The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel Page 13

  “Page forty-six in your hymnals.”

  Sarah reached for the hymnbook at the vicar’s direction and opened it to the proper page, holding the book lower to share with Nigel.

  The low, sad strains of the hymn began and the mourners’ voices lifted in song. Sarah attempted to avert her eyes from Jasper’s mother, but it was impossible to look away as Mrs. Wilmington stoically sang through her tears.

  It was all so senseless. They weren’t bad boys. They had just been looking for adventure. And someone—

  Sarah took a deep breath and tried to calm herself as a burst of fury rolled through her.

  Someone had killed Jasper. And that someone should pay.

  She glanced at Lord Weston once again.

  Perhaps, she thought, swallowing past the tightness in her throat, she was not helpless, after all.

  Lord Weston’s rank, his wealth and power—and the very fact that he was a man—would allow him access to people and places that a woman could never secure on her own.

  His interest in the boy’s death was obvious enough. And over the past few days, Sarah had sensed in him a desire for more from Lulworth, something she could help him with if only he’d agree.

  If she could convince him that she was essential to his success, they might just be able to track down the individual responsible for Jasper’s murder.

  The hymn ended, signaling the close of the service. The casket was carried down the aisle, followed by the vicar, then Lord Weston, then Jasper’s family.

  Lord Weston nodded as he passed and Sarah inclined her head solemnly in acknowledgment.

  Then it was the Tisdale family’s turn. Sarah stepped out into the aisleway, standing aside to let Nigel join her.

  She took his hand and they followed their parents, moving past pews filled with mourning villagers and out through the heavy oaken doors, leaving the dim church for the mid-morning sunlight and blue sky.

  Sarah searched the stone steps and churchyard for Lord Weston, concerned that he may have already left.

  Nigel’s hand slipped from hers, drawing Sarah’s attention.

  “I’ll just say hello to Clive,” he said in explanation, nodding toward the boy, who stood near the vicar.

  “Of course,” she responded, watching with concern as Nigel slowly approached his friend.

  “How is he today?” Lord Weston’s deep voice, the merest hint of a Scottish burr shading the words, sent a shiver up Sarah’s spine.

  “As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she answered, turning to meet his concerned gaze.

  He glanced at Nigel once more, studying the two boys intently, and then returned his attention to her. “And you?”

  “Truthfully?”

  A small smile curved his lips. “I’d expect nothing less, Miss Tisdale.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it.” She looked about as people began to make their way to the Boot. She gestured toward the tavern. “Shall we?”

  At his curious expression, she explained, “Jasper’s parents want to bury the boy, alone. We’ll proceed to the Boot for the wake. A collection will be taken up on their behalf to pay for the funeral expenses. I’m sure Jasper’s family would very much like for you to attend.”

  Lord Weston hesitated, turning his gaze to where Sarah’s parents stood, her mother eyeing him critically. “The Wilmingtons may be the only ones to welcome my presence.”

  “You may be correct,” Sarah answered succinctly, gesturing for Lord Weston to offer his arm.

  She placed her slight arm in his substantial one, then paused, tipping her face into the light breeze off the water. The salt-scented wind teased the curls at her nape and temples, clearing the last of the funeral gloom from her senses. “Does it bother you?”

  “Does what bother me, Miss Tisdale?” he asked in return.

  Sarah squeezed his arm slightly. “Come now, Lord Weston, do we not know each other well enough to speak plainly?”

  His face remained impassive. “Are you referring to the villagers’ low opinion of me, then?”

  “Yes,” she answered succinctly. “I suspect that it does affect you.”

  “You do mean to speak plainly, don’t you?” he replied, a low, reluctant chuckle escaping his lips.

  “Lord Weston,” she began, purposely slowing their pace further as they approached the Boot, “I’ve the desire to help you find your place in Lulworth and the means to do so.”

  “Why?” he asked quietly.

  They reached the tavern’s front door and Sarah tugged him aside to allow the group behind them entry. “Because we are friends, Lord Weston. And I want you to be happy.”

