Chapter Twenty-Two
Margaret raced down to breakfast almost the moment she awoke, seeing that it was far later than she normally slept, and knowing her father was a very early riser. He would have been about his business first thing, and she had to know what had happened.
She had to know Rafe was safe and well and whole and…
She passed the study with a shiver, but was gratified that her usual footmen had been returned to their posts, and they seemed pleased by it as well.
“Margaret,” Helen called from the morning room, sitting on a sofa and embroidering with her mother.
“Not now!” she called, foregoing politeness.
She pushed into the library, knowing that was where her father would be, now that he was returned from his travels.
He sat by the fire, despite the warmth of the day, and his spectacles were perched on his long nose. He looked over them at her as she entered the room. “Good morning, my dear. Or is it afternoon yet?”
She smiled tightly. “Not yet, Father.”
He grunted and went back to his book.
Margaret frowned, then cleared her throat softly. “Father, I wondered… Have you been to see the magistrate this morning?”
“Hmm?” he asked, looking up distractedly.
“The magistrate,” she repeated firmly, losing her innocent daughter tone.
Her father missed the change. “Ah, yes, yes, of course.” He pulled off his spectacles and tapped his mouth with them. “I went to see Lord Cartwright this morning, yes. I explained the situation and asked if the Gent could be released, as he had done us quite a service, and Lord Cartwright agreed that the circumstances were extenuating, and he thought there should be some leniency.”
Margaret’s heart swelled and she forced herself to calm, clasping her fingers in front of her. “That is wonderful,” she managed to say without inflection.
“Unfortunately, his lordship had already been asked to turn the Gent over to the Home Office, for some reason.” He shook his head as if the notion bewildered him. “He had no information on what had proceeded from that point on. It seemed that there was quite an interest in him, so I can only presume that he was not always such a gentleman, as it were.”
Margaret clamped down on her lips hard, letting her eyes flutter shut. “I see.”
“So I felt my only recourse was to venture down to the Home Office myself.”
Her eyes sprang open and she gaped. “You did?”
He nodded, his eyes twinkling a little. “I know Sir Robert Peel a little from our younger years, so I thought I might be able to persuade him. But he was not in, and the whole venture proved fruitless.”
Margaret’s heart sank and she leaned against the chair nearest her. “Was it?”
“They flatly refused to help me,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Would not even confirm that they had him, or that the Gent even existed.” He exhaled irritably. “I shall be writing to Sir Robert to express my disappointment, and I shall use some very strong words.”
Margaret was fairly certain she was going to be using some very strong words momentarily. “So… that is it?” she asked faintly.
Her father’s soft eyes met hers. “I am so sorry, duckie, I tried. I cannot do anything else.”
Her throat worked on a swallow and a sob. “But he could die!” she managed to force out. “They wouldn’t care about him, he’s nothing and no one, he could die and no one would be the wiser!”
“He could,” her father replied with a sad nod. “And that would be a tragedy. He deserves so much more. But my dear…” He gestured for her to come closer, and took her hand when she did so, kissing it fondly. “All will be sorted out in the end. One way or another. You are safe, and I thank him for it. Now that is that, and we must put it behind us.”
Margaret resisted the urge to yank her hand away from her father’s, and let it fall to her side limply. “Yes, Father.”
She turned to leave the room, wondering where her heart had gone, and why it hurt to place one step in front of the other.
It was over. She would never see him again, and if Rafe’s past was half as colorful as she thought it was, he would be dealt with quickly and without any fuss. As he had no standing, no family, and no one of consequence to care, they could avoid any of the entanglements of law.
She would move to Europe for her foreign husband, and he would be dead.
There was nothing else to do.
“Margaret?” her father called. “Don’t forget, we are promised to Lord and Lady Smithfield’s tomorrow. Wear something fetching, the ambassador from Austria is to attend, and I know his uncle.”
She closed her eyes on tears, forcing herself to swallow. “Y-yes, Papa.”
She winced as the childish name escaped her lips. She had not called him that since she was very little, and if he was listening at all, he would know she was distressed.
“Thank you, duckie. You are such a gentle love.”
Margaret rolled her eyes and gave up the pretense of calm, as her father was not listening and thought she was eight years old as it was. She left the library and moved towards the back of the house, intending to go out into the gardens and walk in the morning sunshine.
“Margaret…”
Helen’s soft voice stopped her, and Margaret half turned, her hands forming fists at her side. “I am going to cry, Helen,” she said through gritted teeth. “If you cannot…”
She heard Helen hiccup and looked up in surprise.
Her cousin had tears streaming down her cheeks, staring at Margaret sadly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her curiosity outweighing her pain for the moment.
