Chapter 13
Thirteen
“Well? You’ve had over a day. What have you discovered?”
Marcus had to repress a bark of reluctant laughter at how changed in tone her correspondence had become. No more warm greetings, no more frank exchange of opinions or feelings.
Just business.
Picking up his pen to reply, he couldn’t help but wonder on it.
Why did she insist on treating him with such coolness?
If she liked him on paper, why couldn’t she show at least some regard for him in person?
All vanity aside, he was not unaware of how most females reacted to him.
Surely she didn’t find him objectionable to look at, so it must be something else.
He toyed with the bottle of ink, recalling a number of her written musings.
Though he hadn’t really given it much thought, it seemed that Augusta was wont to dwell on how she didn’t fit into Society, how estranged she was from the superficial gaiety and charm.
And more than once in his presence, she had let slip a comment about her lack of physical endowments.
Was that really how she saw herself—an unattractive, awkward female with no redeeming qualities?
An exasperated sigh slipped from his lips. It couldn’t be. She was too intelligent not to realize that her unique intellect, coupled with her intriguing looks, made her … irresistible.
So there had to be another more plausible reason, but damned if he could fathom what it was. Giving up for the moment, he scrawled off a brief note and rang for a footman.
Despite the fact that she persisted in calling him odious and insufferable, he couldn’t ignore the temptation to see her again …
If she wanted information, she would have to consent to a drive through the park.
Augusta dropped the paper into her lap, a scowl creasing her face.
Drat the man! Why couldn’t he just write what he had to say?
Or did he enjoy teasing the color to her face?
Even now she could feel a faint heat prickling her flesh on thinking of him.
His physical presence ignited an even more visceral response.
But duty called, she reminded herself. She needed to know what he had learned and so she would have to spend time in his company, no matter how difficult it was on her peace of mind.
Taking up her pen, Augusta dashed off a reply with enough force on the nib to send a fine spray of droplets spattering across the paper.
Promptly at the appointed hour, a knock on the door heralded the earl’s arrival.
He was nothing if not punctual, she thought grimly as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet snugly under her chin.
Then, like a knight settling his helm in place for battle, she gave it one last tug and set off, ready to begin their jousting.
Marcus seemed unperturbed by her deliberate silence.
In fact, he appeared to be whistling under his breath as the phaeton turned into the park.
Having expected a clash of verbal swords rather than this nonchalant display of good humor, she found herself rattled, and couldn’t help abandoning her own pose of disinterested detachment.
“Well?”
He slanted a sideways look at her. “A fine afternoon for a drive, is it not, Gus?”
“The weather has been uncommonly nice for this time of year, the price of kid gloves has become exorbitant, the neckline of gown Lady Fitzwilliam wore last week was shocking, and the latest offering at Haymarket Theatre is said to be quite entertaining,” she replied in a rush.
“There, we have dispensed with all the rest of the platitudes, so now can we get down to business?”
Marcus chuckled. “You forgot one thing.” His eyes ran over the navy merino carriage dress and snug little jacket frogged in military fashion that Marianne had chosen for her. “You are looking very well, Gus.”
She ducked her head, hoping to hide her blush. Lud, it was difficult enough sitting close beside him and pretending to be unmoved without having to listen to such pleasant banter. Teeth on edge, she forced a cool reply. “I believe you have something of greater importance to tell me, sir.”
“Marcus,” he corrected. “I thought we had come to an agreement on that.”
“Well, have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Something to tell me!” she said with some impatience.
His brow rose slightly.
“Marcus,” she added in a near whisper.
He lips twitched. “As a matter of fact, I have.” The horses slowed to a sedate trot. “Weston and Stutz have never seen the fabric. Nor have any of the other tailors on Bond Street or Jermyn Street.”
“Oh, that’s helpful,” she remarked rather snidely.
He shot her an aggrieved look before continuing.
“I didn’t say that was all, did I? There are other tailors, of course, in less fashionable locations that are not as well-known, but more willing to offer a gentleman generous terms in return for his patronage.
” He paused to grimace. “You have no idea how many ghastly waistcoats and ridiculous chitterlings I have been forced to view.”
“A sore trial, I’m sure.”
