Alighting from the carriage, Elizabeth stared in awe. Marcus set his hand at her waist and stood beside her. His voice was low and intimate in her ear. “Welcome home.”

He kissed the sensitive part of her neck where her shoulder met her throat. “Wait until you see the inside,” he said with obvious pride.

As they entered the foyer, Elizabeth sucked in her breath with wonder. The ceiling vaulted away from them to dizzying heights, where a large crystalline chandelier hung from an impossibly long chain. Tapers gently lit alcoves located along the walls on either side, and the stone floor was covered in several immense Aubusson rugs.

Elizabeth set the pace for the group, walking slowly as she struggled to take in her surroundings. The sound of their muffled footsteps echoed hollowly through the vast space. In front of them, at the other end of the foyer, was a wall of French doors. When opened, they led out onto the large expanse of lawn just beyond.

But the focal point of the room was the immense split staircase curving gracefully along either wall to join at a massive landing above. From there the ascent branched off to hallways on the left and right, which led to the east and west wings.

Paul looked at her with a proud smile. “It is impressive, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth nodded with eyes wide. “To call it impressive wouldn’t do it justice.”

They made their way up the dual staircase on the left side while servants hauled up trunks on the right. Marcus drew to a halt in front of an open doorway and held out his hand to urge Elizabeth inside. Paul and Robert excused themselves, promising to see them at the evening meal.

The room she entered was massive and beautifully decorated in soft shades of light taupe and creamy blue. Striped silk curtains framed wide windows that overlooked the front circular drive. Two doorways flanked the sides of the room. Through the open door to the left she could see a sitting room and a decidedly masculine bedroom beyond that, and on the right, a nursery.

Marcus stood directly behind her. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” she acknowledged.

With a caressing smile and a mischievous wink, he left through the sitting room and headed to his room beyond.

Alone, Elizabeth took in the contents of the room with greater care, this time noting the little details. The small bookcase built into the bottom of the window seat held copies of her favorite books. The vanity drawers held her customary toiletries.

As he had for the nights they’d spent in the guesthouse, Marcus had thought of almost everything.

Removing her hat and gloves, she went in search of her husband. Stepping through the open double doors that led to his room, she found Marcus at the desk, sans coat and waistcoat. She approached him with a smile.

“Marcus,” she started gently. “Must you charm me every day?”

Rounding the desk, he wrapped her tightly in his arms, his mouth pressing a hard kiss to her forehead. “Of course.”

She hugged him back almost desperately, so grateful she couldn’t help telling him so.

“I’m relieved the house pleases you,” he said gruffly, his mouth nuzzling her skin. “I will give you a full tour before supper and in the morning the staff will line up for your inspection.”

“It is not so much the house that pleases me, as your thoughtfulness and care for my comfort.” Elizabeth kissed the sharp line of his jaw.

He squeezed her brutally close, and then set her away. Returning to his desk, he bent his head to the papers he pulled from a drawer.

Sighing at the loss of his embrace, she sank into a chair in front of the fireplace. “What are you doing?”

His gaze remained on the desktop. “Gathering my ledgers and notifying my steward that I’m in residence. I usually handle expenditures after the Season, but since we are here, I may as well begin now.”

“You are not decoding the journal?”

He glanced up and hesitated a moment before answering. “Keeping you and the journal in one location is foolhardy.”

She stilled, surprised. “Where is it? With Eldridge?”

“No.” He took a deep breath. “I placed it in Barclay’s care.”

“What?” she asked, shooting to her feet. “Why?”

“Because he is the only person besides St. John to have worked with Hawthorne closely on matters regarding the agency. And, at this moment, he’s one of the few people I can trust.”

“What about Mr. James?”

“I would have preferred Avery, but Eldridge has him occupied at the moment.”

Elizabeth’s stomach dropped. “St. John.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. We must know everything he knows.”

