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Caroline moved back toward him and gently touched the place on his chest. The scar was much more smooth than the skin around it. “This is where Brookfieldshotyou.”
That night came rushing back into her mind. After weeks with the two of them trying to sort out who was threatening Cordie and blackmailing Clayworth, Marc had locked her in his coach and gone on to Vauxhall to face the villain without her. By the time Lady Astwick had freed Caroline, the two ladies arrived just in time to see the madman aim his pistol at Marc and fire. Heavens! She remembered the sheer terror that had flooded her at the sight. But Marc had fired his weapon a moment later and fortunately had a much better aim thanBrookfield.
“He could have killed you,” she whispered, cringing at thememory.
“He didn’t.” Marc grasped her hand and caressed her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “Better men than him havetried.”
Hadthey?
Whatwasthat long white scar on his right side that vanished beneath his waistband? She hadn’t noticed that the other day. Of course soapy water would camouflage that sort of thing. But goodness, the scar was long. “Whatisthis?” she asked, pulling her hand from his grasp and tracing the line down his side with herfinger.
“Rapier outside of Le Havre,” he said, his muscles constricting under hertouch.
A rapier outside of La Havre? Was he serious? Caroline’s gaze flashed back to Marc’s face. “What in theworld?”
His roguish smile was firmly back in place. “If I thought you’d touch all my scars, I’d have shown them to you a longtimeago.”
All of them?“How many doyouhave?”
He shrugged. “You might find this hard to believe, my dear, but not everyone likes me as well asyoudo.”
“Oh, I donotfind that hard to believeatall.”
And that made him chuckle. “Go on and get dressed,” he said. Then Marc slid out from beneath her and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Go to your daughters. I’ll be back in a fewhours.”
Caroline gaped at him. “And just how do you expect to leave here without anyoneseeingyou?”
Marc winked at her. “My dear Caroline, I am a man of manytalents.”
And even more secrets, it seemed. Rapier outside Le Havre,indeed.
Chapter15
Marc rapped twiceon the front door of Weybourne House, and when it swung open, a decrepit butler blinked up at him. The fellow had a baldpate with a few wild white hairs that stuck out in odd directions. He had to be old asMethuselah.
“Christian Hawke,” Marc said loudly, afraid the fellow wouldn’t be able to hear himotherwise.
“Lord Kellingis not receiving visitors,” the man said clearly, his voice sounding surprisingly crisp forhisage.
Oh, he’d receive Marc, especially after he’d thrown a goddamned dagger at him. He pushed against the door, forcing the aged butler to take a step backward. “Afraid I can’t leave without speaking to the man,” he said, stepping into the Kelling foyer and shutting the door behind him. “Now where can Ifindhim?”
“Sir,” the butler continued, “his lordship is not at all feeling welltoday.”
That Marc had no doubt about. “Tell him Lord Haversham wants a word.” Marc reached into his jacket and retrieved a calling card. “I have no doubt he’llseeme.”
And at that moment, Doctor Watts appeared in the corridor. The old man had bandaged Marc up more than once over the years, and he smiled when he recognized him the foyer. “LordHaversham.”
“Watts,” Marc returned. “Good to see you, asalways.”
The doctor, black bag in tow, continued toward the front door and nodded at the butler. “He’ll need new bandages in the morning. I’ve left more instructions with Sarah forhiseye.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” the butler replied, opening the door so the man couldheadout.
Once Watts was gone, Marc gestured down the corridor. “Go on. Haversham to see Kelling.” Odd to call him that. Kelling, to Marc, was still the man’s father even if he had been gone a number ofyears.
The butler scowled down at the calling card in his hand, but he did turn on his heel and started down the corridor to do Marc’sbidding.
Left to cool his heels, Marc glanced around the Weybourne foyer, which was nothing spectacular. Of course, the Duke of Weybourne was a notoriously tight-fisted old fellow. Odds were the rest of the place would be just assparse.
