"Dampierre shared nothing. He owned me, Mr. Danbury. I did his bidding, took care of his girls."
"He owned you, or he owned Labelles?"
Anna shrugged. "Both." She had come to find answers not be barraged with a multitude of questions.
"And now you have fled London with little more than the clothes on your back," he muttered to himself. "Did Lord Danesfield assist in your escape?"
Anna nodded. "He escorted me to the coast and saw me safely out of England."
Mr. Danbury jumped off the desk. "Bloody hell. Does Dane take me for a complete fool?" He paced the floor. "Did he not think to inform me that this Dampierre fellow could come looking for you?"
Anna grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and forced him to stop. "The comte will not come looking for me," she implored, hoping it would be enough to placate him. "I can promise you that."
"Revenge feeds the hearts of some men," he said with a hint of contempt as though she lacked his worldly experience in all matters. "Trust me. He will want justice for your betrayal. He will seek you—"
"Victor will not come looking for me," she repeated.
"A man who makes a living as he does will not be bested by a woman. You're his property. You probably know too much about his business dealings."
"He won't come." While she tried to sound confident, days of suppressed emotion pushed to the fore, and she could feel the tears welling. She had agreed never to mention the horrific ev
ents in the warehouse.
"How do you know? Damn it. I left you alone here tonight. How do you know he's not out there now waiting for you to wander down to the village on your own?"
A surge of raw emotion broke. "Because he's dead," she sobbed burying her head in her hands. Sucking in a breath, she looked up at him. "He won't come because I stabbed him in the back and watched him gulp his last breath. Because justice has already been served."
Mr. Danbury's eyes grew wide, and his mouth hung open as he shook his head. After what seemed like an hour, he placed his hands on her shoulders.
"You killed him?" he whispered staring into her eyes as though he had misheard. "Is that why Dane sent you here? So you wouldn't hang?"
She wiped away the tears streaming down her face. "Yes and no. Lord Danesfield concocted a story to protect me. But you must understand I had no choice in the matter. Victor would have killed me."
"You should have told me," Mr. Danbury said as he pulled her into an embrace, rubbed her back as the tears continued to fall. "Dane should have trusted me with the information."
Anna let the warmth of his body surround her. For the first time in her life, she felt safe — if only for a moment. "I murdered him, Mr. Danbury, and all I can do now is repent."
Chapter 5
Marcus pulled Miss Sinclair closer to his chest, the smell of almonds flooding his nostrils as he whispered words of comfort into her hair. She felt soft and warm in his arms, and he fought the urge to claim her mouth, knowing that he would not be able to stop until he had claimed her body. Good Lord, why did she have to be so damn tempting? He could feel desire pulsing inside, feeding this strange craving he had for her.
Miss Sinclair had just confessed to murder. Emotions ran high. He could take advantage of her vulnerability. Once their lips met, she would be more than pleased with what he had to offer.
But even he wasn't that cold and callous.
Now he knew why she spent so much time in the chapel, praying, repenting, hoping the Lord would absolve her of her sins. Marcus understood the feeling. He had killed in self-defence, part of fulfilling his duty to the Crown. That didn't make it any easier, and he suspected the experience would haunt her forever.
So, Dane had sent her to France to protect her. The act of chivalry told him all he needed to know. Had she not thrust the knife into the comte's back, someone else would have lost their life. Of course, Dane would also be protecting his own interests and Marcus knew there must surely be more to the story.
Guilt flared when he thought of Dudley Spencer's request for information.
"If it helps, you can talk to me," he said. His intention was not to pry, but merely to offer a means of easing her mental torment. "You should not keep your feelings hidden inside."
"Suppressing all emotion is the only way I know how to cope," she murmured against his chest.
"Guilt is like a disease." To his own mind, he sounded like a hypocrite. "It will fester and eat away at all the good until everything else is tainted, too."
He felt her shoulders rise as she took a deep breath. She stepped back and looked up at him, her eyes red and puffy. "I cannot recall the last time I cried, other than the night of Victor's death. But even then it felt different. I was numb to my emotions. There was, and still is, a large part of me that is not sorry."