Ah, there it was—the faint alluring smell of Elizabeth. Slowly, he followed it, his eyes closed and stinging, his memory of the place guiding him through the darkness.

As he wandered silently through the house, Marcus allowed his mind to wander, replaying bits and pieces of their stolen moments together. He remembered her laughter, the throaty sound of her voice, the silken touch of her skin …

He paused, listening.

No, he was not mistaken. He heard the muffled sounds of crying. Tense, he walked cautiously toward the bedroom. With eyes now open, he could see the faint light of a fire dancing through the gap under the door. He turned the knob and stepped into the room. Elizabeth was there, seated in front of the grate. In much the same state as he was.

She was right—it was time to end the affair. He’d been a fool to press for one to begin with.

They were not meant to be lovers.

He couldn’t think, could barely function, his work suffered along with his sleep. It was no way to carry on.

“Elizabeth,” he called softly.

Her eyes flew open, and she brushed furiously at the wetness on her cheeks.

His heart softened. The crack in her shell was open wide and he could see the woman she hid so well, fragile and very much alone. He longed to go to her and offer the comfort she so obviously needed, but he knew her too well. She would have to come to him. Any overture on his part would only force her to flee. And he didn’t want that. In fact, he couldn’t bear the thought. He wanted to hold her, care for her. He wanted to be what she needed, if only just this once.

Saying nothing more, Marcus removed his clothing, his movements deliberately casual. He threw aside the counterpane and slipped into the bed. Then he watched her, waiting. As she did every night, she gathered his garments and folded them neatly. She was biding her time, collecting herself, and his chest tightened with his understanding.

When she came to him and presented her back, he said nothing, simply loosened her dress in response to her silent command. His cock twitched and then hardened as she shrugged out of it, revealing her body naked, as always, beneath. Sliding over, he allowed her the room to slip into the bed next to him, into his arms. Marcus tucked her against his chest and gazed at the gilt-framed landscape that hung above the mantel.

This is contentment, he thought.

Her face pressed against his chest, Elizabeth whispered, “It must end.”

Marcus caressed the length of her spine with long soothing motions. “I know.”

And as simple as that, their affair was over.

Marcus entered Lord Eldridge’s offices a little past noon. Sinking into the worn leather chair in front of the desk, he waited for Eldridge to acknowledge him.

“Westfield.”

“Lady Hawthorne was approached by St. John at the Marks-Darby ball last night,” he said without preamble.

Gray eyes shot up to his. “Is she well?”

Marcus shrugged, his fingertips rubbing across the brass tacks along the arms. “By all outward appearances.” Other than that he couldn’t say. He’d been unable to coerce her into speaking about the subject. Despite his most passionate persuasion, she’d said not another word to him the rest of the night. “He knew of the book and the meeting in the park.”

Eldridge pushed away from the massive desk. “A man matching St. John’s description was treated for a bullet wound to the shoulder the same day.”

Marcus released a deep breath. “So your assumptions about St. John’s involvement in Lord Hawthorne’s murder appear to be correct. Did the physician relate anything of value?”

“Nothing beyond the description.” Eldridge stood, and stared out the window at the thoroughfare below. Framed by the dark green velvet of the curtains and the massive windows, the agency leader seemed smaller, more human and less legend. “I’m concerned for Lady Hawthorne’s safety. To approach her at such a crowded event is an act of desperation. I would never have considered St. John would be so bold.”

“I was surprised as well,” Marcus admitted. “I intend to call on her now. Frankly, I’m afraid to leave her alone. St. John had a brooch of Elizabeth’s, a piece she says Hawthorne had upon his person the night he was killed.”

“So it’s that way, is it?” Eldridge sighed. “The pirate has never lacked for boldness.”

Marcus grit his teeth, remembering the vastly unpleasant encounters he’d had with St. John over the years. “Why do we tolerate him?”

“A reasonable question. I’ve often considered the alternative. However he is so popular I’m afraid his disappearance might make him a martyr. Hawthorne’s work was a secret. We cannot reveal it, even to justify a criminal’s death.”

Cursing, Marcus stood.

“It chafes, Westfield, I know. But a public trial and hanging will do much to dispel his myth.”

“You hope.” He began to pace. “I’ve worked on the journal every day. The cryptic code changes with every paragraph, sometimes every sentence. I cannot find a pattern and I’ve learned nothing of value.”

“Bring it to me. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

“I would rather continue my examination. I think I’ve learned enough to continue.”

“Maintain a level head,” Eldridge warned, turning around as Marcus growled low in his throat.

“When have I not?”

“Whenever Lady Hawthorne is involved. Perhaps she has information of import. Have you discussed any of this with her?”

Marcus sucked in his breath, not wanting to admit that he disliked talking about her marriage.

Eldridge sighed. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

“I am the best agent to protect her,” Marcus retorted.

“No, you are the worst, and I cannot tell you how it pains me to say so. Your emotional involvement is affecting this mission, just as I warned you it might.”

“My personal affairs are my own business.”

“And this agency is mine. I’m replacing you.”

Marcus stopped and turned so swiftly the tails of his coat whipped about his thighs. “My services are required. Or have you forgotten? You have very few agents in the peerage.”

Eldridge stood with both hands clasped behind his back. The somber tones of his garments and wig were matched by his grim features. “I admit, when you walked into my office that first time and knew what it is I do here, I was impressed. Brash, headstrong, certain your father would live forever and you could do as you pleased, you were perfect to send after St. John. The youthful delusion of immortality has never left you, Westfield. You still take risks others refuse. But never doubt there are more like you.”

“Be assured, it has never once left my mind how expendable I am.”

“Lord Talbot will take over.”

Marcus shook his head and gave a wry, humorless laugh. “Talbot takes orders well enough, but he lacks initiative.”

