No Place for a Lady (39 page)

Except now, he felt differently. His love for her was so much more, so much deeper and truer. It was a man's love. One that would extend through the years, growing stronger with age, hotter with touch, and deeper than he could possibly imagine.

He loved her that much. More than enough to court social ruin by marrying her. Enough to risk life and limb and his mother's derision as well.

He grinned. Goodness, his life had gotten a good deal less bland of late.

He straightened his shoulders, suddenly more anxious than ever to be done with his errand. He wanted to rush home and tell Fantine the news. He loved her! And they would marry!

He did not fool himself that she would fall into his arms immediately. She was much too stubborn to be persuaded easily. But she would eventually fall to him. He was an excellent catch and besides that, she loved him!

He nearly danced a jig. Instead, he pounded one last furious time on Lord Baylor's door.

"Bloody hell," grumbled Baylor as he finally pulled open the door. "Can you not take the hint and go away?"

Marcus's eyes widened at the sight of Lord Baylor himself answering his door. "Where is your man?"

"On holiday," came the surly response.

Marcus nodded. It only took one glance inside to understand what was happening. Good Lord, the house was nearly stripped bare. Baylor had probably sold everything that was not nailed down. He clearly needed money. And power. He needed Wilberforce's seat. Given Baylor's connections, he could easily parlay that into a lucrative cabinet post that would tide him over until his inheritance came through.

As for the man himself, Baylor only confirmed the image of someone on his last respectable gasp. Though his clothing was immaculate, his stance was stooped and haggard. The man's cravat was impeccably tied, but the skin along his jowls seemed to hang sallow over his shirt points.

But lest he assume the man completely done in, Marcus chanced to look directly into Baylor's eyes. Not only were they alert, they were almost nervously focused. His gaze darted from Marcus to his clothing to the street and his curricle with precision.

It was a disconcerting sight, but then again, Marcus had always found Baylor somewhat disconcerting.

"Well, speak up, Chadwick," the man snapped. "I mean to go to White's, and I have no interest in standing about with you."

Thus recalled to his task, Marcus wasted no more time on pleasantries. "You need not rush," he said bluntly. "There will be no murder today. Wilberforce will not go to White's. I have come to allow you to escape with your reputation and honor, such as it is, intact. Leave for the Colonies by tomorrow dawn or I shall expose you in a public trial." He allowed himself a smile as he delivered the final blow. "Imagine what your father will do when he finds out. Disinherit you, I'm sure."

Baylor spent a moment gaping at him, then suddenly pulled himself together with a theatrical gasp. "Good God, you are mad! Chadwick, dear boy, I have not the slightest inkling of what you are talking about."

Marcus shrugged, suddenly weary with the whole affair. "Then a court of law will find you innocent." He gave Baylor a mocking bow and made to leave, but the man caught his arm.

"Wait! Wait a moment, please."

Given their position, Marcus had no choice but to stop while Baylor pulled his thoughts together.

"You have caught me at an awkward moment—"

"No doubt," Marcus responded dryly.

"I played rather deep and fast, last night—"

"And lost, I do not wonder."

Baylor sighed, his hand slowly relaxing against Marcus's coat. "I was trying to extricate myself from this situation. There is more to it than first appears." He took a deep breath and looked extraordinarily pathetic. "It would be a great relief to unburden myself to a friend. I do not wish to hurt Wilberforce. I never have. Oh, Lord!" He took a shuddering breath as he stepped backward into the dark recesses of his hallway. "Please, can you not help me?"

It was a good performance, if indeed Baylor was acting. If not, then the man was truly in horrible straits.

Marcus hesitated. Was Baylor weak enough to be manipulated by someone else? Someone more powerful, more canny? The answer was an absolute yes. A month ago, Marcus would have dismissed the thought immediately. Surely corruption in the British government could not run so deep. But Fantine had made him question a good many of his long-held beliefs. It was possible that Baylor was being used. But by whom and why?

"Please," pressed Baylor, "I am so frightened. Surely, as a gentlemen, you cannot stop at anything less than the full truth."

Marcus sighed. Gentlemen or not, the man was right. He had to explore this last ridiculous ploy to discover if there was a grain of truth somewhere in it. "Very well," he said dully. "Fifteen minutes. But if I suspect this is all a ruse, then I shall not wait. I will personally drag you to the magistrate without a second's thought."

"I understand."

And with that, Marcus stepped into the gloomy interior of the Baylor town house.

* * *

"Oh, thank God you are still here, Jacob," called Fantine as she rushed toward Marcus's coachman and carriage. "I hurried as fast as I could."

The man looked up from where he was hitching up the horses. "An' why would you be looking fer me?"

Fantine put on her most innocent, most beguiling look. "To go with you to get Wilberforce, of course."

The old man frowned, rubbing his grizzled cheek. "The master said I was to keep Mr. Wilberforce at the cottage, not take 'im anywhere."

Fantine sighed as she scrambled into the box. "But that was before we found out he needs to be moved. I am to take him someplace else. Surely he said something to you."

Jacob stroked his chin, regarding her with steady eyes. "'E did not say a thing about that."

Fantine released a curse of frustration. "Well, it is what we have to do. I do not care if he has forgotten to tell you, I am here now."

Jacob folded his arms across his chest. "Did you two 'ave another spat?"

"What we have," she responded curtly, "is very little time to get to Wilberforce. Please will you come on?"

He hesitated, and she feared she had overplayed her hand, especially when he narrowed his eyes, peering at her. "An' jes where are we supposed to take 'im?"

She answered without thought. "To my home in the rookeries."

"What?" he gasped, but Fantine was already speaking, cutting off his objections.

"I know it is risky, but there are things I must show him, things he must understand. That can only be accomplished in the rookeries."