“What of Margaret? And the baby? The time draws near, William cannot be embroiled in this now.” Her hand lifted to shelter her racing heart. “What if they should be attacked, as I was? How could you do this, when I begged you not to?”

“Barclay has been prepared for attacks against himself and his wife since Hawthorne’s death.” He rounded the desk.

“And that is why my room was ransacked?” she snapped.

“Elizabeth—”

“Damn you. I trusted you.”

His voice came low and angry. “You entrusted me with your safety and I am seeing to it.”

“You don’t care about me,” she argued. “If you did, you would not have done something guaranteed to hurt me. They are all I have, to risk them this way—”

“They are not all that you have! You have me.”

She shook her head rapidly. “No. You belong to the agency. Everything you do is for them.”

“That’s not true, and well you know it.”

“I know I was wrong about you, wrong to trust you.” She brushed aside a tear with the back of her hand. “You deliberately said nothing to me.”

“Because I knew it would upset you. I knew you would not understand at first.”

“You lie. You failed to tell me because you knew it was wrong. And I will never understand. Never.”

Elizabeth swept around the settee toward the door.

“I am not done speaking, madam.”

“Then continue, my lord,” she threw over her shoulder, nearly running to her room to hide the tears that flowed freely. “I no longer wish to listen.”

William paced the length of his sitting room.

Margaret sighed, squirming into the pillows on the chaise, trying to find comfort for her aching back. “You knew nothing of this journal?”

“No.” He scowled. “But Hawthorne was an odd fellow. I’m not surprised to learn his father was mad. I’m certain Hawthorne was a bit touched as well.”

“How does that pertain?”

“There is something odd about this. I’ve gone over Westfield’s notes. He has already dedicated a great deal of his time to the study of the journal and all we’ve learned is some spotty descriptions of remote locations with no explanation. I cannot understand the purpose.”

Margaret rested her hands on her protruding stomach and smiled at the feel of her child moving in response to her touch. “So let’s set aside the contents of the book for the moment and concentrate on Hawthorne himself. How did he come to be your partner?”

“He was assigned to me by Eldridge.”

“Did he ask for you in particular?”

“I don’t believe so. If I recall correctly, he gave some tale about a grievance against St. John.”

“So he could just as easily have been assigned to Westfield, who was also investigating St. John.”

William plunged both hands into his golden hair. “Perhaps, but Westfield was frequently paired with Mr. James. I had not yet built a strong rapport with any other agents.”

“And you and Westfield never knew of one another’s activities, even though you were fast friends?”

“Eldridge does not—”

“—share such information, in case you are captured or tortured for information.” Margaret shuddered. “I thank God you no longer amuse yourself in that manner. Heaven only knows how Elizabeth manages. But then she’s far stronger than I. Is it possible Hawthorne married Elizabeth in the hopes he would learn something of Westfield’s activities?”

“No.” William sat next to her and placed his hand over hers. “He would not have known about Westfield. Just as I did not. I believe he married her to ensure he would remain my partner.”

“Ah, yes, that would have been wise. So we have Hawthorne, working with you to investigate St. John, but all the while his aim is to thwart you. He is married to Elizabeth and keeping a journal of cryptic text that so far has been revealed to be nothing of import. But in fact, it must be important enough to kill for.”

“Yes.”

“I’d say the best option would be to capture St. John and pair him with the journal, make him tell you what it says.”

His mouth curved ruefully. “According to Elizabeth, St. John claims only Hawthorne can decode it. But obviously that cannot be true, so Avery is tracking the pirate, who most inconveniently has fled London again. He is the key.”

“I worry for Elizabeth, you know I do, but I cannot help but wish Westfield had taken the journal elsewhere.”

“I know, love. If there had been another choice, I would have suggested it. But truly, despite his long-standing association with James and Eldridge, I am the only man he knows who can be trusted to care more for Elizabeth than the agency. And you and I have been cautious for so long. I couldn’t bear for our children to live in fear. We must end this.” His gaze pled for her understanding.

