Page 77 of Disciplined by the Duke
He shifted in his saddle. Inappropriate thoughts when on a mission. He searched for a distraction.
Irritating his friend would do. “So, the prison guard got a good look at your face. Your prison break lacked both charm and stealth. I do believe even I could have sweet-talked the man better than you.”
Julius snorted. “Can you believe I found the one government worker impervious to bribery? That man had a moral streak a mile wide.” He scratched his jaw. “I feel bad Dunkeld had to hit such a rare creature. But Dun said he would take care of it. When we get the charges dropped against Miss Wilcox, that man will be happy to forget the face of the man who rescued her.”
“If he’s such a moral man he might kick up a fuss,” Marcus warned.
“When confronted with the fact that his prisoner was sent to the hangman’s noose at the behest of a traitor, Joseph will turn a blind eye to my misdeeds. I have little doubt.”
“Joseph?”
Rothchild peered down his aquiline nose, a difficult feat riding aside Marcus on a horse several hands shorter than Darkwing. “Yes, Joseph. I learned much about the man in the few minutes we spoke. It’s called charm, my friend, and it’s how one convinces someone to do what one wants.”
“Or not, in your case.” Marcus thought back to all he’d convinced Liz to do, all without his friend’s vaunted charm. He rocked in his saddle. It was a greatly overvalued trait.
“Well, it usually works,” Rothchild grumbled. One of the men behind them sneezed. In a more subdued tone, he asked, “What will you do once we find Westmore?”
“There aren’t many options left to the man. He cannot reach France and relay any further information he may have. If he’d got his hands on that letter the princess’s life wouldn’t have been worth the paper it was written on. And we need to learn what other secrets he’s passed along.” Marcus leaned forward in his saddle, and saw the faint glow of a village come into view. His skin crawled. The confrontation was soon upon him. He wanted to tear the man apart for what he’d done to Liz, but the encounter that lay ahead was something even he didn’t relish. “We all have very few options.”
“Pathetic words coming from a duke.” Rothchild huffed, a cloud of vapor billowing in front of his mouth. “We are privileged men in a society where most men have little opportunity, fewer choices. If you can’t find a solution to one of your problems, then you’re not thinking hard enough.”
Marcus bit back a sarcastic reply. He knew he was privileged, but he also had more responsibilities than the average man. Life presented insurmountable challenges, even to a duke.
“Your Miss Wilcox is the daughter of a gentleman,” Rothchild continued. “Have you not thought of that?”
Marcus’s heart leaped behind his breastbone. Of course he’d thought of that. He’d thought of everything concerning his little bird. “The daughter of a murdered gentleman, from a disgraced family. It probably would have been less improper had she been a maid.”
“It? So you have considered marrying the girl.” Rothchild’s voice was much too smug for Marcus’s liking.
“Of course I’ve considered it. I’ve considered it from every possible angle. That’s what one does when one is in . . .”
“Love?” Rothchild suggested.
Marcus clenched the reins. “Regardless, the repercussions of such an act would be intolerable. She would never be accepted, would live a life shunned from society. A duchess has social obligations that a mistress doesn’t have to face. Liz would suffer every time she steps out on my arm if she were my wife.”
“Don’t you think that should be her decision to make, whether she’s willing to face that or not?” Rothchild asked gently. “And,” he said more loudly, blocking out Marcus’s protestations, “don’t you think that you should be able to make marriage to you worth her while? You are a determined man, my friend. If you can’t make her happy, even over the occasional cut direct, you’re not the man I thought you were.”
Marcus snapped his mouth shut. Of course he could make her happy. But after years of life as an isolated duchess, would she resent him? He sat up straight in the saddle. Making her happy wasn’t a temporary condition. He would have to work at it all of his life. And that was something he could do. If she’d let him.
“You’re right. I’m a bloody duke. If I can’t make a bunch of society ladies eat their words I’m underserving of the name Montague.”
Rothchild reached over and slapped him on the back. “My felicitations. I am sure the two of you will be most happy, you poor sapskull. The first of us five friends to marry. May God have mercy on your soul.”
“If she says yes,” Marcus grumbled. “And wait until it’s your turn. I’ll laugh myself silly when a woman finally ensnares you.”
“But you would have to know how to laugh.” Rothchild smirked. He nodded his head up the road. “The inn is the third building, on the left.”
Marcus slid from Darkwing, and gestured for his men to follow suit. He didn’t want to give Westmore any time to flee by pounding up to the inn with a contingent of soldiers. Using hand gestures, he indicated that the men should surround the inn. He and Rothchild tied up their horses to the hitching post by the front door.
The heat from the kitchens and the fireplace struck Marcus when he stepped inside the inn, penetrating his thick greatcoat. He kept the heavy garment on. He wanted as many barriers between himself and what was to come as possible. He scanned the open dining room, but didn’t see his quarry.
Rothchild pulled the barkeep to the side and had a hushed conversation. He shook the man’s hand, Marcus catching a glimpse of the silver that passed from his friend to the barman. Rothchild hurried back to Marcus, jerked his head to the side. “Our man is in one of the private rooms. It seems he has been drinking steadily since he arrived.”
Marcus grunted. That could make Westmore easier to manage. Or make him less predictable. He pushed the door open with a firm hand, the blood leaping in his veins when he saw the man sprawled in an armchair, a mug of ale in one hand.
His base animal instincts thrilled at finally cornering his prey. Without a pause, he strode across the room, grabbed Westmore’s cravat with his left hand, and smashed his right fist into the earl’s face. “That was for Liz,” he growled, and threw the man back in his chair. His fingers tingled with the need to throttle the man again and again, so Marcus took a step back. Control. He tugged at the bottom hem of his waistcoat, pain zipping from his right hand to his brain. Discipline.
Rothchild stepped beside him. “You’ve never looked better, Westmore.” He waved his finger in the direction of the blood trickling down from the earl’s nose and the upper lip that was starting to swell.
