striving to earn Father’s trust so he would confide his plans to her.”
“Does she have any idea why he chose this route?”
“No. He may have taken his reasons to the grave with him.”
“Are you going to share your findings with Althea?”
Their sister had a right to know but too many questions remained. “Not until I have more answers. Have you seen her recently?”
“We had dinner together last week. She and Trewlove had just returned from another trip to Scotland to visit his parents.” He shook his head. “I know his surname is Campbell now, but I’ll always think of him as Trewlove. It had to be an odd thing to learn his parents had been searching for him all those years when he was in Ettie Trewlove’s keeping.”
His mother had given him over to the baby farmer as a way to keep him safe. It was only recently that he’d been united with his parents and taken his rightful place as his father’s heir, according to Scottish law.
“At least they found him, and Althea is a lady once more, as she deserves.”
“Lady Tewksbury. Christ, all the various names associated with the nobility can certainly cause some confusion. Maybe the Crown did us a favor by simplifying things for us. Mr. Griffith Stanwick. Mr. Marcus Stanwick. It’s perfectly clear how we should be addressed, even to the most uneducated.”
But Marcus had spent his entire life preparing to be the duke, to be addressed as His Grace. It had resulted in him feeling a little more lost than the others, of having to search a little more deeply to discover exactly who he was when it had become clear he would not become who he was meant to be. He wondered about the path Esme may have traveled to arrive where she was.
“Is this Esme going to assist you in your quest?” Griff asked, as though he’d detected the direction in which Marcus’s thoughts had turned.
“It’s her quest as well. The plan is still afoot apparently, and the Home Office is no closer to determining who is behind it.”
“If you need me—”
“I won’t.” He could tell his terse response didn’t sit well with Griff. “You have a wife now. And a business to oversee. I’m not going to ask you to put it all at risk.”
“Is she going to watch your back the way I did?”
“She already has.”
Which was the only reason that as the sun broke through the early morning mist, Marcus was knocking on her door. Or so he’d convinced himself that was his solitary reason for standing there impatiently waiting to be granted entry. It had nothing at all to do with the regret and restlessness he’d endured after storming out on her.
Griff’s business had several bedchambers for members who needed privacy, and Marcus had made use of one of them. Not that he’d slept a wink. He’d simply stared at the ceiling, occasionally glancing toward the window, all the while haunted by thoughts of her. As a grown woman, so daring and bold. As a child being beaten by her mother to such an extent that she would lose all faith. Not that his was particularly strong of late, but his father, despite all his faults, being a harsh taskmaster, and expecting perfection of his heir, had never lifted a hand to his son. Most certainly Marcus’s mother had never entertained the notion of harming a soul with so much as a swat.
Then there was the loss of Esme’s father, and he couldn’t help but believe that it had shaped her above all else. That while the army might not have had her, she’d found a way to carry on her father’s work, a man that if the warmth in her voice when she spoke of him was any indication, she had loved as deeply as it was possible for a child to love a parent. Who had regretted that his last memory of her was in tears. Perhaps that was the reason he had yet to see her shed a single teardrop—because she wanted it to be no one else’s last memory of her.
The door opened and to his bitter disappointment, it was the damned butler, who had the gall to arch a thick, dark eyebrow and smirk. “I don’t think she was expecting you to return.”
He didn’t relish the thought that after he’d left, this irritating fellow might have joined her in the parlor to enjoy her company. He was taken aback with the realization that he did relish her company, even when they traveled the harshest of paths, the ones he wished they could avoid. “Is she awake?”
“With the sun, always.”
Marcus edged his way past the man. “Where will I find her?”
“I’ll announce you.”
