In the Arms of a Marquess(75)

He wanted to tell Octavia. The longing rose in him quick and powerful as the carriage rocked along the dark London streets, an urging from deep within.

He could not. He would not put her in danger of being in possession of such information. And he had no assurance she would not tell her betrothed. Until he found Marcus Crispin and forced him to come clean, Ben could not be certain of her. Even then he could not.

But now he was finally ready to discern how he might come to be certain. He was through with watching her walk away.

Tavy awoke to mid-morning sunlight slipping through cracks in the drapes, with no desire to be awake and less desire to do anything about it. She rolled over on the soft linen, tucked her face into the crook of her arm and squeezed her lids shut. But the image of Ben’s eyes as he escorted Constance from the ball the previous night would not leave her. Tavy had only once before seen him appear so torn, just before he kissed her in the rain.

She forced her feet over the side of the bed and to the floor, then her body to the clothes press. Garbed in an unadorned walking gown, she went to the kitchen and requested a muffin and tea from the cook. She lingered belowstairs where Abha found her. Lal sat on his shoulder gnawing on an apple core. The monkey jumped to her arm and snatched the remains of the muffin from her fingers.

Abha’s regard seemed to assess her. She tilted her weary head. “Good morning?”

“Memsahib, I have found Marcus Crispin.”

“Found him? Has he returned to town?”

Abha shook his head.

Octavia put a hand to her brow. “I am afraid I will not be receptive to cryptic statements today. Please.”

“He did not leave London.”

“But why would he tell me he went to the country then remain in town?” she said, then understood. Marcus had lied to her. “Do you know where he is now?”

Her longtime companion nodded.

“Nowhere admirable,” she guessed.

He nodded again.

“Take me there.”

“No.”

“Well then why did you tell me?”

“So that you would know.”

“You must take me to him, Abha. You would not have told me otherwise.”

“I will convey to him a message from you.”

“All right.” She went into the parlor to the writing table, scribbled a few lines, and handed the sealed paper to him. “Please request a reply.”

Abha bowed and departed.

Tavy ran to the back of the house, digging into her pocket for a coin. The kitchen boy sat in a corner by the door, a scrap of a lad with bright eyes.

Tavy bent to him. “Mr. Abha is taking a walk now. Please follow him and if he goes inside a building return to me swiftly and tell me where he has gone.” She pressed the silver into his hand. “There will be another just like it when you are finished.”

He nodded and darted out the door. Ten minutes later Tavy was restlessly pacing the parlor when Abha reappeared, his hand gripping the kitchen boy’s skinny shoulder.

“He saw me, mum.” The lad shrugged. “Don’t know how. Trailed him like me pap taught me, in the shadows an’ corners.”

“Mr. Abha is very clever,” Tavy consoled him, directing a thin-lipped look at her old friend. She produced the promised second coin. The boy palmed it and scurried away.

Abha crossed his thick arms over his chest. “I will take you there.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you think you ought?”

He shook his head. “But I do not like this man and you must not wed him.”

“I will not wed him anyway, you know, whether I see him now or not.”

“Still, I will take you.” Warning weighed in his deep-set eyes.

“I will not like what I find there.”

“No. But you will no longer allow any person to sway your judgment on the matter.”

“Any person?”

“Come.” He turned and went toward the front door. Tavy grabbed up her cloak and bonnet and hurried after.

The carriage halted before a respectable apartment building near Piccadilly. Tavy didn’t know what she had expected, but something along the lines of a squalid alleyway near the docks seemed more in the line of a blackmailer’s haunt. She produced a guinea for the doorman, but the fellow remained reluctant. Abha stepped into the foyer, arms crossed, head bare, and the doorman retreated behind a chair. Tavy gave him another coin and, as directed, she and her hulking bodyguard ascended three flights of stairs.

At the door to the flat, Abha did not knock. Instead he produced a small sack containing several tiny dowels of iron and fitted one into the lock. Tavy watched, oddly unsurprised. He turned the handle and the door swung wide.

The apartment’s furnishings were sparse yet tasteful, a rug, a piecrust table, two chairs, and a small dining table still containing the remnants of breakfast. Two cups, two plates, two sets of flatware. A pair of doors let off from the small main chamber. Tavy moved toward one but turned at the sound of the opposite door clicking open.

Marcus stood in the aperture, wearing only breeches. Tavy gulped at sight of so much skin and hair covering pale albeit well-toned male flesh. She snapped her gaze upward.

“Octavia.” His face was even paler, mouth agape. “What are you doing here?”

She found her tongue. “Rather, I should say, what are you doing here when you have told me you were in the country? And where is here? Although—” She scanned his barely clad person again. “I am rapidly beginning to see. Far too rapidly.” She pivoted around. Abha stood like a statue blocking the door. “Let me past.”