Anna took a sip from the mug, shivering visibly as the potent liquid slid down her throat. "Easier on the stomach but not so on the head, I fear."
"Lenard always serves me his best."
He watched with keen interest as she took a few more sips. Was it nerves that drove her to drink more quickly? It occurred to him that they should use this time together productively. A man should delve a little deeper into a lady's mind and heart if he stood any chance of winning her favour.
"So, what will you do when you leave here?" Marcus said, relaxing back in the chair. "Will you go back to London?"
There was no chance of him doing so. Marcus vowed never to set foot on English soil again. Not while his father was alive.
Anna shrugged. "I'll never go back to London. I'm afraid I will always be regarded as Madame Labelle, proprietor of a bawdy house." She stared at the candle on the table, at the drop of wax trickling down its length. She tapped her finger to the hot liquid, rubbing it against her thumb until it solidified. "I like the country air, the lush fields and rolling hills. It brings back happy memories of my childhood."
A vision of a pretty girl with honey-gold hair flashed into his mind. He imagined her smiling, carefree, running against the wind. "How will you provide for yourself?"
In the countryside, she'd hardly find the type of work she was used to. There were no houses of ill repute desperately searching for a new madam. And there were not many men willing to take a wife with her chequered history. However, he believed her bewitching beauty was as valuable as the best debutante's dowry.
"I have a cottage nestled in a quiet country village. I have enough money put aside to give me a comfortable life."
The inquisitive, manipulative part of his brain jumped to attention. The cottage she mentioned must surely be the same place where Miss Beaufort was hiding. It made perfect sense. Anna had fled to France while Dane's lady had fled to some quaint village to look after her cottage.
Interesting.
He was about to pry further when she said, "What of you, Marcus? Will you continue in the same vein without Tristan? I imagine you'll find working on your own far more difficult."
For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that Tristan might not come back. A hollow void opened up in his chest, and he feigned arrogance in a bid to banish it. "I work better on my own. Tristan is too cautious, too sensible to be of any use."
Despite trying to infuse a hint of contempt into his words, he knew she did not believe his pathetic protestations. She stared into his eyes as though they were open doors to his soul. "And you're far too rash, far too reckless, which is why the two of you work so well together. I can see you'll miss him terribly."
Bloody hell.
Was she some sort of mystic? Or was he just so easy to read?
He took a large gulp of wine whilst using the opportunity to observe Lenard.
"Perhaps you judge me too harshly without knowing all of the facts," he finally said, confident Lenard was simply going about his work.
She smiled and arched a brow. "I believe your scars speak volumes."
Panic flared. "Scars?" he repeated.
"There's a small one just to the left of the dimple on your chin." She pointed to the offending article. His heart thumped in his chest for an entirely different reason now. Anna had studied him sufficiently to notice his faint battle marks.
"This one came from the tip of a blade," he said running his finger over the thin line cutting through the bristles. "Dane was with me at the time. We were ambushed whilst rescuing a lady from an asylum."
Anna's eyes widened. "Good heavens. Why were you rescuing her from an asylum?"
Marcus sighed. "It is difficult to explain. But suffice to say, the lady was not mad at all, and had been put there at the behest of her husband."
Married women were just as helpless when it came to dealing with selfish men.
"I have a few scars, too," she said pulling up her left sleeve and turning her arm to show him her elbow. "I've one here. Can you see it?"
"This one?" He traced the pale pink line with the tip of his finger. "Is it a battle scar?"
"Yes, in a way." She yanked her sleeve back down. "I fought with Victor over a girl he brought to stay. I helped her to escape. He couldn't prove I had anything to do with it, but he still knocked me to the floor in a violent rage. I hit it on the grate."
Marcus gulped to swallow the lump in the back of his throat. If Victor were still alive, he would hunt him down and gut him like a fish.
"I'm sorry." The words tumbled from his mouth.