“He does not need initiative. He simply has to walk in your footsteps. He works well with Avery James, I’ve paired them often.”

Cursing, Marcus spun on his heel and moved toward the door. “Replace me if you like. I won’t leave her to the care of another.”

“I am not giving you a choice, Westfield,” Eldridge called after him.

Marcus slammed the door behind him. “I’m not giving you a choice either.”

Marcus mounted his horse and headed straight to Chesterfield Hall. He’d planned to go there regardless, but now his need was more urgent. Elizabeth was certainly in the spirit of having nothing to do with him. He had to convince her otherwise and quickly. The affair was over, and good riddance. Now it was time to manage the rest of it.

He was immediately shown into the study where he forced himself to sit rather than pace in agitation. When the door opened behind him, he stood and turned with a charming smile for Elizabeth, only to scowl when he faced William.

“Westfield,” came the terse greeting.

“Barclay.”

“What do you want?”

Marcus blinked and then released a frustrated breath. Two steps forward and one back. “The same thing I want every time I call here. I wish to speak with Elizabeth.”

“She does not wish to speak with you. In fact, she left specific instructions that you were no longer welcome.”

“A moment of her time and all will be well, I assure you.”

William snorted. “Elizabeth is gone.”

“I will await her return, if you don’t mind.” He’d wait out by the street if he must. He had to talk with her before Eldridge did.

“No, you misunderstand. She has left Town.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“She’s gone. Packed up. Left. She came to her senses and realized what a cretin you are.”

“She said that?”

“Well,” William hedged. “I didn’t actually speak with her, but Elizabeth mentioned her desire to leave London to her abigail this morning, although she left without the girl. Which is a good thing considering the mess she left behind.”

Warning bells went off in Marcus’s head. One of the many things he’d learned about Elizabeth in their short time together was that she was fastidiously tidy. Marcus strode toward the door. “Did she state her destination?”

“She mentioned only that she needed distance from you. Once she’s calmed and sent word, I will go after her if she does not return on her own. This isn’t the first time something you’ve done has goaded her into acting rashly.”

“Show me to her rooms.”

“Now see here, Westfield,” William began, “I’m not lying to you. She’s gone. I will see to her, as I always have.”

“I will locate her boudoir myself, if I must,” Marcus warned.

With a great deal of grumbling, cursing, and complaining, William led him upstairs to Elizabeth’s suite of rooms. Marcus’s gaze lifted from the rugs which were wildly askew and strewn with crushed flowers, to the armoire doors which were flung open and the contents scattered. Drawers were pulled out and the bed linens tossed about in a scene that came straight out of a nightmare.

“Seems she was in high temper,” William said sheepishly.

“So it appears.” Marcus kept his face impassive, but inside his gut was clenched tight. He turned to the abigail. “How many of her garments did she take with her?”

The girl dipped a quick curtsy and replied, “None that I can tell, milord. But I’ve not finished yet.”

Marcus wouldn’t wait to find out. “Did she say anything of import to you?”

“No need to bark at the poor chit,” William snapped.

Marcus raised a hand for silence and pinned the servant with his stare.

“Only that she was restless, milord, and eager to travel. She sent me into town on an errand and left whilst I was gone.”

“Has she traveled without you often?”

The girl gave a jerky shake of her head. “It’s the first time, milord.”

“See how eager she was to flee you?” William asked grimly.

But Marcus paid him no mind. This was not the scene of a flared temper. Elizabeth’s room had been ransacked.

And she was missing.

Chapter 11

“Sit down, Westfield,” Eldridge ordered curtly. “Your frenzied pacing is driving me mad.”

Marcus glared as he took a seat. “I am going mad. I need to know where Elizabeth is. God only knows the ordeal …” He choked, his throat too tight to speak.

Eldridge’s normally stern features softened with sympathy. “You mentioned the outriders you assigned to her are gone as well. It’s a good sign. Perhaps they were able to follow and will report her whereabouts when the opportunity presents itself.”

“Or else they are dead,” Marcus retorted. He stood and began pacing again.

Eldridge leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “I have agents checking all possible roads leading from Chesterfield Hall and questioning everyone who lives near enough to have seen or heard anything. Information is bound to surface.”

“Time is a luxury we don’t have,” Marcus growled.

“Go home. Wait for word.”

“I’ll wait here.”

“Your outriders may attempt to contact you. Perhaps they’ve already tried. You should return to your home. Keep yourself occupied. Pack and make preparations to leave.”

The thought of a message waiting for him gave Marcus a sense of purpose. “Very well, but if you hear anything—”

“Anything at all, yes, I will send for you posthaste.”

For the all too brief ride back to his home Marcus felt productive, but the moment he arrived and discovered nothing new had been reported his near ferocious agitation returned in full measure. With his family in residence, he could not give vent to his feelings, and was forced instead to retreat from their curious eyes.

He prowled the lengths of his galleries in his shirtsleeves, his skin damp with sweat, his heart racing as if he were running. Constant rubbing at the back of his neck left the skin raw, but he couldn’t stop. The pictures in his mind … torturous thoughts of Elizabeth needing him … hurting … afraid …

His head fell back on a groan of pure anguish. He couldn’t bear it. He wanted to yell, to snarl, to tear something apart.

An hour passed. And then another. Finally he could take the waiting no more. Marcus returned to his room, shrugged into his coats, and moved to the staircase, his intent to hunt St. John down. The pressure of his knife sheathed in his boot fueled his bloodlust. If Elizabeth were harmed in any way there would be no mercy.

Halfway down the stairs, he spotted his butler at the door and a moment later it opened, revealing one of the outriders. Covered in dust from his rapid return, the man waited in the foyer and bowed as Marcus’s boot hit the marble floor.