What You Propose (Anything for Love #2) Page 3

  "I do not wish to reply because I have nothing to say," she said, although she offered no objection to his assessment of her friendship with Tristan.

  A faint sliver of jealousy crept through him.

  Bloody hell.

  He cared for Tristan like a brother. He was the closest thing he had to family, yet the thought of punching him on the nose and marring his fine features suddenly had some appeal.

  "Here, you may read it if you wish." She offered him the letter, but he waved his hand to decline.

  "I have no interest in the details contained in your private correspondence, Miss Sinclair." The lie fell easily from his lips.

  "It is from Lord Danesfield. He makes certain demands, and I refuse to comply."

  Damn the woman. She knew exactly how to pique his interest. If he did ever pursue a liaison with her, he was certain she would have him pining after her like a lost puppy.

  Unable to resist, and telling himself he had every right to know of any demands made upon his guests, he peeled back the folds and scanned the letter with feigned indifference.

  Dane's extreme anger and frustration were evident within the first few lines. As he continued reading, Marcus felt a strange sense of relief when he realised Dane had no interest in having Miss Sinclair as his mistress.

  How odd that the thought should please him.

  Marcus glanced up into turquoise-blue eyes tinged with guilt. "Dane wants you to tell him what you know of Miss Beaufort's disappearance. Am I right to assume his previous letter was of a similar vein?"

  Miss Sinclair nodded. "Lord Danesfield is a good man. To some extent I owe him my life. But I cannot tell him what he wants to know."

  "You can't tell him, or you won't tell him?"

  She shrugged. "Perhaps both are true. It doesn't matter now. It is not my secret to tell."

  Marcus glanced down at Dane's scrawling script. Besides anger, the words held a hint of desperation. "But you do know Miss Beaufort is safe and well?"

  "Of course she is safe and well. But Miss Beaufort knows her own mind. She is in love with him but fears she would not be a suitable wife for a marquess. She needs to know he loves her for who she is. When he talks of marriage, she needs to know it is not simply because Society dictates they should wed."

  Dane was a man of strong principle. A man who would stop at nothing to protect those he cared for. If he had discussed marriage with Miss Beaufort, Marcus was damn sure he meant it. What Society deemed appropriate would play no part in his decision.

  "Did Lord Danesfield send you here as a form of punishment? Are you to stay until you confess? Is that why you spend an hour each day in the chapel?"

  The questions were impertinent, far too intrusive.

  "Trust me, Mr. Danbury. Lord Danesfield could tie me to the rack and threaten to gouge my eyes and still it would not be my secret to tell."

  Marcus admired her integrity. Most women of his acquaintance could no sooner hold their water as hold their tongue. What a shame Miss Sinclair had not chosen a different profession. With her beauty and unshakable resolve, she should be spying for the Crown.

  "Dane is not the sort of man to give up. Don't be surprised to see him riding across the bridge on his stallion, smoke billowing from its hooves, its master's eyes as dark as night."

  Miss Sinclair shivered visibly.

  "I did not mean to frighten you," Marcus continued, dismissing the urge to wrap his arms around her and offer comfort. "I know how determined Dane can be."

  "I do not fear Lord Danesfield," she said glancing down to her lap. When she looked up at him, the pain in her eyes was unmistakable. "But I've felt the Devil's cold black stare. I know the difference between empty threats and the cruel, wicked intentions of a man with no conscience."

  A man aroused and in his cups could certainly be a formidable opponent for any woman on her own. But he sensed her experience amounted to more than the hazards one encountered when running a brothel.

  "Pay no heed to my strange ramblings," she continued before he could find the right words to ease her pain. "The streets of Marylebone can be treacherous at night."

  "Most places are unsafe at night, Miss Sinclair." Indeed, even the coastal villages of northern France had their share of criminal activity. He should know. His nightly patrols had uncovered a violation of the law; now he had a duty to intervene.

  She gave a weak smile. "You're right. It is best not to dwell on such things." She took the letter from her lap and stood. "I should return to my chores," she said, and he knew that at two o'clock she spent an hour in the chapel. At three, she spent an hour helping Selene prepare dinner.

  "Of course," he stood, too, and offered a curt nod.

  "Would you mind doing something for me, Mr. Danbury?" Her soft melodic tone held a trace of gratitude, and he doubted he could refuse her request.

  "That depends on what it is you're asking," he said in an attempt to sound indifferent.

  "Would you write to Lord Danesfield on my behalf? Would you ask if he knows what has happened to my girls?"

  Had she used her womanly wiles to tempt him: stroked her hair, let the tip of her tongue trace the line of her lips, moved closer, so the scent of almonds made him want to taste her skin, he would have refused. But her request conveyed a level of trust in his ability to do the honourable thing and it touched him.

  "Your girls?" he said. "Do you mean the women who work for you?"

  "They no longer work for me, Mr. Danbury. To some extent they never did. I was simply there to care for them. A mother. A bank clerk. A modiste."

  He raised his chin in acknowledgement. "What of his request for information regarding Miss Beaufort's whereabouts?"

  Miss Sinclair appeared to contemplate his question.

  "Tell Lord Danesfield that Miss Beaufort is safe and well."

  Marcus shrugged. "That is all?"

  "That is all," she nodded.

  He inclined his head, and they walked until under cover of the cloisters.

  "Thank you for your company, Mr. Danbury," she said as she turned away from him and headed towards the chapel.

  Marcus watched her until she disappeared from view. He had never met a woman like Miss Sinclair. She was certainly not like the scantily-clad bawds one found lounging about in brothels. More's the pity. The idea of her soft curves draped in diaphanous silk made his mouth water.

