Ask for It Part 33

"Jesus." Marcus returned his gaze to Chesterfield Hall, barely registering the brick exterior with its climbing vines. Four years of his life had been dedicated to a lie. "I trusted him," he said grimly.

"Hawthorne didn't. Hence the creation of the journal."

"Which contains...?"

"Nothing." St. John shrugged at his glare. "Hawthorne knew we were expendable, so he bartered with the journal, which was said to be an account of witnesses to Eldridge's guilt and locations of booty we'd hidden from him. In truth, we had nothing, but the book ensured our safety. I fsomething befell us, Eldridge's perfidy would be revealed and he would lose what he thinks to be a fortune."

"You saved yourself, but risked my wife?" Marcus growled. "Look at all she has suffered, what she is suffering now."

"I am responsible for the search of her rooms. The attacks, however, were not my doing. They were a warning to me. I would have killed Eldridge long ago, but he swore Lady Westfield would pay with her life if his death came by my hand. He also threatened to reveal Hawthorne's treason. I could not allow that to happen. So we have waited, he and I , for the day when the balance would tip and free one of us to kill the other."

Standing from his low crouch, Marcus watched as the last of Eldridge's men were eliminated, their throats slit so that no sound was made.

With the same precision they'd shown on the lane, St. John's lackeys quietly dragged the bodies away from the manse and into the nearby coppice. "Why not kill you when the journal surfaced? Once it was in his grasp, what use did he have for you?"

"He fears I am the only man alive who can decipher Hawthorne's code." St. John gave a mirthless laugh. "He has allowed you to try. I imagine if you had succeeded, he would have killed you and laid blame on me. He cannot simply do away with me, the people would riot."

They left the cover of the bushes, and ran toward the manse. "I t's too quiet," Marcus muttered as they entered through the front door. Chills coursed down his spine, along with the sweat that dampened his skin and clothing. They moved cautiously, unsure of what traps awaited them.

"Westfield."

Both men paused midstep. Turning their heads, they met the intense aqua gaze of Viscount Barclay who stood frozen in a nearby doorway.

"Is there something you wish to tell me?" he asked, but his casual words could not hide the tension that stiffened his frame or the pure hatred he directed at St. John with a scathing glance.

Swiveling to face his brother-in-law, Marcus revealed his injury.

"Good G.o.d. What happened to you?"

"Eldridge."

William's eyes widened, and he took the news with a visible shudder. "What? I cannot...Eldridge?"

Marcus moved not at all, but William knew him well enough to be answered. He released a deep breath, composing himself, setting aside questions that could wait in deference to matters that couldn't. "You cannot continue. You need a surgeon."

"I need my wife. Eldridge is here, Barclay. In this house."

"No!" William shot a horrified glance up the stairs, then he pointed at St. John. "And you think him worthy of your trust?"

"I don't know whom to trust, but he just spared my life. That will have to suffice for the time being."

Pale and obviously confused, William took a moment to collect his thoughts, but for Marcus it was a moment too long. Too much time had pa.s.sed. Eldridge was ahead of them by some lead. Elizabeth was endangered, and he was nearly mad with the agony of it. Leaving the others behind, he threw caution to the wind and raced up the stairs.

"Lord Eldridge?" Elizabeth frowned in confusion as she looked past him. "Where is Westfield?"

"Lord Westfield is otherwise occupied. I f you wish to be reunited, you will retrieve the journal and come with me."

She stared, attempting to make sense of what he was about. Then she noted the tiny dark spatters on the gray velvet of his coat. The sick sense of foreboding intensified. Her hands clenched into fists, and she stepped forward. "What-have-you-done?"

Eldridge shifted, startled, and Avery took that slight advantage to launch himself the short distance and tackle him to the ground.

The two men hit the floor with a sickening thud and rolled out to the hallway, crashing into the opposite wall. Her mind dazed and her chest tight, Elizabeth wondered briefly if the noise would wake the baby. I t was that thought which galvanized her.

She searched the room desperately with her eyes, seeking something, anything that could be used as a weapon.

"Run!" Avery grunted, his hands occupied with holding at bay the knife Eldridge wielded.

