Page 78 of Disciplined by the Duke
Westmore pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood. “I would have looked better at my estate in France. It’s amazing what the Loire Valley can do for one’s appearance.”
“So you admit it?” Marcus clenched his fists so hard a knuckle cracked.
“Why not?” Westmore held the linen beneath his nose and took a long draw of ale, his head tipping to rest on the back of the chair. “I’ve become quite familiar with the English legal system of late. It matters little what evidence actually exists against someone. If someone higher up wants you in prison you’ll go to prison.”
Rothchild bent over the chair, gripping the armrests. He scowled at Westmore. “Or if someone wants you hanged.”
Marcus rested his hand on Rothchild’s shoulder. They couldn’t tear this man apart before they got the answers they needed. It was amazing what two sisters had reduced him and his friend to.
Westmore quirked an eyebrow. “That too.” Taking another swallow, he peered up at Marcus. “My axle. Was that your doing?”
Marcus nodded. “I’ve had men following you for days. When they saw you trying to escape England, they used their initiative to slow you down. They also paid off the local blacksmith. Your carriage wasn’t going to be repaired for a very long time.”
“I see.” Westmore placed his empty mug on the rickety table next to his chair. Crossing one leg over the other, the earl laced his fingers together and rested his hands on one thigh. “So what happens now?”
Rothchild eased back and crossed his arms. “Now you tell us everything we want to know.”
“I don’t see any benefit to me in that, not if you are going to kill me afterwards regardless,” Westmore said. “Perhaps we can make a deal? I do have quite a lot of money.”
“Blood money,” Rothchild snarled.
Marcus angled himself between the two men. “There will be no deals. You’ll tell us what we want to know.”
Westmore traced his finger around the rim of the empty mug. “Or else?”
“There is no ‘or else.’ There is no man alive today who can withstand questioning when the appropriate pressure is put on him.” Marcus smiled at him, all teeth. “And as luck would have it, my friend here is an expert at inflicting pain. He knows all the points on a man’s body that if pressed with the right amount of strength can cause excruciating agony. All without leaving a mark.” The earl merely stared at him, expressionless. “You need convincing?”
Marcus nodded at Rothchild, and as one they moved at Westmore, each man restraining one of the earl’s wrists against the armrests, Marcus slapping one broad palm over the man’s mouth. There was no buildup, no delay. Quick as a snake, Rothchild grabbed the man’s shoulder and dug his thumb into a point below the man’s collarbone. Marcus’s hand muffled Westmore’s high shriek.
Marcus and Rothchild stepped back, leaving Westmore unsettled but trying to compose himself. He ran a shaky hand through his hair.
“Why don’t I tell you what I already know,” Marcus said, “so we don’t waste time in repetition?”
“What do you think you know?” Westmore’s eyes were alit with fury. But Marcus saw the fear there, too.
“I know that you’ve had a man in my service in your pocket for over two years now. And one in the Duke of Wellington’s service, as well. The cousin of my man.” Marcus smiled as Westmore tossed his bloody rag to the floor. “Mr. Pike was very forthcoming when confronted with his misdeeds. He was eager to lay the blame on you.” Marcus thought back to his interview with the groom. The man had been adept at lying and trying to shift blame. Not all of his story rang true. “Did you order Pike to kill Miss Wilcox? He says he attacked her on your word.”
Westmore snorted. “What a fool. Like he can avoid the noose by saying he was merely following orders.” He picked up his mug, stared at the bottom of it before putting it back down with a sigh. “I did not. Miss Wilcox managed to infuriate him to the point of attempted murder all on her own.”
“And my footman?” Pike had shown him where he’d buried the body of the poor lad. Bob Blackmun had overheard a meeting between Pike and another of Westmore’s spies, and Pike couldn’t let him live to tell the tale.
Marcus flattened his lips. He could do nothing to help the boy now. But his family would be well taken care of.
Westmore shrugged, the confused look in his eye enough to convince Marcus the earl didn’t know all the actions of his henchman. It didn’t matter. He also couldn’t avoid the noose by saying he hadn’t given that direct order.
Leaning forward, Westmore glared at Marcus through narrowed eyes. “My mistake was sending that fucking slag to steal the letter from you. I was hoping she’d be able to seduce you. Didn’t consider you would seduce the stupid bitch. Tell me, Montague, did you enjoy whipping the chit? Did you teach her all about your twisted desires? Did she manage to hide her fear and disgust from you? I have trained her to be a very good actress.”
Marcus saw red. His body bumped into Rothchild’s chest, his friend getting between him and Westmore. He wasn’t surprised the earl knew about his visits to the Black Rose. The ton was a small community that loved to gossip. And Westmore was trying to get under his skin by making what he and Liz shared tawdry. That knowledge didn’t keep him from wanting to rip the man’s head off. He tried to sidestep Rothchild, but his friend stepped with him.
“Calm yourself,” Rothchild ordered.
Marcus’s chest heaved. He didn’t want the earl, or any man, to think of his Liz and sexual intercourse together in the same thought. And a small part of him, a very small part, wondered if Westmore might not be right. Marcus wasn’t accustomed to insecurity, and the feeling infuriated him. Mostly when he was with Liz, she made him feel confident, powerful. He knew what his duty was, to take care of that marvelous woman. It was a feeling he never wanted to lose, and that little bit of fear, that she couldn’t love him, ripped his heart out.
He took a deep breath. Another. His vision cleared. Liz was his. No matter what this bastard said. “You want to talk about women? I know that you’ve fled, taking as much money as you could carry, but leaving your wife behind to face your ignominy alone and without funds to support herself.” Marcus curled his upper lip. “And even so, she is still better off than with you. You have betrayed the Crown, you worthless piece of shit, and I want to know who to send to hell with you.”
Westmore closed his eyes, reached up to rub his injured shoulder. When he opened them to look at Marcus, they were dead inside. In a monotone, he listed four men, three French aristocrats whom Westmore had delivered information to and who were out of Marcus’s reach. The fourth man was a civil servant within the department of chancery. “I don’t know of any other agents—”
“Traitors,” Rothchild corrected.