  He nodded in understanding.

  “And I want your help in finding Jasper’s killer,” she added.

  “I see,” he replied, moving toward the door.

  Sarah stepped in front of him. “No, you don’t,” she argued, lowering her voice as two more made their way into the tavern. “I would not lie, Lord Weston. I do want you to be happy—”

  “Miss Tisdale, there is no need to explain yourself.”

  Sarah balled her hands into fists at her sides. “Yes, actually there is. I’m not known for eloquence, that much you can attest to, I’m sure. But I am honest, would you not agree?”

  “To a fault,” he replied, looking up the high street.

  “Then please believe me. I do care for your welfare. And I also care for the happiness of the townsfolk, which will not be secure until we find the man responsible for Jasper’s death.”

  Lord Weston looked down into Sarah’s face, his own unreadable. “If I agree, can we retire to the Boot? I find myself in need of a drink.”

  Sarah smiled widely. “Is that a yes—or should I wait on asking until you’ve had that drink?”

  Lord Weston took her arm and turned her toward the door. “Perhaps until after the third.”

  Marcus loosened Pokey’s girth strap, the big horse letting out a snort of pleasure as he did so.

  Sully had been waiting for him in the stables. “Is she naïve, then, or too smart for her own good?”

  Marcus lifted Pokey’s saddle from the stallion’s back and handed it to Sully. “I’m not entirely certain.”

  A stable hand hovered nearby, fussing with a pile of straw as he watched Marcus untack Pokey.

  “Off with you,” Sully told the man, adding, “The earl is perfectly capable of putting up his horse for the night.”

  The stable hand sketched a quick, awkward bow, and hastily headed for the stable door.

  Sully walked the short distance to the tack room and dropped the leather saddle onto the wooden saddle stock, returning to stand next to Pokey’s head.

  “Well, my lord, stupid or smart?”

  Marcus tossed a brush to Sully and leaned against the rough wood wall. Normally, he brushed Pokey himself but his aching leg warned him it needed rest if he was to rely on it.

  As the valet began to gently tease the dirt from the Thoroughbred’s hide, Marcus examined what he knew to be true of Sarah. Fearless, completely lacking in guile, intelligent, honest to a fault, passionate, utterly charming without trying one whit to be so, and a damned good kisser.

  He shifted uncomfortably, lifting his aching leg, and settled the sole of his boot against the wood wall. He knew very well that the last attribute had nothing to do with whether or not Sarah knew more about the smuggling ring than she let on. So he tried again, this time focusing on what would make her suspect. He mentally rifled through the previous list and realized that, with only a few small adjustments in intent here and there, every reason for her to not be involved somehow was, in truth, every reason why she could be.

  “Sully,” Marcus began, standing up straight to stretch. “You called her a country bumpkin, did you not?”

  “That I did,” the valet confirmed, sweeping long sure strokes with the brush down Pokey’s side. “But the more time I spend in Lulworth, the more I wonder who’s not involved in running goods, rather than who is.”


  “And the Tisdales’ financial situation?”

  “Secure,” Sully replied, reaching for Pokey’s legs. “Modest, of course, but what a baronet’s resources should be.”

  Marcus considered the valet’s words. “And Nigel’s list?”

  Sully bent to brush firm strokes over the horse’s girth. He came around Pokey’s rump and started on the opposite side. “A nasty lot, those blokes. Charles is a doting grandmother compared to the rest. Marlowe’s working on it. Should have some news within a day or two.”

  Marcus considered the information while watching Pokey’s long, flaxen tail swish back and forth.

  “Well then?” Sully pressed, capturing Marcus’s attention once again. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Marcus looked at the valet, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “Gah,” the valet grunted, coming back around the horse to stand directly in front of Marcus. “You’re not a laggard when it comes to judging people. So what seems to be the problem with yon bonnie lass?” Sully asked, borrowing Marcus’s Scottish burr.