That single word forced her to move. Lifting her skirts, Elizabeth ran past the men locked in deadly combat and fled down the hall toward Margaret's rooms. She rounded the corner and rammed headfirst into a unyielding barrier. With a scream of terror, she fell, clutching desperately at the hard body that fell with her.

"Elizabeth."

The breath left her lungs as they hit floor.

Sprawled atop her husband, she lifted her head and caught sight of William's shoes as he ran to his rooms."Leave Eldridge to me," St. John rasped softly, as he stepped past them.

Elizabeth returned her gaze to her husband, but had trouble seeing him with the tears that streamed from her eyes. With gentle hands, Marcus rolled her from him. He was frighteningly pale, his mouth drawn, but the warmth and relief in his gaze was undeniable.

"He said you were captured!" she cried.

"I was very nearly killed."

She noted the blood-soaked bandage that wrapped his torso and shoulder. "Oh dear G.o.d, you've been hurt!"

"Are you well?" he asked gruffly, rising to his feet and then pulling her to hers.

She nodded, the tears flowing unchecked. "Mr. James saved my life by holding off Eldridge until I could escape, but I found him searching my room. He wanted the journal, Marcus. He had a knife..."

Marcus pulled her closer, absorbing her trembling with a one-armed embrace. "Hush. Go to your brother, love. Do not leave his side until I come for you. Do you understand?"

"Where are you going?" She gripped the waistband of his breeches in nerveless fists. "You need help. You're bleeding." Elizabeth straightened her spine. "Let me see you to William, then I can consider-"

His mouth took hers in a hard, quick kiss. "I do adore you, my fearless bride. But indulge me, if you will. Allow me to finish this. My masculine pride begs it of you."

"Don't be arrogant now! You are in no condition to chase criminals, and I can aim a pistol better than most men."

"I will not disagree." His voice firmed. "However, in this instance I 'm afraid I must exert my husbandly right of command, despite the row I know that will cause. Go, my love. Do as I say. I will return to you shortly, and then you may both harangue and fuss over me to your heart's content."

"I do not harangue."

Steel clashed in the nearby hallway, and the look in his eyes hardened enough to make her shiver. Following the urging of the gentle shove he gave her, Elizabeth moved with shaky legs down the hall.

"Be careful," she admonished. But when she looked behind her, he was already gone.

Marcus watched Elizabeth retreat, and thanked G.o.d for her. Everything he'd believed in, everyone he'd thought solid and immutable had shattered in one fell blow. Except for her. Wanting desperately to take shelter in her, but needing to end this first, he turned about, running toward the sounds of conflict.

He rounded the corner, his jaw locked with grim resignation and discovered St. John, his body moving with loose-limbed grace, his sword arm thrusting so quickly it was difficult to track it. Eldridge opposed him, his wig lost, his hair wild, his face reddened from exertion. I t was a losing battle he fought, but the agency leader was not Marcus's concern. Certainly Marcus had his grievances, but his wife was alive, and St. John's brother was not.

His attention was instead on Avery, who stood to the side with dagger in hand. Marcus waited, un.o.bserved, wanting to give Avery the opportunity to do what was right. They had worked together for years, and Marcus had, up until an hour ago, thought of the agent as a friend. He couldn't prevent the tiny hope that his trust had not been completely misplaced.

St. John feinted, and then lunged forward on his right foot. A winded Eldridge could not move swiftly enough to deflect the hit, and Marcus watched as the blade sank home in his thigh and he fell to his knees.

The pirate loomed over the vanquished Eldridge with teeth clenched, his hand fisted around the other man's throat.

"You cannot kill me," Eldridge croaked. "You need me."

I t was then that Avery made his move, approaching the distracted St. John from behind with his arm raised and knife ready to fall.

"Avery," Marcus growled.

Avery spun about and threw himself forward, forcing Marcus to return. Parrying the flashing dagger with his small sword, Marcus leapt back a step. "Don't do this," he grunted. But Avery would not desist.

"I have no choice."

Marcus attempted to draw out the confrontation, praying Avery would break through his panic and cease. He aimed his blade at less vulnerable areas, striking to wound and not to kill. Finally, however, exhausted by his own injury and depleted of options, he made a fatal thrust.