“Just so. Now, neither Gibbons nor Thurgood nor Haskins had the silk. Then I remembered Joshua Hallinsworth near Regent Park …”
She began to grind her teeth.
“But alas, no luck there. Although oddly enough, I did find a rather attractive paisley pattern in dark burgundy and navy that—”
“Marcus!”
“You do not care for paisley?”
“If you say another word about a color or pattern other than the one which we are seeking, I will finish the job those two ruffians set out to do!”
“Don’t tell me you’ve added a knife to the gruesome assortment of weapons in that reticule of yours.” Before she could retort, he ceased his teasing. “But if you insist, we’ll dispense with your opinion on sartorial splendor. What you wish to hear is the name Shackleford.”
Augusta looked thoroughly perplexed.
“I wouldn’t have thought of his name either. Not my taste at all. But the dreadful fellow was so anxious to curry my favor that he dug around in his workshop until he emerged victorious with several yards of the silk.”
“Our silk?”
“The exact same. And a rare silk at that. Apparently only one bolt survived a leaky hull and long passage from Peking. He bought it, along with several other remnants, from the shipper at a favorable price.”
“So we may assume that not many garments have been made from the stuff,” she said very slowly.
“I think it is safe to say so.”
“And this Shackleford—he remembers his clientele?”
“He does, though hastening his recall cost me the order of a garment I shall relegate to the waste bin as quickly as possible.”
“Please stop teasing,” she urged. “What did he tell you?”
The earl took a moment to guide his team around a sharp bend, then brought the phaeton to a complete stop among a copse of elm and hawthorn.
“Ludlowe is our man.” he said softly.
“Oh! “ Augusta drew in a shaky breath. “Now we know for certain who is the miscreant behind these terrible crimes!” She leaned toward him with a radiant smile and placed a hand on his arm. “Marcus, how very clever of you!”
“I’ve proven useful, haven’t I?”
There was something about his tone that caused her expression to turn wary. “Yes, indeed you have,” she answered rather hesitantly.
“Then perhaps I should be rewarded for my efforts.”
Her jaw dropped in shock, and for a moment she was unable to speak. “Shame on you, sir!“ she finally managed to sputter. “I had not thought you so mercenary as to expect a sum—”
“It’s not money I’m speaking of, Gus.”
She bit at her lower lip. “J-Just what did you have in mind?”
There was no answer as he dropped the reins and bent his head toward hers. This time the kiss was gentle, his lips merely grazing over hers at first. She recoiled as if burned, but his hands had come up around her shoulders and stopped her from pulling away.
“Am I truly that odious?” he murmured before taking possession of her mouth again.
Augusta knew that she should do something to put out the flames licking up inside of her but all such resolve seemed to go up in smoke.
Leaning into his embrace, she gave in to trail a caress along the line of his jaw.
Then, as if knowing that in another instant she would be consumed by the fire, she managed to draw back.
Her hands flattened against his chest, creating some space between them. “I … think you had better take me home, sir.”
“Gus,” he began.
“Please! At once!” She was mortified by the note of rising panic in her voice.
Flighty heroines and gothic melodramas had always seemed so laughable to her, yet here she was, enacting her own Cheltenham tragedy.
It would have been a most amusing scene, she supposed, had she not been the leading lady.
Marcus looked at her uncertainly. “I’m sorry, but—”
The sound of an approaching carriage only threatened to turn high drama into farce.
The little tiger, who had studiously kept his eyes averted from what was going on in the front of the vehicle cleared his throat. “Er, Guv. There’s somebody coming up on us fast. Ye might want te replace wot’s in yer hands with the reins, if ye knows wot’s good fer ye..”
The earl’s response was a rather long curse.
“Don’t go yelling at me,” muttered the tiger “I ain’t the one drivin’ the udder team.” He gave an affronted sniff. “Nor is I the one what’s been doing the kissing.” His breath came out in a doleful sigh. “Wimmen!”
Marcus bit back another oath as he made to follow his tiger’s advice.
He snatched up the reins and set his own horses in motion just as the other carriage came tooling around the bend.
There was no room to pass and so it was forced to slow down until the trees were cleared and the path widened once again.
Lord Wilford gave a brief wave as he swung out to pass.
The other occupants—two maiden aunts and spotty faced younger sibling just down from Oxford—nodded as they went by.