Page 93 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“I’m afraid of marrying Annabeth? That’s ridiculous. You’re both mad. I’ve wanted to be with her since I can remember. I want Annabeth more than anything in the world.”

“You think you can’t be scared to death of the thing you love desperately? Just look at me. I don’t have to let you stick me away from temptation out in Cornwall. The truth is I’m hiding.”

“Love of gambling isn’t the same.”

“Not to you.” Marcus stood up, his face serious in a way that Sloane had never seen. “I know that you think I’m just an old fool who’s interested in nothing but clothes and cards. To be fair, I am. But being afraid is something I know about. Not fear of physical danger. No one would accuse you of that. I’m talking about fear in here.” He tapped his chest. “Fear of not being good enough. Fear of the hollow space inside you. Fear of people realizing how false your front is.”

Sloane stared at him. His heart was thumping wildly, and his feet felt frozen to the floor. Everything in him pushed back against his father’s words. He wanted to tell him to stop, but his voice didn’t seem to work either.

Marcus went relentlessly on, “You just told me you’re afraid that Annabeth will wake up and realize what a mistake she’s made. You’re afraid to take the risk, to let yourself believe that you can be happy, to accept that a woman like Annabeth can love you. Because what if all that crashes, and you’re left with nothing. Worse than nothing.”

Sloane turned and strode out of the room.

“Sloane? Wait.” His father’s worried voice floated after him. “What are you doing?”

He turned back to Marcus. “I need to walk.” He strode on to the door, but there he stopped and, without looking at Marcus, said, “And I don’t think you’re just an old fool.”

Sloane left the house.

CHAPTER FORTY

ANNABETH STARTED DOWN the stairs. Lady Lockwood was still in bed, and Verity was already gone, chasing some rumor she’d heard the day before. So there was no one to interfere with Annabeth’s plans.

She had calmed down yesterday by the time she reached the house, and after a good night’s sleep, her mood had settled into one of quiet determination. She was through with tears and sorrow. She was no longer a young girl who would simply cry her heart out and accept what Sloane had done.

Sloane was behaving in a most irritating way. Annabeth wasn’t sure why he was doing it, but she was not about to let him control the course of their relationship. This time she was going to fight for their love. Sloane loved her; she was certain of it. All she had to do was change his mind about marrying her.

But first, she thought, she must let Sloane stew by himself for a while. Let him see how much he enjoyed being alone. She doubted that he would return to her grandmother’s house anytime soon—if ever. So this morning, she was going to occupy herself with their investigation.

There was one suspect left among her father’s acquaintances, and she was not entirely sure that Sloane would even bother to question Lord Edgerton. Sloane was tied to the theory that her father’s murderer was the turncoat in Asquith’s spy network, but even though her stepfather had not been the man involved in her father’s wreck, there was still the issue of jealousy.

Love, she thought, could be as powerful a motivation as anything—maybe more. Perhaps it didn’t seem that way to Sloane because he pushed it away at every turn. Sloane could scarcely ignore the possibility that the murder had been personal if she found some evidence.

There might even be some factor besides love involved. She wasn’t sure what that might be, but Annabeth had found it very odd that her mother said Edgerton had brought an inheritance to her father from some relative named Mary. Annabeth couldn’t remember any relative, even a distant one, with that name. Sloane hadn’t found that important, either, but then Sloane wasn’t close to his family.

She had sent her mother a note last night telling her she would visit today. Hopefully Martha would suggest that Edgerton go to the club; she often did that so they could have a bit of mother-daughter time together.

Annabeth thought she could persuade her mother to pull out her father’s old family Bible. If this woman was nowhere to be found on the family tree, that would certainly make the story of the inheritance suspicious.

And perhaps she could manage to sneak into Edgerton’s office. If the woman really had left the money to her father, Annabeth was certain that the will would be in her stepfather’s office. She might be able to find some other sort of evidence there as well. Edgerton was the sort of person who kept meticulous records.

It would be safe enough for her to travel without Sloane. If Mr. Asquith was right about the turncoat being someone inside his organization, the man should have learned about the note Sloane sent Asquith yesterday, realized that he had not been implicated and that there was no reason to try to harm Annabeth anymore. She wasn’t going to be foolish, of course. She would take one of the guards Sloane had posted outside the house with her.

Just as she reached the landing of the staircase, there was a knock on the door. Her heart leaped—Sloane! She hurried down the steps, but the footman opened the door before she could get there. She saw to her disappointment that it was not Sloane who stood on the front stoop.

“Mr. Asquith.”

“Miss Winfield.” He swept off his hat and gave her a polite bow. “I am glad to see you. I was hoping we might have a chat.”

Annabeth had no interest in chatting with Mr. Asquith. She had had little liking for him to begin with, but after Sloane told her how he had blackmailed Sloane into spying for him, she despised the man. Still, she could hardly get out of talking to him. “Of course.”

She gave a little nod to the footman, who took the man’s hat, and she led Asquith into the drawing room. She was not, however, going to ask the man if he wished for some tea.

“There’s a bit of rain today,” he commented.

Annabeth had no interest in chitchatting about the weather. She wanted to leave before Grandmother or any of the others arrived. “Mr. Asquith, I would appreciate it if this was a short conversation. I was about to go out. I have to talk to another suspect.”

“Another suspect?” Asquith’s brows rose. “Rutherford didn’t say he was looking into someone else. Who is it, may I ask?”