  “I cannot see one,” Marcus insisted, settling back against the wall. “The contrary, actually. She’s offered to ease my way into Lulworth society if I help her ferret out the Wilmington boy’s killer.”

  “If you help her?” Sully replied incredulously. “Well, that’ll make it easy enough, then.”

  Marcus folded his arms across his chest. “Meaning?”

  “Did you take a spill on your way home tonight?” Sully asked sardonically, slapping the horse on the rump. “It sounds as if she’s nearly begging for you to use her to your advantage. And I’ve never known you to pass up such an opportunity.”

  Marcus felt a headache coming on. “You make me out to be—”

  “Good at your job?” Sully interrupted, turning back to the horse. “Don’t go growing a conscience now, my lord. It will do you no good.”

  He was right, and Marcus knew it.

  Marcus pushed himself off the wall and strode over to a bucket full of carrots. He pulled out three and shuffled back to Pokey.

  He snapped a carrot in two, laid it on the palm of his hand, and offered it to the Thoroughbred, watching the length of the carrot disappear quickly between Pokey’s powerful teeth.

  “So you like her, then?” Sully asked, nearly finished with the brushing.

  Marcus snapped the next carrot in three chunks and fed them to his horse. “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not,” Sully answered, his tone reflective. “Just that I’ve not known you to spend more than a few moments thinking on a woman—not when she’s part of a case. Actually, even when she’s not.”

  “Should I not be thinking about her, then?” Marcus questioned, keeping his gaze on Pokey’s muzzle as he munched the carrot.

  Sully dropped the brush into a grooming kit near the stall door. “Oh, I don’t know that I’m the right one to ask about such things. But I had to ask—mustn’t keep the gossipmongers waiting.”

  “Tell the wagging tongues that I’m merely a man anxious to make good on all that my title requires of me,” Marcus replied, unhooking Pokey from the cross ties and leading him into the stall. “And do not delay. I’ve need to resolve this sooner rather than later.”

  “Missing London, are you?” Sully asked knowingly.

  Marcus thought he could actually hear Sully wink.

  “Yes, something like that.”

  “Hmph,” Sully grunted with masculine disgust. “Cook’s become demanding—insisting on flowers. Flowers!”

  Marcus unbuckled and removed Pokey’s halter. “Women, they’re illogical.” He stood back so the big chestnut could reach his hay.

  “Exactly what I said—well, not to her, of course,” Sully added sheepishly as he passed the iron bars of the stall window on his way to the tack room.

  Marcus heard the grooming kit land with a thud as Sully dropped it onto the dusty floor of the tack room, just on the other side of Pokey’s stall.

  “Ready, sir?” Sully asked as he slid the stall door open.

  Marcus toyed with the leather halter in his hands. “Not quite yet. Tell Cook I’ll be in shortly.”

  “As if she’s not already fit to be tied,” Sully grumbled, closing the stall door behind him with force.

  “I’ve faith in your ability to calm her—you are, by far, my most charming of valets.”

  “I’m your only valet and well you know it,” Sully replied over his shoulder. He muttered a litany of verbal abuse that in all likelihood turned the dusky evening sky a deeper blue. The grumbling faded as he walked away from the stables toward the castle.

  Marcus let out a long, low chuckle. “He doesna mean any of it,” he assured Pokey. The Thoroughbred’s ears pricked at the sound of his master’s voice before he dropped his muzzle and resumed eating.

  Marcus turned toward the western wall of the stall and flattened his palms against the rough, whitewashed wood, lowering the heel of his injured leg behind and stretching the aching muscles.

  Sarah had shown an interest in his happiness.

  Hell, she’d done more than that. The lass had all but pledged her love.

  She could not hide what she felt for him—hadn’t been able to for some time.

  Other women had exhibited such feelings, though their adoration had always been laced with pity for the poor half-blood earl.

  Was it too much to hope that Sarah’s love was the very thing Marcus’s uncle had told him of so many years ago?

  He couldn’t know for sure.

  And he hardly had the time to puzzle it out.

