Page 66 of Disciplined by the Duke
She was glad now of the precautions she’d taken in finding her lodgings that afternoon. Westmore had known the location of most of her previous rooms, and she hadn’t wanted to stay someplace he could find her.
Perhaps some part of her had known even then that she wouldn’t deliver the letter into his hands. So she’d approached one of her contacts, one she’d never mentioned to the earl, and persuaded her way into a couple nights’ stay in the small apartment above the woman’s bakehouse, empty since the woman had married.
She turned in the opposite direction of the bakehouse and hustled down three blocks, before making a random right turn. She hadn’t had much practice in it, but had learned enough from Westmore’s men to lay down a false trail. Besides, the exercise helped to calm her rattled nerves and gave her time to think. If Plan A was giving Westmore the letter and Plan B was to extort the earl for her sister’s freedom, then it was time to turn to Plan C.
She paused on the sidewalk, hand resting on one of the new gas streetlamps, trying to catch her breath. A carriage and a hansom cab crossed at the intersection, the drivers of both vehicles shouting greetings to each other. Several men and a few couples strolled down the sidewalks, on their way home after a long night. She was one of a few single women out and about on her own, the only one whose dress wasn’t cut low across the chest.
People cast curious glances her way. Some looks were merely inquiring; others held a darker gleam. She pushed off from the pole and turned down another street. As long as she kept moving, she found she was rarely harassed.
When she reached the next corner, her feet shuffled against the ground. The shakes wracking her body had turned into fine tremors. Clutching a hand to her stomach, she willed it to settle. She couldn’t fall apart now. She’d been laying the groundwork for her improbable plan, if Westmore didn’t secure Amanda’s release. She’d hoped she wouldn’t have to attempt it.
Lungs heaving, she held a hand to her side. She couldn’t bring herself to lay any more of a false trail. Westmore would be sending all his men out to search for her, but exhaustion weighed her down. She turned her feet towards her apartment instead. She needed a few hours’ sleep before putting her mad scheme into action.
The bakehouse was dark, but in a couple of hours it would be bustling with activity, the smell of warm yeast and the heat from the ovens rising up through the floors. She pushed into a side stairwell and pulled the room key from a small pocket in her spencer. Her boots slapped loudly on the uneven wooden planks as she dragged her way up the stairs. The lock turned easily, and she slipped into the small room, leaning against the door in relief.
Alone at last, and she could rest.
“About time you got here.” A wick on an oil lamp flared to life, and Liz stumbled back from the hard-eyed glare of the Duke of Montague.
* * *
She stared at him, eyes wide, and her lovely mouth dropped open. It had only been one day since he’d seen her, but Marcus’s body reacted as though he hadn’t touched a woman in years. She looked beautiful. And cold. And was that—
“Goddammit!” He leaped up from the rickety stool and took the two steps to reach her. She flinched away from the lamp he held, giving him a good view of the purpling bruises encircling her slim neck. Rage coursed through him, but he lightly ran his index finger across the marks on her soft skin.
She shivered beneath his touch, and clasped her thin shawl more tightly around her.
“Who did this to you?” he demanded. Bringing his hand up to cup her jaw, he ran his thumb over her bottom lip. God, she felt good. The lying, deceitful bitch. His jaw clenched. Her injury had distracted him, but now he stepped back before he throttled her himself. “Where’s the letter?” He made his voice as threatening as possible. When fear flickered across her dark eyes, he didn’t feel guilty for it. Not at all. He rubbed his chest, ignoring the stab to his heart.
“I . . . I have it here.” Her voice was raw and scratchy, and the fury clawed at him. Fury at her, for making him care for a treasonous spy, fury for a country that demanded his loyalty, and most especially fury at the bastard who’d hurt her. Just as he’d done with his groom, he’d make sure this fuckwit paid for his assault on Liz, as well.
The blood boiling beneath his skin shot south when Liz bent over and lifted the hem of her skirts. It took him a second to notice the small wad of papers laced to her pale thigh. She loosened the knot of her stocking and pulled out his letter. “I couldn’t give it to him. I’m sorry I took it, but I couldn’t give it to him.”
He made sure all the pages were there, and tucked it into his breast pocket. “Who? Westmore?”
She stared at a point at his feet. “You know.” Her voice was emotionless. Hopeless.
“I know,” he said grimly. “What I don’t know is why. Were you that greedy for money, Liz?” He barked out a harsh laugh. “I don’t even know if that’s your real name.”
She grabbed his sleeve. “It is. Miss Elizabeth Wilcox. Wilcox, not Smith. I didn’t lie about my given name, just—”
“Just everything else.”
She jutted her chin up. “Yes, and given what I knew, I’d do so again. I thought I was stealing shipping information from you. And even though I know that was wrong, I’d steal the crown jewels if I had to. But when I read what was actually in that letter . . .”
“You read the contents?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Dangerous information to know.”
“Yes,” she repeated. She firmed her jaw, her lips hard.
He traced those lips with his eyes. Even knowing what he did, he still desired her. She looked like the same Liz. Like his Liz. Still smelled of soap and sweet woman. His body was drawn to hers, an ocean to her moon.
Shoulders bunching beneath his coat, he placed the lamp on the wood coat shelf next to the door. “Why?” His voice sounded vulnerable to his own ears, and he cursed himself for the weakness. But he had to know. “Why did you do it?”
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. When she opened them again, the tears shimmering on her lower lids flayed him. “For my sister. She’s in Newgate. Westmore said he could get her released.” She sighed. “If I worked for him.” She pressed away from the door, but Marcus slapped both hands on the wood behind her, keeping her pinned. He needed to know all of it.