Helen shook her head. “You!” She sniffled and came to Margaret, throwing her arms around her. “I was eavesdropping, of course, and I heard everything. Oh, Margaret…”
Margaret tensed for a moment, resisting the onslaught of emotion, and then released it in one loud, gasping sob, burying her face into her cousin’s shoulder, and crying with her.
“He’s a ruddy hero,” Helen told her stubbornly, her words wavering. “He’s a masterpiece of a man, and he… He…”
“He loved me,” Margaret whimpered, shuddering with more tears.
Helen wailed more loudly. “He’s not dead yet!” she protested, trying to slap Margaret’s hand, but not managing.
“He is,” Margaret insisted, pushing off of her cousin and moving to the window. “Whether he is in truth or not, to me, he might as well be dead.”
Helen came to her and took her hand, dabbing at her own eyes. “Tell me about him, Margaret. Please. He sent me a note that told me you were in trouble, which is why I sent Tibby to see what Ritson was up to. He trusted me without ever knowing me, and he loved you with a passion that I did not believe any Englishman possessed. He deserves to be more than a name to us.”
Margaret sniffed and smiled up at the ceiling, letting the morning light from the window warm her. “He was. Oh, he was.”
Helen pulled her to the sofa and listened while Margaret told her all of the details that she had left out of every story, even the ones she had told to herself. She never said his real name, that was still hers alone, but everything else about him, she shared.
And it did not hurt as much as she thought it would.
But later that night, alone in her room, it hurt quite a good deal.
The Smithfields were not exactly intolerable people, but they were a bit tedious, if one were to be perfectly honest. They were fine company, it was true, but all that was required for fine company was decent conversation, respectability, and not desiring to escape.
And if Lady Smithfield attempted small talk with Margaret one more time, she just might scream.
She had not wanted to attend, waking up in more pain this morning than she had gone to bed with. Helen had gone home, and was undoubtedly here tonight somewhere, but she would not come to Margaret right away. She knew what torment this would be, and she would be the only one.
Margaret had begged to stay at home with a headache, but her mother had only brought out her usual remedies for such things, which had always worked in the past, and having them fail now would only increase the attention she received, when all she wanted was the opposite. She wanted to be left alone in her room, or to wander the house as she would. She wanted to wear black and play sad songs on the pianoforte, though she would play them badly. She wanted to think dismal thoughts and not be forced into the world of social gatherings.
But she could not tell her parents the truth.
She could not tell them she was in love with the intruder who was not a robber who was a nobody she saw on the street every day. She could not actually mourn a man to whom she had no ties or bindings. She could not turn recluse without raising suspicions.
So here she was, against the wall, hoping, for the first time, that she would be as invisible tonight as she had been every other night in London.
She watched the guests milling about, only truly seeing a few.
Lord Rothchild was there, along with his wife, and Margaret watched them for a long time, catching all of the looks and smiles they gave each other. The way her fingers brushed against his arm as he led her about the room. The way Lord Rothchild’s eyes lingered on his wife long after she’d looked away. The way they stood so close together as though they couldn’t bear to be further apart. They had been married for ages, and to still have that sort of love and passion… It was somehow both painful and beautiful.
Mr. Pratt was making a splash, as usual, his bright green waistcoat a thing of interest for many, and even Helen, dressed in a radiant white, had been seen taking notice. And if Margaret’s observations told any tales, it would certainly tell of the repetition of Mr. Pratt’s gaze straying towards her cousin’s fine figure as she moved past, both in dance and in walk. And if that was a truth, it would also bear the repeating of Helen’s soft smirk, acknowledging what Margaret strongly suspected: she knew he was looking, and she moved for that benefit alone.
Had that gone on all Season without her seeing it? She’d been so distracted by her own worries and cares that she had missed so many things.
She saw the way Rosalind lingered at the edge of Captain Riverton’s circle, her back turned towards him, yet somehow the two met eyes more often than seemed possible. Rosalind was softer now, less inclined to bristle, and Captain Riverton spoke with less boisterousness, his smile a little less brash. They had both greeted her already, and fondly at that, which she had reciprocated. But even then, she had felt like an intruder in some private, ongoing conversation.
The Gerrards came to her and spoke for a bit, but did not linger, as did the Blackmoors. Tibby had not yet arrived, which was a blessing, as her intuition would never let Margaret alone in her present distress. All of the associations she had made while under Tibby’s protection paid their due respects to her, but no one overstayed politeness, for which she was grateful.
She had a slight reprieve from the monotony when Mr. Pratt came to her, having broken free from his circle.
He bowed before her. “Miss Easton, that green you wear is most becoming, and compliments my own perfectly. Would you favor me with this dance?”
Margaret tilted her head, considering the foppish man with a bit of amusement. “I may prove a poor partner, Mr. Pratt. I am not particularly inclined to dance this evening.”
