Ask for It (Georgian 1)

Gray eyes assessed her sharply. “A trade?”

“I would prefer to work with another agent.”

He blinked. “And what are you offering in return?”

“Hawthorne’s journal.”

“I see.” He leaned back in his chair. “Has Lord Westfield done something in particular, Lady Hawthorne, which would cause you to seek his replacement?”

She could not prevent her blush. Lord Eldridge pounced on the telltale sign immediately. “Has he approached you in some manner that would not befit his duties? I would take such an accusation seriously.”

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. She did not want Marcus reprimanded, simply removed from her life.

“Lady Hawthorne. This is a personal matter, is it not?”

She nodded.

“I had valid reasons for assigning Lord Westfield to you.”

“I’m certain you did. However, I cannot continue to work with him, regardless of your motives. My brother is growing suspicious.” That was not her only reason, but it would suffice.

“I see,” he murmured. He remained silent for a long time, but she did not waver under his intimidating scrutiny. “Your husband was a valuable member of my team. Losing him and your brother has been difficult. Lord Westfield has done an excellent job of shouldering a great deal of responsibility despite the demands of his title. He is truly the best man for this assignment.”

“I don’t doubt his ability.”

“Still, you are determined, are you not?” He sighed when she nodded. “I will consider your request.”

Elizabeth nodded, understanding he had conceded as much as he was going to. Standing, she smiled grimly at his assessing gaze. He escorted her to the door, pausing a moment before turning the knob.

“It is not my place, Lady Hawthorne, but I feel I should point out to you that Lord Westfield is a good man. I am aware of your history, and I’m certain the ramifications are uncomfortable. However, he is genuinely concerned for your safety. Whatever happens, please keep that in mind.”

Elizabeth studied Lord Eldridge silently, and then nodded. There was something else, something he was not telling her. Not that she was surprised. In her experience, agents were always tight-lipped, sharing little of themselves with others. She was greatly relieved when he opened the door and allowed her to escape. While she held no ill will toward Eldridge, she nevertheless looked forward to the day when he and his damned agency were no longer a part of her life.

Marcus entered the offices of Lord Eldridge just before ten in the evening. The summons had arrived just as he prepared to depart for the Dunsmore musicale. While he was impatient to see Elizabeth, he had some thoughts to share about the investigation and this unexpected audience was highly opportune.

Marcus adjusted his tails and dropped into the nearest chair.

“Lady Hawthorne came to see me this afternoon.”

“Did she?” Settled, Marcus took a pinch of snuff.

Eldridge continued to work without looking up, the papers before him lit by the candelabra on his desk and the shifting glow from the nearby fireplace. “She offered Viscount Hawthorne’s journal in exchange for removing you from your duties.”

The enameled snuff box snapped shut decisively.

With a sigh, Eldridge set aside his quill. “She was adamant about it, Westfield, even threatening to become uncooperative if I refused her.”

“I’m certain she was most persuasive.” Shaking his head, he asked, “What do you intend to do?”

“I told her I would look into it, and so I have. The question is—what do you intend to do?”

“Leave her to me. I was on my way to her when I received your summons.”

“If I discover you are using your position with the agency to further your own personal agenda, I will deal with you harshly.” Eldridge’s expression was grim.

“I would expect nothing less,” Marcus assured him.

“How is the journal coming along?”

“I’m making headway, but the going is slow.”

Eldridge nodded. “Soothe her concerns then. If she comes to me again, I will have no choice but to honor her request. That would be lamentable since you are making progress. I would prefer you to continue.”

Marcus pursed his lips and said what was on his mind. “Avery related today’s events to you, yes?”

“Of course. But you have something to add, I see.”

“I’ve thought of this situation ceaselessly. Something is amiss. The assailant was too aware of our preparations, as if he’d gained the knowledge beforehand. Certainly he would have expected her to contact the agency considering her husband’s involvement and the relevance of the book, but the way he’d hidden himself, the escape route he had planned . . . Damn it, we were not incompetent! Yet he evaded four men with little effort. He knew how the men were arranged. And Hawthorne’s journal. How did he learn of it?”

“You suspect internal perfidy?”

“How else?”

“I trust my men implicitly, Westfield. The agency couldn’t exist otherwise.”

“Consider the possibility. It’s all I ask.”

Eldridge arched a gray brow. “Avery? The outriders? Who can you trust?”

“Avery bears an obvious fondness for Lady Hawthorne. So you, Avery, myself—that is the extent of my trust at this moment.”

“Well, that certainly negates Lady Hawthorne’s request, does it not?” Eldridge pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed wearily. “Let me reflect on who might have been told about Hawthorne’s journal. Return tomorrow and we’ll discuss this further.”

Shaking his head in silent commiseration, Marcus departed, gazing about the empty outer offices before moving down the hall with its towering ceilings and dimly lit chandeliers. For a brief moment, he’d been furious with Elizabeth and then the feeling passed. She would never have involved Eldridge unless she felt the need was dire. She’d been affected this afternoon, shaken enough to set aside her formidable pride.

A crack had appeared in her armor. He hoped it wouldn’t be long before the shell was removed and he could once again see the vulnerable woman who hid inside.

“You look the fittest I’ve seen you in years,” Margaret said, her sweet smile revealing a charming dimple. “You are radiant this evening.”

Elizabeth flushed and fluffed the pale blue silk of her over-skirts. She looked ravished. There was no other way to describe it. “It is you who is radiant. Every woman here pales in comparison. Pregnancy agrees with you.”

Margaret’s hand moved to cover the slight protrusion of her lightly corseted stomach. “I’m pleased you are making the effort to socialize and be seen. Today’s ride in the park did wonders for your complexion. William is concerned about those formidable looking outriders you hired, but I explained how difficult it must be for you, reemerging alone after the death of your spouse.”

Elizabeth bit her bottom lip. “Yes,” she agreed softly. “It has been difficult.”

Just then, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. It was not necessary to turn around to discern why.

Marcus had arrived. She refused to face him. Her blood still thrummed with the pleasure he’d given her, and a man as perceptive as he was would know it.

Margaret leaned closer. “Heavens. The way Lord Westfield looks at you could start a fire. Fortunate for you that William did not attend this evening. Can you imagine if he had? I’d wager they’d come to fisticuffs. You should have heard Westfield say you were worth the risk of death in a duel. Every woman in London is green with envy.”

Elizabeth could feel the burning emerald gaze from across the crowded room. She shivered, her senses acutely attuned to the man who approached her.

“Here he comes.” Margaret arched a copper brow. “The gossips will go mad over this, crazed as they’ve been over that row with William at the Morelands’. This will only add fuel to the fire.” Her voice tapered off.

“Lady Barclay,” purre

d the velvet voice, as Marcus bowed low over Margaret’s proffered hand. His shoulder brushed deliberately against Elizabeth’s arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake.

“Lord Westfield, a pleasure.”

He turned and the intensity of his gaze robbed her of breath. Dear heaven. He looked as if he meant to toss up her skirts at any moment. Dressed in a dark blue coat and breeches, he made every other man fade to insignificance.

“Lady Hawthorne.” He captured her hand, which hung limply at her side, and lifted it, meeting it halfway with the descent of his mouth. His kiss was anything but chaste, melting through her glove as his fingers caressed the center of her palm.

Instantly she was aroused, on edge, wanting those fingers to caress her everywhere as they’d done mere hours ago. He watched her with a knowing smile, well aware of her reaction.

“Lord Westfield.” She tugged her hand, but he would not release it. Her stomach fluttered as his fingertips continued their gentle stroking.