“By all means.”
To her surprise, he wrapped his bare hand around hers and led her out of the thicket toward the stately manor. She’d been a child the last time someone had taken her hand in such a protective manner, as though he wanted to ensure she wasn’t separated from him. It gave a strange tug to her heart as she kept in step with him. She was not one to get sentimental, and yet where he was concerned, she seemed to have rather emotional thoughts. What if he’d been older or she youngerand they’d known each other when everything in her world had gone awry? Would he have stood as her champion or would he have believed—as everyone else did—the worst of her? She didn’t fault him for believing it during the past year, but now that he knew her better . . . it was silly to even speculate.
During tonight’s excursion she had no plans to identify herself to Podmore. The few times she’d attended his affairs, she’d done so incognito. It was the reason she now sported a hairpiece of wheat-colored strands, had stuffed linen scraps into the oversized bodice of her corset so her figure took on a different shape, and wore the hood of her pelisse drawn over her head so it shadowed her face. But strands of the wig trailed over her ridiculously large and altered bosom. Like most men, Podmore would remember only the blond hair and the bosom.
Marcus had decided he was in no need of a disguise. He’d made no secret of his objective and thought it to his advantage for word to spread that he was getting closer to discovering who had been involved in the conspiracy. No one would associate her with him because he’d also made perfectly clear—before his father was arrested—how much he loathed the duke’s mistress.
Esme was accustomed to being despised, and yet for the first time since she was a young impressionable girl, she imagined the joy of being loved. Not by this man, of course. There was too much past between them, even though they’d only recently met. He’d formed his opinions of her, and while she may have altered them some, she suspected that remnants of his disgust remained, like dying embers easily sparked back to life, to flame.
The trail he took avoided light spilling out of the library, ensured they wouldn’t be seen until they were ready to be. He skirted around to the edge of the window and peered in.
“Is he about?” she asked.
“I can see a leg stretched out from the chair facing away from us, near the fireplace. I assume he’s lounging there, drinking, reading—or maybe contemplating strategy and his next move.”
“Shall we go in through the terrace doorway?”
“No, it’s a deuced large library, and he’s bound to detect us rattling the latch or if necessary picking the lock. If he’s going to run, I’d rather chase him into the garden than through corridors he knows better than I do. This way.”
He led them to the servants’ door. He tried it, found it locked, released her hand, and crouched. In the darkness, she saw more than heard the tap of the picks he’d taken from his coat. Not a skill normally acquired by a future duke. She had to admire how he’d adjusted to his new circumstance. She knew a good many lords who would have lamented, pouted, and sulked at the unfairness of the life they’d envisioned being stripped away from them. But he’d made the best of it, learning new skills, finding ways to survive, to make something of himself. He might never return to the higher echelons of Society but wherever he landedwhen all this was behind them, she had no doubt he would remain a man to be reckoned with.
She thought she might covertly seek him out, simply to reassure herself that he was a gentleman of accomplishment because a part of her couldn’t help but believe that he was where he was because of actions she’d taken regarding his father. What if instead of using the duke to try to uncover who the others were, she’d spent her time convincing him to change his allegiances, to assist in her undertaking, to become ally rather than foe. He might have retained his ability to breathe and his titles.
But O had wanted her spying, not cajoling. He was rumored to be the best at ferreting out information. While she’d been working for the Home Office for ten years now, they’d never before worked together. She’d known him by reputation only and had looked forward to partnering with him, to learning from him. Thus far, she’d been disappointed in the lessons because they’d added little to her repertoire of skills.
She heard the resoundingclickas Marcus slowly, gently pushed the door just before he was pulling her through the narrow opening. Silence greeted them. It was after midnight, servants were abed. He located a lamp and lit it. Once more he took her hand, and they crept through corridors, making their way to the library where they’d first kissed.
Not what she needed to be remembering at that moment.
Why couldn’t his kisses be like every other oneshe’d ever received: pleasant and easily forgotten? Why did his have to brand her skin, her memories, her dreams?
At the library he paused and set the lamp on a nearby table before opening the door and striding quickly into the chamber to halt Podmore’s escape. Following, she reached Marcus where he’d staggered to a stop.
Podmore wasn’t going to be running... ever again. His blood-drenched shirt and vacant stare ensured it.
As the carriage rumbled through the streets, Marcus contemplated that any other woman might have gasped, screamed, or swooned at the grisly sight of a murdered man. But not Esme Lancaster. He’d seen the sorrow of a life taken reflected in her eyes before she’d shored herself up to face what needed to be done. She’d very calmly gone to the desk and crouched to better reach the hidey hole. When she’d finally stood, she’d announced, “The document is gone.”
A few minutes later, so were they.
“Only three people knew we were going there tonight,” he said quietly.
“I trust Brewster with my life.”
The spark of jealousy that flared at her utter conviction toward another man irritated him, although he took perverse pleasure in the fact that Brewster had been relegated to riding topside with the coachman.
“Or perhaps you suspect me of slipping out of the residence earlier and killing him,” she said.
“I don’t think one of us killed him. I think one of us said something—perhaps innocently, perhaps not—to someone who then took the matter in hand to see him done in.”
“I have another theory, actually. One I don’t like much more. Whoever O turned the photographs over to sometime today understood that the documents had been discovered and saw Podmore as an unreliable partner in this mess, and thus decided to eliminate him.” She looked out the window. “I feel despair for whichever servant discovers him in the morning. I grieve for the loss of him. He always struck me as more interested in play than politics. Even tonight, to die with a deck of cards in hand.”
Not quite in hand. His fingers had been lax, the cards scattered over his lap, except for one, an eight of diamonds that had been resting on the table.
“Was he playing patience or was he playing with someone, unaware that person would strike him down?” she asked.
“I don’t think he was playing cards at all.”
Within the confines of the dark carriage, she was merely a silhouette, but he was aware of her turning her attention back to him. It struck him like a bolt of lightning. Why did he have to be so aware of her, every movement, every sigh, every silent moment of concentration when she was working things out.