She cupped his cheek with her hand. “I’m glad you now know the truth about Hawthorne and St. John, to ease the guilt you’ve felt all these years. Perhaps Hawthorne’s death was inevitable, with his life so deeply entrenched in the criminal.” She moved her hand to place his against her belly and smiled as his blue eyes widened with awed pleasure at the feeling of a strong kick against his palm.

“Can you forgive me for accepting this task while you carry my child?” he asked hoarsely, bending to press an ardent kiss to her powdered forehead.

“Of course, my love,” she soothed. “You could not have done otherwise. And truly, in light of your lost friendship, I think it is a hopeful sign that Westfield came to you for help. We shall solve this puzzle together. Maybe then we can all find some peace.”

“Pray, tell me what is the matter, Elizabeth,” Elaine asked with concern. “It pains me to see you so distressed.”

“I should be in London now, not here.”

Elizabeth moaned as they sat in the family parlor, her thoughts filled with worry for William and Margaret. Marcus may have done what he thought was best, but he should have discussed it with her, allowed her to come to terms with it. He should have given her the opportunity to speak to William and thank him for his assistance. Her chest tightened as she thought of her brother, who loved her so much.

“I’m so sorry you are not happy here—”

“No, it’s not that,” she assured quickly. “I love it here. But there are … things that require my attention.”

Frowning, Elaine said, “I don’t understand.”

“I asked Westfield to do something important for me and he disregarded my wishes.”

“He must have had good reason,” Elaine soothed. “He adores you.”

Paul entered the parlor. “Why so glum?” he asked. Taking one look at Elizabeth’s tear-streaked face, he scowled. “Is it Marcus? Has he yelled at you again, Beth?”

Despite her misery, Paul’s use of a pet name brought a reluctant smile to her face. No one had ever called her anything besides Elizabeth.

“No. I almost wish he would,” she admitted. “He’s been so civil toward me this last week I can barely stand it. A good row would do much to improve my spirits.”

Paul laughed. “Well, reserved civility is what Marcus does best. I take it you’ve had a lovers’ quarrel?”

“That’s a rather tame description, but I suppose it is something similar.”

His brown eyes lit with mischief. “I happen to be somewhat of an expert on lovers’ quarrels. The best way to recover is not to mope. You’ll find greater satisfaction in exacting a little revenge.”

Elizabeth shook her head. She’d already denied Marcus her bed for the last six nights. Every night he tested the locked door to her chamber. Every night he turned away without a word. During the day, he was his customary charming self, polite and solicitous.

What was lacking were the heated looks and the familiar stolen caresses that told her he wanted her. The message was clear. He would not be the only one denied.

“I think I’ve gone as far as I dare to incite a response,” she said.

“Cheer up then, Beth. Lovers’ quarrels never last long.”

But Elizabeth couldn’t agree with that. She’d hold her own until Marcus apologized. He couldn’t just run roughshod over her. Decisions of this magnitude had to be discussed.

And quite frankly, she could be as stubborn as he.

The coals in the hearth shifted and Elizabeth jumped, every muscle in her body tense with expectation. She waited almost breathlessly for Marcus to test the brass knob. Once he did so, she could relax and attempt sleep.

If he kept to his routine, she’d have only a few more moments to wait. Sitting upright in bed, she clutched the edges of the sheet in her lap with nervous fingers. The lace throat of her night rail seemed too tight, making it difficult to swallow.

Then the knob began a slow turn to the right.

She couldn’t take her eyes from it, couldn’t even blink.

It made a soft click as it reached the barrier of the lock.

Her jaw clenched until it ached.

The knob released, turning rapidly back to its previous position.

She closed her eyes and sighed with a confusing mixture of both disappointment and relief. She didn’t get to appreciate the dichotomy, however, because a heartbeat later the door opened and Marcus walked in, spinning a looped ribbon around his index finger, the end of which dangled the key.