He had no idea what had happened to his father’s. Perhaps he’d used it to bribe a jailor for a better cut of meat or as payment for the hangman. Or maybe it had simply been stolen by a guard.
Polly returned with their drinks. Offering another quick bob, she took the coins Esme handed her.
“What was your father’s occupation?” He didn’t know why he bloody well cared but was curious regarding what had placed her on the path toward becoming a man’s plaything.
“Village drunkard.” Lifting her snifter, she tipped it toward him before taking a slow swallow. “The watch serves to remind me of my origins and how I never wish to return to them. Whereas I suspect you would very much like to return to yours. Hence your quest.”
“It’s not going to return anything to me, except honor.” But with his demonstration of loyalty to the Crown as a stepping-stone, he could secure success elsewhere and might even regain some respect among the nobility.
“Your father’s planning to murder his sovereign took you completely unaware?”
He wasn’t pleased by the doubt reflected in her tone, as though she suspected he had known something was afoot and had either ignored it or was complicit in it. “We weren’t particularly close. He did grumble from time to time because Victoria became such a recluse following Albert’sdeath, and he often complained that, in his opinion, she wasn’t giving the country the attention it deserved, but I can’t countenance that he considered killing her to be the solution.”
She seemed to ponder his answer, chewing it over, before giving a little nod. “He did once tell me that he didn’t believe a woman should sit upon the throne, but I can’t imagine he wanted Bertie lounging upon it. The Prince of Wales seems more interested in fun than rule.”
“None of it makes sense. She’s provided an entire line of heirs. Did they intend to kill them all?”
She paused, her glass halfway to her lips. “That would have been quite the undertaking. Or perhaps someone controls Bertie. Or maybe they merely wish to sow chaos for something more nefarious. To rid the country of a monarchy altogether? To replace it with a dictatorship?”
He’d not expected her to have given it so much contemplation, but she’d probably had little else to do while awaiting her release from Newgate. “You agree then he wasn’t working alone?”
“As you said the other night, he wasn’t particularly clever.”
“He was loyal, however. If there were others, I don’t think he gave them up.”
“He’s fortunate they no longer use the rack. He would often leave me to go to a meeting, although he never told me with whom or where or what it entailed.”
“You didn’t send your butler to follow him?”
“To be honest, I didn’t care enough to go to the bother.”
He wasn’t going to interpret her sentiment to mean she did care about his goings. “But you had him follow me.”
“You’re more intriguing. By your clothing, I’d say you’ve had a rough time of it, but I’d wager that’s by choice. You’re well educated. You can find employment in any number of occupations and yet you are searching for what you may never find. It seems a waste of your talents.”
“You know nothing at all about my talents.”
Oh, he had the wrong of it there.
Esme had learned at an early age how to judge a situation. When her mother was so melancholy that a wrong word would set her to tears. When she could be enticed to frolic among the bluebells. When the vicar would be raining down hell and brimstone in his sermon. When he would talk gently of lambs and children.
So she did indeed know a good bit about Marcus Stanwick’s talents. He was skilled at evading followers, could disappear into the mist before the person trailing him knew the mist had even arrived. In spite of his clothing, he reflected a mien that matched his surroundings and allowed him to blend in seamlessly. In her parlor, he’d been the son of a duke, arrogant and proud. Within this establishment, he would be mistaken for a laborer as he did nothing to draw attention to himself.Yet he was watchful, his eyes sharp and alert, and anyone with half an ounce of intelligence would know he was not one to be trifled with.
He also possessed a tactile nature. If he wasn’t stroking his glass with a long blunt-tipped finger, he was rubbing his bristly jaw or using his thumb to draw a non-ending circle around a knothole in the scarred wood of the table. She fought not to imagine him stroking her nape, rubbing her shoulders, drawing circles around her nipples.
And he savored. He didn’t toss back his scotch but sipped slowly and allowed it to wander for a time along his tongue. She knew because she watched his throat just above his perfectly knotted neckcloth to determine how long he went before swallowing. She couldn’t help but think he’d take the time to savor a kiss as thoroughly, was tempted to test her theory. It had been a good long while since she’d been tempted by any man to do anything other than what was required of her. He was temptation, dark temptation, wicked temptation. In the end, probably a devastating temptation, one that could fracture hearts, if a lady had a heart to fracture.
Perhaps O had been correct, and her coming here was a fool’s errand. Yet, she couldn’t seem to regret it. “Do you think anyone still cares what your father did?”
“I care.”
Resolute, she’d give him that. “Your father often mentioned a Lord Podmore. It seemed they were firm friends. Could he have been involved?”
“Podmore?”
“Do you not know him?”
“I know the viscount. I can’t see Father having much in common with him. The man seems to have an interest only in plotting wild escapades.”