The smile he offered was surprisingly gentle. “So I see, my dear, but one dance with me just might make you smile, and that is all I seek.”
Now she did smile, and placed her hand in his. “Oh, very well, Mr. Pratt.”
He clamped a hand over his heart. “Let the heavens rejoice!”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “Oh, lord.”
He chuckled and led her into the line as the music struck up. “I must thank you, Miss Easton, for keeping my little secret.”
She looked at him sharply, wondering that he should even bring it up. His expression was composed, but she saw a deeper intensity in his eyes. “It’s nothing,” she murmured, a little confused. “I promised I would, and so I shall.”
He nodded, moving around her for the dance, his steps light and graceful. “A woman of your word, are you?”
“I try to be, yes,” she replied as she mimicked his motions around him. She took his hand and allowed him to turn her. “Integrity is the key to honor, and I take it seriously.”
“So you should, my dear.” He parted from her to dance with the woman beside her, and she with her partner.
When they were reunited, he offered her a boyish grin. “You have not said anything of your secret, Miss Easton.”
“No, and nor shall I.” She gave him a severe look that only made him smile more. “There is no cause to let anyone have more to speak of when it comes to me.”
“Truly?” he asked, moving around her once more. “I have only heard the most praiseworthy things of you.”
She snorted softly as she took her turn. “Then you have not been listening to the right sources. I have it on good authority that a great many things were being said about me that I did not know.”
He took her hand to lead her down the line, and leaned a little too close. “I never listen to the wrong sources, Miss Easton. I hear everything. And while there may have been some less than pleasant rumors, I can assure you that tonight all of it is behind you.”
She glanced up at him as they finished their promenade. “How can you be sure?”
He raised a brow, the dandy expression completely gone. “I never mistake with gossip. And haven’t you wondered why no one was whispering about you? Why everyone is behaving so normally?”
Margaret had wondered, actually. With everything that Ritson and Sir Vincent had brought about, and with all of the threats of exposure, she was sure that she would be nearly shunned, and yet she had not been. She looked up at Mr. Pratt, her mouth working silently.
He grinned swiftly and spun her around for the last movement. “Nothing but praises, Miss Easton. No harm done.”
“How?” she managed to ask.
“By your own merits,” he assured her.
She gave him a look, which made him chuckle.
“Very well, and by the efforts of your friends and mine.” He bowed to her as the music finished. “And I might have said a few things myself. I do consider us the greatest of friends now, you know.”
Margaret smirked a little as he led her back to her position by the wall. “Do you? How fortunate for me.”
“Isn’t it, though?” He winked and bowed once more, leaving her to her thoughts, wishing she felt any sort of attraction to Mr. Pratt or Captain Riverton or any of the men in this room. Oh, she could have married any one of them and had a perfectly acceptable marriage, by all accounts. But after feeling so much for Rafe, she had discovered what she was capable of, and settling for anything less just for convenience would have been a crime.
Perhaps she could actually fall in love with one of the European men her parents wanted. It was possible, she supposed, but not now, and not for some time. Everything hurt too much. Even watching the dancing now was painful.
She would have loved to dance with Rafe in public, as she’d once dreamed. To waltz in his arms, to laugh in a quadrille, to see his eyes dance more merrily than his feet… To steal away to secluded corner of the host’s house to embrace freely… To rival the Rothchilds for most enviable couple…
Margaret closed her eyes, now burning with unshed tears. She could not cry here. She could not make a scene. She exhaled slowly and felt the tears subside, then forced her eyes open, keeping her expression calm and unaffected.
She could pretend for a while longer.
“Miss Easton, I have someone for you to meet!” Marianne Gerrard’s cheerful voice chirped near her.
Margaret tried not to roll her eyes, wishing that her friends with good intentions would be a little less determined. She turned towards the approaching beauty, and bit back a gasp.
Standing next to Mrs. Gerrard’s resplendent blue ensemble was a tall, perfectly formed man in a pristine set of formal wear. He was clean shaven, tanned, and in possession of a pair of very familiar dark eyes that were now alight with mirth.
Rafe.
“My dear Miss Easton, might I introduce Lord Marlowe?” Mrs. Gerrard said, her voice a faint humming in Margaret’s ears. “He is a dear friend of my husband’s, and godfather of my son. He would like to make your acquaintance.”
Margaret stared at him in shock, her mind whirling. How… how…?
“A pleasure, Miss Easton,” he intoned gravely. He took her hand and bowed over it, heat from his touch racing up her arm, making her breath catch in her throat.
“L-lord Marlowe,” she squeaked, her fingers twitching in his hold.
Rafe’s eyes met hers, and she could see the smile in them, despite his bored expression.
