His lips, though thin, were curved in a way that could only be described as carnal, but his gaze … his gaze was coldly intent. She sensed he was the type of man who trusted no one and nothing. But that observation was not what caused her shiver of apprehension. Her misgiving was due entirely to the way he approached her. The subtle cant of his body toward hers was decidedly proprietary.
The raspy voice came again. “I regret I must be importunate, Lady Hawthorne, but we have an urgent matter to discuss.”
Elizabeth shielded herself in her iciest social deportment. “It is the rare occasion, sir, when I find myself discussing urgent matters with complete strangers.”
He showed a leg in a courtly bow. “Forgive me,” he replied, his voice deliberately low and soothing. “Christopher St. John, my lady.”
Elizabeth’s breath halted in her throat. Her pulse racing, she took a preservative step backward. “What is it you wish to discuss with me, Mr. St. John?”
He took the position next to her, resting his hands on the wrought iron railing as he looked out over the maze. His casual stance was deceptive. Much like Marcus, he used an overtly friendly demeanor to reassure those around him, subtly urging others to lower their guard. The tactic had the opposite effect on Elizabeth. She tried not to tense visibly as her insides twisted.
“You received a journal that belonged to your late husband, did you not?” he asked smoothly.
The color drained from her face.
“How do you know of it?” Her eyes widened as her gaze swept over him. “Are you the man who attacked me in the park?” He did not appear to be suffering from any injury.
“You are in grave danger, Lady Hawthorne, as long as that book remains in your possession. Turn it over to me, and I will see to it you are not disturbed again.”
Fear and anger blended inside her. “Are you threatening me?” Her chin lifted. “I take leave to tell you, sir, I am not without protection.”
“I am well aware of your prowess with a pistol, but that skill is no proof against the type of danger you find yourself facing now. The fact that you have involved Lord Eldridge only complicates matters further.” He looked at her and the barrenness in the depths of his eyes chilled her to the bone. “It is in your best interests to give me that book.”
St. John’s voice was laced with soft menace, his eyes piercing from behind the mask. His casual pose was unable to hide the vibrant energy that distinguished him as a dangerous man.
Elizabeth couldn’t stop her shudder of fear and revulsion. He cursed under his breath.
“Here,” he murmured gruffly, reaching into a small pocket that graced his white satin waistcoat. He withdrew a small object, and held it out to her. “This belongs to you, I believe.”
Refusing to take her eyes from his face, she closed her hand around it.
“You must—” He stopped and swiveled quickly. She followed his gaze and relief flooded her to find Marcus standing in the doorway.
Pure ferocious rage radiated from him in waves. The lines of his face were harsh, reflecting murderous intent. “Back away from her,” he ordered. His tension was palpable, coiled like a tight spring, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.
St. John faced her unperturbed, and bowed again. His casual deportment fooled no one. A profusion of ill will and resentment poisoned the air around the two men. “We will continue our conversation some other time, Lady Hawthorne. In the meantime, I urge you to consider my request. For your own safety.” He walked past Marcus with a taunting smile. “Westfield. Always a pleasure.”
Marcus sidestepped, halting St. John’s escape to the ballroom. “Approach her again, and I’ll kill you.”
St. John grinned. “You’ve been threatening me with death for years, Westfield.”
Marcus bared his teeth in a feral smile. “I was merely biding my time until the proper excuse presented itself. I have it now. Soon I shall have what I need to see you hanged. You cannot evade justice forever.”
“No? Ah, well … I await your convenience.” St. John glanced at Elizabeth one more time before circumventing Marcus and melting into the crowded ballroom beyond.
She looked down at the object in her hand and the shock of recognition forced her to grip the railing for support. Marcus was beside her instantly.
“What is it?”
She held out her open palm. “It’s my cameo brooch, given to me by Hawthorne as a wedding gift. I broke the clasp. See? It is still broken. He offered to return it to the jeweler’s for repair the morning of his death.”
Marcus plucked the pin from her hand, and examined it. “St. John returned it? What did he say? Tell me everything.”
“He wants the journal.” She stared up at his grim features. “And he knew of the attack in the park.”
“Bloody hell,” Marcus growled under his breath, pocketing the brooch. “I knew it.” Wrapping her hand around his arm, he led her from the balcony.
Within moments, Marcus had retrieved their cloaks and called for his carriage, assisting her inside as soon as it rolled to a halt. Ordering the outriders to guard her, he turned back toward the manse, his stride lengthening with purpose.
Leaning out the window, Elizabeth called after him. “Where are you going?”
“After St. John.”
“No, Marcus,” she begged, her fingers gripping the sill, her heart racing madly. “You said yourself he’s dangerous.”
“Don’t worry, love,” he called over his shoulder. “So am I.”
Elizabeth waited endlessly, devastated to her very soul. For the first time since starting the affair, she acknowledged how little control she had. Marcus cared nothing for her worry or her distress. Knowing how she must feel, he’d left anyway, deliberately courting danger. And now she waited. He’d been gone so long. Too long. What was happening? Had he found the pirate? Had they exchanged words? Or fought? Perhaps Marcus was hurt …
She gazed sightlessly out the window as her stomach roiled. Certain she was about to cast up her accounts, Elizabeth thrust open the door and stumbled down. The outriders moved to her side just as Marcus appeared.
“Sweet.” He pulled her close. The heavy silk of his coat was cold from the night air, but inside she was far more chilled. “Don’t be frightened. I will protect you.”
Elizabeth gave a choked, half-mad laugh. The most pressing peril came from Marcus himself. He was a man who thrived on reckless behavior and lived for the thrill of the chase. He would forever be placing himself in jeopardy, because taking risks was ingrained in his nature.
The agency … St. John … Marcus …
She had to get away from them all.
Far, far away.
Chapter 10
Marcus paused in his prowling of the guesthouse foyer to stare at the Persian rug beneath his feet. He searched for signs of wear caused by his relentless tread.