“Then why not give up the quest?”
He couldn’t put it into exact words. “Do you remember what it was like to be dragged from our beds in the middle of the night? With no warning or explanation? Those two weeks rotting inthe Tower? Treated like traitors, interrogated every day? The fear, the confusion? The shame of it? Then after we were released, the agony of watching Mother withering away in mortification at her husband’s betrayal of his country, until she lost all will to live and died shortly after he was hanged? Helpless to stop the immense tide that was taking us all under until we could scarcely breathe, were on the verge of drowning? I want to know the why of it. What did he think he would gain that was worth the risk of losing everything our forebears had accomplished? Who convinced him to take that path?”
“Perhaps his mistress.”
Unexpectedly, he felt as though he’d been struck with a battering ram to the chest and had a strong need to defend the one woman whom he’d long loathed. “They arrested her as well.”
“Doesn’t mean she wasn’t involved.” He shook his head. “She seemed a rather cold fish to me. I can’t imagine why she appealed to Father.”
“A few minutes ago, you were complimenting her visage.”
“I’ve admired beautiful marble statues. Doesn’t mean I want to fuck one. I prefer warmth in my bed.”
“Perhaps I’ll be able to decipher more regarding her appeal to him when I’ve read her missive.”
“I very much doubt that.”
The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he experienced a moment of irrational anger. “You read it?”
“What there was to read.”
He had an urge to slam his brother against the wall for intruding on something he considered private, personal. What the devil was wrong with him? Griff had saved his life, had killed a fellow who had sought to put an end to Marcus’s ability to breathe. He had earned the right to any information Marcus uncovered. “Spare me the suspense. What did she have to say?”
“Very little. The only thing she wrote was anE. I suppose that means something?”
A wide grin formed, the movement of his mouth strangely odd-feeling, as though unaccustomed to those muscles being used. “It means she didn’t trust you.”
He was also fairly certain she wished a meeting.
Marcus had considered slipping into her residence, into her bedchamber one evening. But he wasn’t convinced she didn’t have a lover and he had no desire to witness her fornicating with another. Griff might believe her to be cold in bed, but Marcus suspected when it came to fiery passion she could compete with a volcano. Perhaps it was only his own desire shading the way he viewed her. If she was all ice at all times, he had an urge to see her melted, to be the one causing the frigidness to thaw.
Then he’d curse because his father had gone before him, and he had no yearning to furrow what his father had plowed. In the end, he’d decided onarranging a meeting in neutral territory and had paid a street urchin a shilling to deliver his missive:The Mermaid and Unicorn at 10 o’clock tonight.
He expected she’d have the wherewithal to find it. She proved him correct. Sitting at the back of the tavern in Whitechapel, he watched her walk in one minute before the designated hour in a simple dark blue frock that left nothing of any interest exposed. The collar rose up to her chin, the sleeves ran down to her wrists where dark gloves continued on to the tips of her fingers. Her hair was a simpler style, lacking in pearls or any adornment at all. Along with her reticule, she carried an umbrella. It certainly hadn’t felt or smelled as though rain was in the air, but then in London one could never be completely certain that it wasn’t lurking about.
Her gaze immediately went to the rear of the tavern as though she’d instinctually known where she’d find him. She began wending her way among the tables crowded with boisterous customers enjoying a pint. One fellow, well in his cups, reached out to her. She stopped, her glare causing him to straighten and tuck the offending hand beneath his armpit. With a nod, she carried on.
He didn’t want to admire her for the impression she gave that she’d tolerate no nonsense whatsoever when it came to her person. Was she that commanding in bed? Had she ordered his father about?
For any other woman, he would have stood asshe approached, but she didn’t deserve the courtesy, and so he would stay lounging back—
Ah, sod it.She’d contacted him, had answered his summons. Shoving back his chair, he came to his feet. “You had no trouble finding the place, it seems.”
She glanced around. “An establishment owned by a Trewlove? I sincerely doubt there is a person in London who doesn’t know every business owned by a member of that infamous family. Did you think to shock me?”
“No. This tavern carries the best spirits.” Before he’d given it much thought, he was pulling out the chair for her, inhaling her rose fragrance, and enjoying the grace with which she lowered herself. He returned to his place, mesmerized as she set her reticule and umbrella on the table before slowly removing her gloves, tugging one finger at a time until a sliver of pale skin at her wrist became visible, inviting a man to press a kiss to the pulse thrumming there. Did she remove all her clothing as slowly, provocatively?
What the devil was wrong with him? It was only a hand, then two. Long fingers, well-manicured, not a blemish or callus in sight.
“I’ll have a brandy,” she said, and it was only then that he realized the barmaid had approached.
He pointed to his tumbler. “Another scotch, Polly.”
“Aye, sir.” She gave him a saucy wink before scurrying off.
“Come here often, do you?” Esme asked.
“No, but when I first arrived, she introduced herself, was quite flirtatious actually, until I mentioned I was waiting for someone.”