“Tibby was so angry with him for not coming to her evening,” Mrs. Gerrard was saying beside them. “She wanted you both to meet then, but I suppose meeting now is as good a time as any.”
“Marianne,” Rafe murmured without looking at her, “do shut up and go away.”
Margaret’s eyes widened, but Mrs. Gerrard only laughed merrily. “Marlowe, you are the only one in the world who can speak to me like that and not have repercussions. Very well, I will leave you to it. Behave, Marlowe,” she called as she wandered away, her skirts swishing audibly against the floor.
“Always,” he replied, though Margaret did not believe him for a second.
She stared at him, afraid to blink. He still held her hand, and tightly, and she replayed the last few moments over and over. Lord Marlowe. Lord. Marlowe. He had a title. He was here.
He was alive.
Her chest began to tighten and squeeze, a deep ache forming. Her breathing turned unsteady and a tremor started in her hands.
A movement behind him caught her eye, and she saw her parents coming over to them, looking interested.
Rafe didn’t even spare a glance to see what she saw, he only led her out to the dance floor, his steps swift and sure.
“Say something,” he said softly, squeezing her hand.
Margaret tried to inhale, but it caught and hiccupped. “You’re here…” she managed, too emotional for their situation at present. “You’re alive?”
He smiled tenderly, setting his hand on her waist for the waltz, pulling her as close as he could without being scandalous. “Shhh, love. Dance with me for a bit, and we’ll escape when your parents stop watching.”
She nodded, her eyes filling as she let him move her through the waltz, his motions sure. She had no idea how they moved so gracefully, as she wasn’t aware of moving her feet at all, and she could not look anywhere but at him. Her chest shook and gasping breaths were all she could manage, a tear escaping and coursing down one cheek.
“Don’t cry,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll never make it if you cry.”
“You’re alive,” she said, her voice choked with tears. She shook her head, wishing the tears away, but they only rose with a vengeance. “You’re alive.”
Rafe growled low in his throat and glanced around. “Oh, to hell with it.” He turned her through the other couples, waltzing perfectly towards the back of the room, then ducking with her into a side hallway. He pulled her along quickly, moving almost soundlessly through the house until they reached a small terrace. He closed the doors behind them and turned to face her.
“Margaret…” he said simply, and she could hear an apology coming.
She didn’t need one.
She threw herself into his arms, and he gathered her up, one hand latching around her, the other holding her head against him. “Oh, love, don’t…”
Margaret sobbed against his chest, shaking with the force of her cries.
“I hope these aren’t tears of fury,” he teased, pulling her tighter, his lips dancing against her ear. “I can’t bear your tears of any kind, but…”
“Shut up,” she hiccupped, leaning back. “I thought you were dead! Father went to have you freed, and they said that…” She reached up and took his face in her hands, and pressed her lips to his frantically.
He gentled the kiss with a murmur, stroking the back of her neck soothingly. Over and over he kissed her, soft, feather-light kisses that reminded her that he was here, and she was in his arms.
“You’re alive!” she whispered against his lips.
He groaned softly and pulled back, forcing her to look at him. “Oh, pet, I am so sorry, I wanted to tell you from the start. I work for the government. I’m a spy. You got wrapped up in all of this by sheer bad luck, and I will explain everything soon, but all you need to know is that you are out of danger now. I took care of Castleton and things should be calm for some time. I didn’t want to lie to you, and I won’t anymore, but…”
“I don’t care,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “I don’t care! You’re here and I’m here and I love you, and if you say yes, I won’t have to move to Europe and marry an ambassador!”
He reared back, eyes wide. “What? No!”
“No?” she cried.
“I mean, yes!” he said at once, shaking his head, then nodding it. “Yes, yes. You’re not marrying anybody but me, I’m not even going to ask.” He kissed her hard, his fingers tangling in her hair.
“Good,” she sighed with a smile, when he allowed her to break free.
He stroked her cheek softly. “My Margaret… You really don’t mind? There are details and specifics, and you can never tell anyone…”
She shrugged, covering his hand with her own. “I don’t mind. I love you, Rafe, and all I have ever wanted is to be with you. I would move heaven and earth to have you, and I felt all of that before I ever knew you had a title.”
He smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling. “And I wanted you before I ever knew just how extensive your fortune was.”
She giggled and kissed him again, then pulled back. “Is your name really Rafe?”
He nodded, folding his arms around her, tucking her against him. “It is. Raphael William Edward Thornton, seventh Lord Marlowe. But most people just call me Marlowe. Or Gent. Depends on the person in particular. Rogue calls me all sorts of things that I will never be able to repeat.”
Margaret nuzzled against him, sighing. “And what shall I call you, my lord?”
“Yours, my love. Always and forever yours.”