course.
Ridiculous, that's what it was. Simply ridiculous.
Elliot?
Elliot rode his weary mount slowly back to Middlebarrow, basking in the moment.
He'd won. Over all the others who'd fought for Julia's attention,
he
was the one she'd chosen. Bloody hell, she'd not only promised her hand, she'd proposed the union to
him
!
He'd thought for sure the battle was lost when Blythe-Goodman had come along. Suddenly thoughtful, Elliot realized that, in some indefinable way, he
had
lost when Marcus had come. Yet here he was, engaged to Lady Barrowby, scarcely a week after he'd arrived.
She didn't love him, thank heaven. God, what a burden that would have been. Ah, well. No worry on that score now. Whatever her motive for choosing him—and however suspiciously tied to her obvious attraction to Marcus—Elliot was comforted by the lack of real feeling between them.
That would save a great deal of trouble when he was forced to betray her.
Elliot urged his exhausted horse to a slightly faster dragging walk. He couldn't wait to see Blythe-Goodman's face when he told the great, handsome lout that he'd lost the lady!
It was after midnight when Marcus returned to Barrowby. He'd made an appearance in the taproom to allay any suspicions, although the numbers of Lady Barrowby's faithful were lessening by the moment. Elliot obviously had a knack for spreading the persuasive rumor.
He'd played the morose, disappointed suitor rather well, if he did say so himself. All he needed to remember was how much his alias would have suffered from such misfortune—and top that off with the image of Elliot undressing Julia on their wedding night—and he'd had no trouble brooding aplenty over his foul ale.
After sufficient misery, he'd made noises about getting to bed and left the inn by way of the window in his room. He'd left his horse behind as well, preferring to stay off the road and in the shadows while on such an errand.
He'd realized while watching Elliot work the taproom that he was going to have to be a bit more direct in his approach. He needed information on milady and he needed it now.
Unfortunately, the house was as tight as a miser's fist. There wasn't a single reachable window unlatched, not even the one he'd unlocked himself earlier that afternoon. The doors of course were tightly locked, as was the coal chute and the kitchen ash pit.
There was also far too much light. It was as if every sconce in every hallway still held a candle—lavish spending for simple convenience, or was it? This had been the house of the Fox, by all accounts one of the wiliest members of the Four in all its history. Such a man would never allow a simple thief to breach his walls.
Yet you think he would allow himself to be swayed by a lovely face?
Marcus brushed away that niggling doubt. Any man—no matter how intelligent—could fall victim to his baser urges. The two aspects had nothing to do with each other.
He shoved thoughts of the seductive Lady Barrowby to the back of his mind and regarded the house intently. He might be able to scale the wall by clinging to the seams between the stones with his hands and feet. He might be able to steal secretly into the house tomorrow and wait for nightfall. He might—
He might grow old and die before he ever got into the house undetected. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it twice about his knuckles, and punched out the nearest pane of glass.
"Done." It was crude but effective. He only hoped the Three never learned of it.
He let himself in. The window led to a chill room containing a spinet and a few settees for the listeners. It was lovely and tasteful in a manner more befitting the last century than the current one. It looked as if it hadn't been used in years. Marcus grunted softly to himself. "She doesn't really seem to be the spinet sort, does she?"
He listened carefully at the door before entering the hallway. He began to move silently down the hall, pinching out the
Ridiculous, that's what it was. Simply ridiculous.
Elliot?
Elliot rode his weary mount slowly back to Middlebarrow, basking in the moment.
He'd won. Over all the others who'd fought for Julia's attention,
he
was the one she'd chosen. Bloody hell, she'd not only promised her hand, she'd proposed the union to
him
!
He'd thought for sure the battle was lost when Blythe-Goodman had come along. Suddenly thoughtful, Elliot realized that, in some indefinable way, he
had
lost when Marcus had come. Yet here he was, engaged to Lady Barrowby, scarcely a week after he'd arrived.
She didn't love him, thank heaven. God, what a burden that would have been. Ah, well. No worry on that score now. Whatever her motive for choosing him—and however suspiciously tied to her obvious attraction to Marcus—Elliot was comforted by the lack of real feeling between them.
That would save a great deal of trouble when he was forced to betray her.
Elliot urged his exhausted horse to a slightly faster dragging walk. He couldn't wait to see Blythe-Goodman's face when he told the great, handsome lout that he'd lost the lady!
It was after midnight when Marcus returned to Barrowby. He'd made an appearance in the taproom to allay any suspicions, although the numbers of Lady Barrowby's faithful were lessening by the moment. Elliot obviously had a knack for spreading the persuasive rumor.
He'd played the morose, disappointed suitor rather well, if he did say so himself. All he needed to remember was how much his alias would have suffered from such misfortune—and top that off with the image of Elliot undressing Julia on their wedding night—and he'd had no trouble brooding aplenty over his foul ale.
After sufficient misery, he'd made noises about getting to bed and left the inn by way of the window in his room. He'd left his horse behind as well, preferring to stay off the road and in the shadows while on such an errand.
He'd realized while watching Elliot work the taproom that he was going to have to be a bit more direct in his approach. He needed information on milady and he needed it now.
Unfortunately, the house was as tight as a miser's fist. There wasn't a single reachable window unlatched, not even the one he'd unlocked himself earlier that afternoon. The doors of course were tightly locked, as was the coal chute and the kitchen ash pit.
There was also far too much light. It was as if every sconce in every hallway still held a candle—lavish spending for simple convenience, or was it? This had been the house of the Fox, by all accounts one of the wiliest members of the Four in all its history. Such a man would never allow a simple thief to breach his walls.
Yet you think he would allow himself to be swayed by a lovely face?
Marcus brushed away that niggling doubt. Any man—no matter how intelligent—could fall victim to his baser urges. The two aspects had nothing to do with each other.
He shoved thoughts of the seductive Lady Barrowby to the back of his mind and regarded the house intently. He might be able to scale the wall by clinging to the seams between the stones with his hands and feet. He might be able to steal secretly into the house tomorrow and wait for nightfall. He might—
He might grow old and die before he ever got into the house undetected. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it twice about his knuckles, and punched out the nearest pane of glass.
"Done." It was crude but effective. He only hoped the Three never learned of it.
He let himself in. The window led to a chill room containing a spinet and a few settees for the listeners. It was lovely and tasteful in a manner more befitting the last century than the current one. It looked as if it hadn't been used in years. Marcus grunted softly to himself. "She doesn't really seem to be the spinet sort, does she?"
He listened carefully at the door before entering the hallway. He began to move silently down the hall, pinching out the
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