Jacob just shook his head. "Sounds risky t' me. Wot about them other folks, Hurdy and Ballast?"

Fantine shook her head, lying to herself as much as Jacob. "It's quite safe. Hurdy's busy at White's, and it will take time for Ballast to round up his men." Abandoning her confident pose, she resorted to honest pleading. "I swear we won't stay long. He only needs to speak to Nameless and Louise. If he could hear their stories, then he will understand."

Jacob simply sighed. "I don't understand, but then it ain't my business to understand. If you're sure the master knows, then I'll drive ye."

"Absolutely," Fantine lied.

"Well, then," he said as he jumped into the box. "I suppose we best be going." He started the horses moving with a smart snap of the ribbons, his expression chipper in the sunlight. "It will take us a mite to get there. So how 'bout you spend the time explainin' wot 'e did to upset you so?"

Fantine shifted on her seat, surprised not only by the shift in conversation, but by the man's perception. "I am not upset," she said slowly.

He simply chuckled and reached over to pat her hand. "Aw, don't get all touchy on me, girl. I was just gonna offer ye a little fatherly advice, is all."

Fantine looked away, unaccountably startled by the gesture. Fatherly advice? When had she last had that? Never. Penworthy, though he was her father, had never stooped to giving advice. Commands were more his style, which perhaps explained why she never much listened to him.

But advice? The very thought was intriguing, and so she turned on the bench and allowed all her anger to pour out. "He is just so arrogant I want to tear his eyes out! He thinks I have no brain whatsoever."

Jacob simply laughed at her outburst. "I never did see two people so much in love muck it up so badly."

"Love!" Fantine exploded, not caring that her accent was slipping. "E 'asn't the slightest idea wot the word means!"

"'E doesn't, does he?" returned Jacob. "An' wot about you? Do you want to stay around, fight it out until the end? Or do you jes want to run back to your old life, gettin' knocked on the 'ead by Hurdy fer your troubles?"

"Of course not," Fantine returned hotly. But in a moment, his words began to penetrate. Minutes later, her pride gave way enough to realize he might be right.

"Do you think..." She paused, considering her words. "Have I been running from him? Fighting him out of—"

"Habit?" Jacob offered.

Fantine shrugged, unable to turn her mind from this path. She had been attracted to Marcus from the very first moment. He was everything she wanted and hated all at once—rich, handsome, titled. She had set out to humiliate him, to torment him, anything that would force him to reveal his true colors as a spoiled, pampered aristocrat. But he had not done that.

Or perhaps he had, and she had found him so noble that she could not resist him.

Yet, she still fought. Why, she had even told him she loved him, and in the same breath announced her intention to wed someone else. It was no wonder their road had been so difficult, no wonder he had tried to lock her up until they could speak at length without interruption.

In every moment, in every way, she had both wanted and fought him until neither of them knew which direction to turn.

And now, was she doing it again? Was she running away? It did not feel that way. For the first time, she felt as if she had a purpose, a determination to make a better life for herself and others in the rookeries. But she was not sure.

Was she merely using this as an excuse to avoid Marcus? To thwart him even when she wanted the same as he—to find a way through the muddle?

"Oh, Jacob," she cried softly, "I do not know who I am anymore. I do things, and I do not understand the reason."

"Do you love him?"

"Yes. But he does not love me."

Jacob shrugged."'E's a man and a nob. At the moment, 'e does not know his nose from his arse unless you show him."

Fantine shifted in her seat. "But how? What shall I do?"

"Ah, as to that, don't you women 'ave some secret potion or something that puts us all under yer thumbs?"

Fantine smiled, thinking of her actions last night. "I have already used it, and though he enjoyed it mightily, he seemed completely unaffected this morning."

"But you 'ave not given it enough time. 'E's still in that glowin' moment o' satisfaction. Give 'im a day t' start wantin' it again."

Fantine frowned, wondering if she indeed could be mistaken. Could Marcus truly love her? "I do not know, Jacob. He seemed so... so overbearing this morning."

"Ah, well, ain't I said 'e's a nob through and through? It takes them a mite longer t' understand. It be their pride, you know. Clogs up the brainpan."

"Do you really think so?"

"Absolutely. Now me wife and me, there was a courtship to remember..."

Jacob continued speaking, spinning delightful stories about himself and his wife, but Fantine could not keep her mind on them. There was too much to ponder, too many angles to consider.

Did Marcus truly love her? Had she been running from him? And how did this effect her plans for Mr. Wilberforce?

It did not, she finally decided. Whether or not she and Marcus worked out their differences, she still intended to become powerful in her own right. And for that, she needed the MP.

* * *

Marcus was bored. He had come inside to a room bare of everything except a case of brandy. He accepted the obligatory glass, though he never actually drank it, and stood staring at the threadbare carpet while Baylor blamed everything from the current government to his first nanny for his failures.

It was tedious and disappointing. One would think a man daring enough to assassinate Wilberforce would have more originality.

Still, Marcus had promised fifteen minutes, and for all that it seemed like fifteen years, he was a man of his word. Until Baylor made a fatal mistake.

In the middle of his recitation, in the middle of a word, no less, he suddenly whipped out a pistol and pulled the trigger.

Fortunately, for all his bored attitude, Marcus had seen it coming. Clearly, Baylor was not used to handling the weapon. His shoulders had tensed just before the fateful movement, his breathing had noticeably accelerated, despite his long speech, and, most telling of all, he had set down his brandy glass on the mantel and closed his eyes for a brief moment.

The shot went wide. Not because Baylor missed, but because Marcus dove sideways. While Baylor was still recovering, Marcus surged upward, easily wresting the weapon from the man's hand.