In the Arms of a Marquess(97)

“Oh, I would not take you for anything. In that, I believe Lord Doreé and I are quite alike.” With a smile, she headed down the sidewalk, Lal hurling a string of staccato comments in their wake.

“Do you wish now to go to the ship?” Abha asked at her shoulder.

“Well, Lord Crispin is not at either of his flats. Do you think he might be there?”

“No.”

Tavy peeled Lal’s mitt from her chin and drew in a thick breath. “Why not?”

“He is behind you.”

Tavy pivoted. Amidst the attractive traffic upon St. James’s—ladies walking arm in arm, gentlemen dressed to the nines, tradesmen in neat trousers, even a flower girl in a fetching smock—Marcus looked horrible. Worse than she must have looked with the monkey on her shoulder. He strode straight to her at a hard pace, drawing stares.

“I hoped to find you before I left.” His voice was hoarse, his face pale and eyes red as though he had been crying. He looked at Abha and his brow seemed relieved. “You are safe.”

“I am.” She shook her head. “Where are you going?”

“My house in the country. But first I must see Nathans, apologize to him for implicating him in this business. I needed his money to purchase the ship, but he is innocent, of course.” His brow contorted, the thick lock of hair falling over it that she had once wished to brush away in a comforting gesture. His cravat was crushed, his coat wrinkled, and whiskers shadowed his jaw already at midday. He looked directly at her, for the first time since she had known him apparently unconcerned with what others might think of him. He seemed a man thoroughly beaten, and it was awful to behold.

“Marcus, you must turn yourself in. If not because it is right, then because you cannot go on like this.”

“I will.” His lids drooped until his eyes were half closed. “I promise, I will return and give my testimony. But now it is in Doreé’s hands, where it should have been all along. He will see it to its end.” His blurred gaze swept up to her face. “Do you know who he is, Octavia? Do you truly know?”

She stared, dumbstruck, and nodded.

His gaze slipped to Abha, then farther along the street. Tavy followed it to a young man, thick-set and garbed like a dockworker, leaning against the rear wheel of a parked hackney coach.

“I hope you know,” Marcus whispered, returning to her face. He shook his head. “I beg your pardon, Octavia. A thousand pardons for putting you in danger.”

“Danger? But you said that was a story you invented.”

His eyes seemed to grow fraught again. “He did not tell you, then.” His gaze slewed to the lumper down the block once more. “But he—”

“Tell me what, Marcus?”

He gripped her hands. “If he did not see fit to tell you, I cannot.” He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew an envelope. He pressed it into her palm. “Give him this.”

“Lord Doreé? What is it?”

“He will understand. Octavia, my dear, God bless you. And forgive me, please.” He released her and swung away down the crowded sidewalk.

The crisp stationery shook in her fingers.

“Where do you wish to go now?” Abha asked.

“I hardly know.” But she did. Ben had spoken with Marcus, clearly, but he hadn’t told her. Still he kept secrets. But one secret she must learn the truth of finally. “I will call upon Lady Constance.”

Abha nodded. Tavy strode toward the carriage. The young dockworker pushed away from the hackney, falling into her tracks.

“Abha, do you know that man?” Her gaze darted to the stranger as she climbed into the carriage.

“No, memsahib. I do not.”

In the downstairs parlor of the Duke of Read’s town house, Lady Fitzwarren sat ensconced in a gilt-and-white chair. She rose hastily and moved toward Tavy with a heavy exhalation.

“There you are, dear girl.”

At the window, Constance whirled about and threw herself forward to grip Tavy’s hands.

“Octavia darling, I went to your home but you were not there. Where did you go?”

Tavy’s head spun, her heart tangled. The blue eyes glimmered with such affection and concern.

“Constance, I came here to— I—” How could she do it? “I have no way of asking this delicately, but are you increasing?”

The dowager sucked in an audible breath. Constance’s brows dipped into a frown. She shook her head. But this was not sufficient answer for Tavy’s heart.

“Yet you are clearly troubled. At the Saveges’ ball the other night—” She took a steadying breath. “Constance, I must know if you and Ben intend to marry. Please tell me now, without evasions.”

Her blue eyes flickered with a hint of agitation. “We do not.”

Tavy tried to control her quick breaths, but her lungs would not seem to function properly. She glanced at the dowager. Lady Fitzwarren’s pinpoint eyes were direct. She nodded her head once, a spray of purple feathers fluttering upon her bandeau.

Tavy pulled her gaze away. “Did you—” Good heavens, this was equally difficult. “Were you ever lovers?”

“No. Never. Oh, look at me, Octavia.” Constance gripped her fingers. “I said no.”

Tavy jerked her hands away. “But why not? And why did you never marry?”