Page 79 of Disciplined by the Duke
“—who are operating within England. There isn’t a club we all go to. And for just this reason it has always been better for France the less I knew.” Westmore frowned morosely at his empty mug. “Do you want a list of all the men who worked for me? Miss Wilcox has become acquainted with most of them this past year.”
Marcus ignored that dig. “We’ll round them up.” He walked to the window, stared at his reflection. “Rothchild, please leave us.”
His friend hesitated before striding to the door and pulling it open. “I’ll be right outside.” He looked at Westmore. “There are many of us outside.” He pulled the door tight behind him.
The muffled sounds of revelry seeped through the walls. Bar patrons having a laugh after their day’s labor, the squeal of a barmaid. Neither man spoke for minutes.
Marcus turned to face Westmore. “If this goes to trial you will be publicly humiliated. The line of Westmore will be disgraced. After you hang, and you will hang, your heir, a nephew, I believe, will never be able to show his face in London again. Will probably have to leave England. As will your wife.”
Westmore drummed his fingers on the armrest.
Marcus turned back to the window. “I hear hanging is an awful death. The Crown doesn’t take fondly to spies and will make sure that your executioner doesn’t weigh you down. Your neck will not break; rather, you will slowly suffocate, your feet kicking at the air, looking for an escape that will not come. Your last sight will be of an angry mob, jeering at you, cheering for your death. I find I would not wish that even on my worst enemy.”
“It would also be a tad embarrassing for the Crown, betrayed by one of their own noblemen,” Westmore said dryly.
Marcus clenched his jaw. “That too.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his derringer. He laid it on the side table, next to the empty mug. “There is only one bullet. Act wisely.”
Without a backwards glance, Marcus strode from the room. He didn’t realize how tense his shoulders were, that he’d half-expected a bullet to the back, until he closed the door between them and his muscles sagged. He walked across the dining hall, the contrast of the warmth and cheeriness of this room with the one he just left jarring to his nerves.
Happy to step back into the cold night air, Marcus inhaled deeply, gazed up at the stars. Rothchild joined him and handed him a cheroot.
A gunshot rang out and a moment of hushed silence fell over the bar. Chairs scraped against wood and loud voices tumbled over one another before Marcus heard a shout of discovery. He sucked greedily at the tobacco. “Have the men make sure he’s dead.” He passed the cheroot back to Rothchild. “Bring his body back to London. He’ll have a state funeral with all the honors.”
Rothchild exhaled a stream of smoke. “Doesn’t seem right.”
Striding to Darkwing, Marcus stroked his neck before jumping into the saddle. “No, but it’s right for the country.” He waved good-bye to his friend and was off in a cloud of dust.
He needed to do what was right for Liz and himself. He urged Darkwing on even faster, his heart flying like the horse’s hooves. Now that he had decided what to do, he couldn’t wait to make her his.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Streaks of pinks and purples began to lighten the sky as Liz watched through the back parlor’s wide picture windows. She’d settled her sister in one of the town house’s guest bedrooms hours ago, but had been unwilling to close her own eyes while Marcus remained out searching for Westmore. He could take care of himself. But still.
Smacking the needlepoint pillow that rested between her shoulder and her cheek, she tried to plump it up for the best support. She wished she could strike something more solid, jealous of the men who could go to Gentleman Jack’s to beat out their aggressions.
Her sister had barely spoken to her, looking more scared to be out of Newgate than she ever had in prison. The man she loved was doing God knew what in service to the Crown. And when he returned and this nightmare was finally over, she still didn’t know where she belonged. Mistress or maid?
She pulled out the pins that held up her chignon and rubbed the ache from her scalp. She’d spent a year playing in deceptions and half-truths, but it was time to be completely honest, especially with herself. If all Marcus could offer her was a position as his mistress she would accept. Half a life with him was better than none at all.
Perhaps in the future she’d grow strong enough to make a break with him, to search for a complete life, but that time wasn’t now. He’d been gone only hours and yet she ached for him. Not just his body and what he could make her feel, although those were more wonderful than she could imagine. But his presence by her side, the steadiness in his eyes, the strength in his character. He was a man she could depend upon. She was no longer making her way through life alone. Until Mandy made a full recovery, she needed that emotional support.
The door swung open and banged against the wall, bouncing back with a quiver. Liz twisted in the chair, the pillow falling to the floor. Marcus’s form was outlined in the doorway. The candles in the hallway cast harsh shadows on his face.
“What are you doing in here in the dark? And why aren’t you in my bed?” He strode up to her, frowning. “I went to my rooms first and didn’t find you.”
She greedily drank in everything the dusky light revealed. His hair was disheveled, wild, and his face and clothes covered with a sheen of dust from the road. He was beautiful.
She leaped from her seat and threw her arms around his neck. “Marcus!” His chest muffled her words. “You’re all right.”
“Of course I am.” He dropped a swift kiss to the top of head and unwound her arms from his body. Gripping her hand firmly, he started from the room, pulling her behind him like a child leading a pony. “You’re still in yesterday’s dress. You’ve not gone to bed at all.”
She had to run up the stairs after him, his long strides eating up two steps at a time. “Who cares”—she sucked in a lungful of air, out of breath from the pace—“about that? Tell me what’s happened.”
He kicked open the door to his room, swung around, and grabbed her by the waist. His mouth claimed hers, insistent, demanding. Liz rolled up onto her toes before her feet left the ground, as Marcus lifted her body into his and staggered backwards into the room. Over the pounding of the blood in her ears, she heard the door slam shut.
She pulled away, gasping for breath. Her head spun, but it always did around Marcus. He nibbled along her jawbone, his fingers busy at the back of her gown. Her dress loosened and sagged around her.
“Marcus.” He sucked the lobe of her ear into his hot mouth. “Oh God. Wait. I want to know . . . oh, that feels good . . . what happened with Westmore.”
