Ask for It (Georgian 1)

Seeing her approach, Marcus met her at the bottom of the staircase. “Good morning, my love.” His gaze, both warm and appreciative, spoke volumes.

“Has something transpired?” she asked.

“I must leave with Eldridge. St. John has been seen in London, and there are other things that need to be attended to.”

She smiled briefly at Lord Eldridge and Avery. “Good morning, my lord. Mr. James,” she called out.

Both gentlemen bowed in greeting.

Turning her attention back to Marcus, she searched his face, and noted the taut lines that etched his lips. “Is there something else? Something you are withholding from me?”

He shook his head. “I simply worry about leaving you. Avery will remain, but I would much prefer to guard you myself. Whenever I turn my back, something untoward happens and—”

Setting her fingers to his lips, Elizabeth silenced him. “Hush, I will be fine with Mr. James. And William is here.”

“Even the King’s guards could not ease my mind.”

“So stay,” she said simply. “Send Mr. James with Eldridge.”

“I cannot. I have resigned my commission, and there are things I must resolve before I can be free.”

Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand, tears filling her eyes and threatening to fall from her lashes. He’d kept his promise.

“Tell me those are happy tears.”

“I love you,” she breathed.

His mouth curved in an intimate smile. “I shall return at my soonest. Stay out of trouble in the meantime. Please.”

Making their egress from Chesterfield Hall, Marcus and Eldridge retrieved the reins from the waiting groomsmen and mounted their horses.

“Did you say anything to Lady Westfield?” Eldridge asked once they’d reached the road.

“No. It would only serve to unduly worry her.”

“You don’t believe a threat against your life is worth the worry?”

Marcus snorted. “St. John would have killed me before, if that was his true intent,” he said dismissively. “He is aware that threats to Lady Westfield carry the greater weight. Still, the possibility exists that I would lower my guard of her to raise my own. A foolish attempt, but it costs him nothing more than the missive he sent you to try.”

Marcus was so confident in his assessment that when the shot rang out and burning pain tore through his shoulder, he was caught completely unaware.

The horses reared, Eldridge yelled, and Marcus was thrown with stunning force to the ground. Dazed, he could not defend himself against the half dozen men who swarmed toward him in ambush. He could only realize, with horrified clarity, how far he had erred when Talbot loomed over him with small sword in hand. He works well with Avery James, Eldridge had said. Blind to the perfidy, he’d left Elizabeth in the care of the very man who wished her harm.

Now he lay on his back and noted that the trees, which shielded the lane, were a verdant backdrop to the steel of the blade swooping toward him with deadly precision.

But in the end, his greatest fear came not from his approaching death, but for his beloved wife, who needed him. And he would not be there.

Chapter 23

“You look beautiful.”

Margaret blushed. “Good heavens, Elizabeth. How can you say such a thing? I must look a fright. I’ve not had a full night of rest since the birth, my hair is ever in disarray, I am—”

“Glowing,” Elizabeth interjected.

Gazing with adoration at her infant son, Margaret smiled, “I did not believe it was possible to love someone as much as I do this child.” She glanced at Elizabeth who stood by the door. “You shall see when you and Westfield have children of your own.”

Elizabeth nodded sadly, and reached for the doorknob. “I will leave you to feed my nephew.”

“It’s not necessary for you to go,” Margaret protested.

“We arrived so late yesterday, I find myself still weary. A small nap, and then I’ll return.”

“Where is Lord Westfield?”

“Attending to some matters. I expect he’ll return shortly.”

“Very well, then.” Margaret nodded. “Come back to me refreshed. I miss female companionship.”

Yawning, Elizabeth retreated to her room, her heart heavy with worry. Marcus was disturbed. Despite his denials to the contrary, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

She paused in the gallery outside her chamber, frowning when she noted the door was ajar. Entering cautiously, she saw the familiar figure digging in her escritoire drawers. He turned to face her.

It was then she saw the knife in his hand.

She froze, and swallowed hard. “What are you about, Mr. James?”

Inwardly steeled for the pain of being run through, Marcus jolted in surprise at the sound of gunfire. Talbot jerked, his eyes widening in horror. Deep crimson soaked through his waistcoat, spreading from the hole that bored through his chest. The downward swing of his sword arm faltered and he stumbled, forcing Marcus to roll away as he fell to the ground. Dead.

Surrounded by a grisly melee, Marcus leapt to his feet, staring at the battle that raged around him. A dozen men, none of whom he recognized, fought with deadly intent. Dust rose from the dry lane, choking his throat and gritting his eyes. Steel clashed in a macabre cacophony, and while his left arm was nigh useless, his right was serviceable. He withdrew his sword with lightning speed, prepared to defend himself.

“Stand down.”

Spinning about with blade raised, he faced St. John. “You are in no condition to fight,” the pirate said dryly, tossing aside a now useless smoking pistol.

“How long have James and Talbot been in your employ?”

St. John continued to approach him. “They haven’t been. That’s not to say I lack eyes and ears within the agency. However, the men you mention are not associates of mine.”

Marcus stilled, his thoughts quickly catching up to the reality he faced. He turned, searching for Eldridge, and found him nowhere. He did, however, note Talbot again, and came to the only conceivable conclusion. Nothing was as it seemed.

Snorting, St. John said, “So now you see the truth. I would have told you. However, you would not have believed me.”

A man fell at their feet, and they both leapt quickly out of the way.

“Allow my men to handle this, Westfield. We must bind your wound, ere you bleed to death, and find Lady Westfield.”

It was galling, the thought of working with St. John, and Marcus spit out the bile that coated his tongue. All this time, all these years . . .

Gradually the lane grew quiet, but Marcus’s blood raged, drowning his hearing in roaring sound. He shrugged out of his coat, discarding the ruined garment in the blood-spattered dirt. St. John worked quickly and efficiently at binding his damaged shoulder while Marcus watched the pirate’s lackeys drag the proliferation of bodies away with frightening nonchalance.

“How long have you been aware of this?” he asked gruffly.

“Years.”

“And the journal?”

Tightening the binding until Marcus winced, St. John nodded at his handiwork and stepped back. “Can you seat a horse?”

“I have been shot, I’m not an invalid.”

“Right. Let’s go. I can explain on the way.”

“Where is the journal, my lady?” Avery asked.

Elizabeth kept her gaze trained on the knife. “Safe.”

“None of us are safe.”

“What are you talking about?”

He came toward her quickly, and she recoiled. “Now is not the time to be skittish. I need you to think quickly and trust me implicitly, or you will not survive.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know that I do either. I watched several men approach from the rear garden and fan around the manse.”