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Joe, in turn, studied the Count. To be this close to the man who had caused so much misery and chaos to the people of London, and the Star Elite, and not be able to shoot him where he stood, didn’t sit too well with Joe. It was only the presence of the woman between them that stopped him from charging across the room and taking the man down in a flying tackle that would be the man’s last.
You have to keep your mind on why you are here. You need information. It isn’t the right time to arrest him yet.
The urge to arrest him anyway was so strong that Joe physically shook with the effort it took to keep still. It galled him to have to nod coldly at the fraudster, but he did. Willing, for now at least, to go along with the ruse he needed to adopt, he looked somewhat apologetically at the fake Russian; the man he knew was really called Terrence Sayers.
Russian, my arse, Joe mused in disgust.
“Apologies,” he muttered instead, his expression bland. “It appears you have caught us red-handed.”
He watched the Count throw the woman a contemptuous look that was so full of venom, Joe wondered if he had misread the situation earlier. Nobody who gave a damn about someone, especially a lover, would look at them like that, but the Count had appeared almost evilly angry at the woman.
He frowned when he became aware that she had gone still in his arms. There was something that was almost like fear in her eyes when she looked over her shoulder at the Count, or rather, Sayers.
“I didn’t realise you already had a lover, Martha,” the Count murmured spitefully, his thin lips curved into a sneer of disgust.
“Marguerite.” She threw him a filthy glare.
Joe smothered a smirk upon hearing that impatient sigh she made no attempt to mask. It was clear that there was no love lost between these two, but was that because they had just had an argument?
“Oh, we are not just lovers,” Joe murmured, determined to push to see just how possessive Sayers was over the woman. While his demeanour could only be described as cold, he had yet to take his eyes of Marguerite.
It’s a nice name, Joe mused as he looked at the woman in his arms with renewed interest. If he had to take a guess at a name, he would have called her a Maria or a Catherine. He wouldn’t have said she looked like a Marguerite, but then what would he know? It had taken him, and his colleagues, nearly six months to realise the Count was really called Sayers.
Joe turned his attention back to Sayers and the woman and watched them both glare at each other. They reminded him of two cats squaring off before a fight.
Before they could launch into a venomous clash, Joe decided to test Marguerite, just to see if she was as indifferent to the Count as he believed her to be. Tightening his hold, he studied her closely, looking for any kind of objection, or hesitation in her demeanour. But there was none. Instead, she leaned against him as though silently seeking his reassurance.
He frowned a little and looked at the Count, who now looked thunderous.
“That’s right,” Marguerite added, relieved that the man had given her a perfect excuse to thwart the Count’s mulish behaviour once and for all. “There is more between us.”
“More between you?” the Count challenged. His gaze raked insultingly over them. “Yes, I can see that.”
Marguerite ignored him and smiled at the man beside her.
“Yes, we are going to be married,” she announced proudly. “This is my fiancé, and the reason why I cannot accept your proposal.”
Marguerite was aware of the man going stiff in her arms, but he didn’t push her away. She daren’t look at him, just in case she saw an objection in his eyes. Mentally praying he wouldn’t contradict her, she tipped her chin up and glared at the Count.
“Does your father know about this?” the Count demanded arrogantly.
“I don’t see-” Marguerite began only to fall silent when the man’s hand on her waist gave h
er a nudge.
“Not yet. I only asked her to marry me last night. We agreed to meet up this evening so we could tell him together,” Joe replied in her stead.
“Marguerite, you surprise me. I didn’t realise you would be this accommodating before marriage,” the Count mused. He looked her up and down as though she were a horse at a horse market.
“I didn’t realise you were acquainted with my fiancé,” Joe said. He stepped forward and bowed. “Jeremiah Johnson at your service.”
“We are not acquainted,” Marguerite protested, throwing the Count a contemptuous glare. “We only met this evening.”
Joe’s brow arched. He looked at her but saw only pure honesty in her eyes.
What had that kiss earlier been all about then? He mused with a slight frown.
The Count studied him as one might look at a feral rat, but whatever he felt was quickly masked. He nodded politely, but his eyes were glacial. He made no attempt to bow in return and returned to his Russian persona instead.