  He slowly eased erect, straightening his injured leg and frowning unseeingly at the blank wall before him.

  Frustrated, he slammed his fist against the rough wood wall. Pokey started, lifting his head with a worried whinny and shifting back, the straw bedding rustling beneath his hooves.

  I cannot be in love with Sarah.

  He’d thought often enough of the woman that his uncle had assured him existed. She loved him completely. Not out of pity or misguided helpfulness.

  He slammed the wall again, frustration and self-loathing boiling up from his belly.

  He’d once been fool enough to hope that he’d find a home in London. But the ton’s thinly veiled curiosity about the half Scot had felt far from comforting.

  He’d been wrong. He’d learned his lesson well. He had no plan to give Lulworth the opportunity to disappoint him again as well.

  He flexed the aching fingers on his right hand, rubbing the trace of blood from scraped knuckles.

  Besides, he thought, there was a chance that Sarah’s brother was involved with the smuggling plot on a much deeper level than he was willing to tell.

  And it was his job to find out. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  “I willnae be growing a conscience now,” he said aloud, the grim words earning barely a flick of sensitive ears from Pokey.

  Sarah accompanied Lord Weston and her father as they walked side by side across the meadow, together carrying a bulky telescope. It was twilight, the sun having just set over the cove in front of her, the house and woods behind them now bathed in growing dusk.

  “This will do,” Sir Arthur instructed. The two men slowed to a stop and gently lowered the fragile device down to rest on the soft grass. Lord Weston supported the telescope itself while Sarah’s father bent to assemble the wooden legs.

  Sarah hugged a large wool rug to her chest. She was grateful Lord Weston had agreed to join them this evening to take in the stars.

  She watched the men for a moment more before unfolding the rug. Firmly grasping two corners, she shook it aloft, the light breeze lifting and billowing the ashen gray wool before settling to allow her to spread the rug onto the grass in a perfect square.

  She didn’t know exactly why he’d agreed, but her request that Lord Weston help her find Jasper’s killer had been met with some measure of enthusiasm.

  Sarah knew that he was in no way obligated to say yes. Ei
ther the man truly did wish for acceptance in Lulworth or he wanted to spend more time with her.

  Or both.

  His behavior at Jasper’s wake had done much to favorably influence the citizens of Lulworth. Jasper’s father had told the entire town of Lord Weston’s kindness. When he quietly paid the vicar for the funeral expenses and covered the cost of the wake, Weston rose measurably in the eyes of Lulworth.

  Sarah knelt on the rug, a light worsted shawl about her shoulders.

  In truth, she reflected, Lulworth’s attitude toward Lord Weston had everything to do with his attitude toward Lulworth. His infrequent visits to the village since inheriting the title had done little to ingratiate him to the people who relied on the estate for income and advice.

  Sarah’s father bent down to peer through the telescope and Lord Weston stood for a moment, watching him adjust one knob and then another, an occasional “hmmph” escaping his lips.

  “Lord Weston,” Sarah called, motioning to him when he looked over his shoulder at her.

  He walked slowly to join her, stopping at the edge of the rug before stiffly lowering himself.

  “He’ll be ages adjusting the mirrors just so,” Sarah confided. “Better to rest until he’s satisfied with the settings.”

  Lord Weston smiled. “I suppose if one is going to go to all of this trouble, one ought to be precise about it.”

  “Trouble?” Sarah asked, looking up. Stars were winking into view, sparkling like bright diamonds against the black velvet of the sky. “Hardly any trouble here. Now, in London …”

  “Yes?” Lord Weston pressed.

  Sarah looked at him, fascinated by the shadows highlighting his face beneath the moon’s cool light. “Well, let me put it this way: When did you last see the stars in the sky over London, Lord Weston?”

  “The night before I left for Lulworth,” he drawled with amusement. “There was Sophia Contadino, the Italian soprano onstage at the Theatre Royal—”

  “Not stage stars, and well you know it,” she admonished him with little heat. “Really, just look up.”