Panting, Avery sank to the floor, his back to the wall, blood drizzling from the corner of his lips. His hands were stained crimson, pressing against the spot on his chest where Marcus had impaled him. Eldridge lay at his feet, St. John's sword sunk so deep into his heart it gouged intothe wood floor beneath.

Sighing, Marcus dropped into a crouch. "Ah, Avery. Why?"

"My lord," Avery gasped, sweat dripping from his brow. "You know the answer to that. Prison is not for the likes of me."

"You spared my wife, I might have helped you."

A translucent red bubble formed between Avery's lips and burst as he spoke. "I grew...I grew quite fond of her."

"And she of you." Marcus withdrew a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from Avery's brow. The agent's eyes closed at the touch of the cloth.

Marcus glanced at Eldridge. The scene was surreal, and heartrending.

"There were more...men," Avery wheezed. "Is she safe?"

"Yes, she's safe."

Avery nodded, his breath rattling in his lungs, and then he stilled, his body slumping into death's embrace.

Marcus stumbled to his feet, weary and disheartened. He glanced at St. John who said softly, "You saved my life."

"Consider my debt paid for your like service to me. What do you intend to do with Eldridge?"

"The poor man was a victim of highway robbery." St. John yanked his sword free. "My men will make certain he is found at the appropriate time and in the appropriate manner. I f we are done here, I shall see to it."

Marcus could not prevent the twinge of guilt and sorrow he felt. He'd admired Eldridge, and would mourn the man he'd once thought him to be.

"Take the journal with you," he said gruffly. "I f I never see the blasted thing again it will be too soon."

"My men will manage these two," the pirate said, gesturing over the bodies with the b.l.o.o.d.y tip of his sword. "We are liberated, Westfield. I trust the king will believe the tale when told to him by both you and Barclay. Then the bad seeds will be routed from the agency and Eldridge's threat to haunt me after death will be negated."

"Yes, I suppose that is true." But Marcus found little comfort in the ending. He knew he'd be haunted by this day forever.

"Marcus?"

He turned at the tentative sound of his wife's voice. Elizabeth stood a few feet away, a pistol weighting her arm and dangling at her side. The sight of her, so small but determined, eased the tightness in his chest, and he left the ugliness behind to find solace in her arms.

EPILOGUE

London, April 1771

The weather was perfect for a ride in the Park, and Marcus relished the day. His mount was spirited and pranced impatiently, but nevertheless, he managed the reins with one hand, while touching the brim of his hat in greeting with the other. I t was the start of a new Season, his first complete Season with Elizabeth as his wife, and he could only call his mood elated.

"Good afternoon, Lord Westfield."

Marcus turned his head toward the landaulet that drew up beside him. "Lady Barclay." He smiled.

"May I inquire after Lady Westfield?"

"You may. She's presently napping, I am sorry to say. I pine for her company."

"She's not ill, is she?" Margaret asked, her brows drawn into a frown beneath her wide-brimmed hat.

"No, she's well. Weary and a bit achy at the moment, but then we just returned to Town, as you know. The journey can be tiring." Of course, he hadn't allowed her much sleep at the inn.

Elizabeth grew more beautiful by the day, and more irresistible. He often thought of the portrait of her mother, the one that hung above the fireplace in the formal parlor of Chesterfield Hall. He'd once wished to see such happiness reflected in Elizabeth's countenance. Now he would say her contentment far surpa.s.sed it.

To think that a year ago he'd thought to sate his l.u.s.t and end his torment. The former would never happen, not while he breathed, but the later was a distant memory. He thanked the Lord daily that he'd managed to slay her demons as well. Together, they'd found peace, and it was a state of being he cherished.

"I am relieved to hear it's nothing serious. My son is quite eager to see his aunt again, and she promised to call this week."

"Then I 'm certain she shall."

They spoke for a few moments longer, but when his horse grew agitated, Marcus bade his farewell. He took a less traveled path than the Row, and freed his mount to run, then he turned toward Grosvenor Square, hoping he'd given Elizabeth enough time to sleep, but too impatient to dally any more, regardless.

As he rode up to the steps of his house, he caught sight of the man who departed and a heavy uneasiness settled over him.

He tossed the reins to the waiting groomsman and hurried inside.