  Now he came to think of it, she was not like any other woman he had ever met. In his experience, women fell into specific categories: self-absorbed, simpering, or slow-witted. So far, he'd found his guest to be thoughtful, intelligent, kind yet steely. She had the face of an angel, the body of a goddess.

  How in God's name had she ended up running a house of ill repute?

  More importantly, why had Dane sent her to France?

  What was she running away from?

  The following day another letter arrived.

  Marcus glared at Tristan from the chair behind his desk. "I swear if this is from Dane I shall travel to London myself and ask him what the hell is going on."

  "The gentleman does seem rather persistent." Tristan sniggered as he lounged back in the chair. "He hasn't even given her a chance to reply. But you know Dane."

  Marcus flipped it over and did not know whether to sigh with relief or frustration when he recognised Dudley Spencer's initials pressed into the wax.

  "Our friend is so desperate to find his love he has roped Dudley in to do his bidding."

  "Would you like me to take the missive and find Anna?" Tristan asked, pushing his golden locks from his brow.

  It grated that Tristan and Miss Sinclair were on such friendly terms that they had agreed to use their given names. In his home, there was no need to follow convention and the nature of Miss Sinclair's profession deemed any such fears void. Still, Marcus found it highly irritating.

  "There's no need," Marcus said, suppressing his annoyance. "The letter is addressed to me."

  Marcus placed the sealed missive back
on his desk. He would deal with it later when his mood had improved. Now, another thought occupied his mind.

  "Can I ask you something?"

  Tristan raised a brow and nodded. "Of course. I'm surprised you've not come straight out with whatever it is."

  Marcus swallowed to clear the uncomfortable lump in his throat. "It's about Miss Sinclair. I wondered if you have developed a fondness for her. A fondness that amounts to more than a shared interest in paintings and books."

  Tristan shook his head, a glimmer of disappointment flickering in his blue eyes. "In all the years you've known me, you need to ask?"

  Marcus couldn't quite fathom why he felt an overwhelming need to pry and gave an indolent wave to hide his slight embarrassment. "I thought spending time in the company of a beautiful, intelligent woman might make a difference."

  Tristan snorted. "While Anna is all that you say, indeed I still find it hard to imagine her working in a brothel, there will only ever be one woman for me."

  Marcus could not comprehend his friend's mentality. The woman Tristan loved was married to another. Why could he not move on with his life?

  "It's been five years, Tristan."

  "I don't care if it's been fifty years. My feelings for Isabella will never change." Tristan exhaled deeply and shook his head. "But you've obviously developed a respect for Anna whilst she's been here. Do you not have an interest in her yourself?"

  Marcus gave a contemptuous chuckle. "I will not tread in the footsteps of London's dissolute peers. Despite Miss Sinclair's appeal, I refuse to behave like the hypocritical lords of the ton."

  "You refuse to behave like your father, you mean."

  Marcus shrugged, but the mere mention of his father caused bile to bubble in his throat.

  "I believe you would enjoy her company," Tristan continued, "if only you'd drop your guard. Although the seductive skills you usually employ to glean information from women would be lost on her. She is far too observant, not easily wooed."

  "I have no intention of wooing her. I regard Miss Sinclair as just another assignment." Well, that's what he told himself when lying in his bed at night.

  "Just another assignment?" Tristan hollered. "God, Marcus, sometimes you sound like a hard-hearted prig."

  Marcus grabbed Dudley's letter. "We're to take care of her until Dane says otherwise. That's to be the extent of our involvement." God, he really did sound cold-hearted. "Besides, we have an obligation to focus on our current assignment."

  Tristan shuffled forward. "Are we to go out again tonight?"

  "We must go out every night until we find what we're looking for."

  Tristan glanced at the mantle clock and then stood abruptly. "Then there are a few things I must attend to first."

  "Don't tell me you're going to catch a few hours sleep?" Marcus jested.

  Tristan's face flushed. "You know I struggle to stay awake late. I'll not function properly if I'm tired."

  "Good God, man. You were fine when we were forced to stay awake for three days to watch the gaol."

  "Yes, but it's as though it triggered something inside. I'll just need a couple of hours."

  Go then," Marcus waved him away and offered a wide grin. "Go take your nap."

  As soon as Tristan left the room, Marcus tore open the letter in his hand.

  He was correct in his assumption. Dudley was determined to act on their friend's behalf and had specifically requested Marcus' help in persuading their guest to reveal all she knew of Miss Beaufort's whereabouts.

  Bloody hell.

  Marcus resisted the urge to kick the desk.

  What did he have to do to repay the debt he owed to Dane? Sell his soul to the Devil by the sound of it.

  It appeared Miss Sinclair truly was to be one of his assignments.

  But how the hell would he get her to confess?

  Chapter 4

  Anna stood at her bedchamber window and watched the two riders cross the bridge on their way down towards the gate. For the third night in a row, Tristan and Mr. Danbury had left the monastery on some mysterious escapade, and they would not return until the early hours.

  Where on earth were they going?

  The first night, she imagined they were off to the local inn. Two strong, virile men would no doubt be seeking female companionship. Perhaps they had mistresses down in the village or enjoyed the company of tavern wenches. While she could imagine Tristan drinking ale and sharing friendly banter with the villagers, Mr. Danbury appeared far too serious to partake in rowdy games and bouts of playful teasing.

  Indeed, his solemn disposition suggested one of two things. The gentleman's mind was overwhelmed with a matter of grave importance, or his mood was marked by a deep sense of anguish.

  Perhaps both were true.

  Either way, he appeared to be a man of strong, brooding passions. One did not have to stand close to know a fire burned brightly inside, simmering hot just beneath the surface. It would not take much for him to lose his temper and she wondered when he loved if he did so with the same heated fervour.

  Not that it mattered to her.

  She would never trust another man again.

  How could she when memories of Victor lingered in the dark places of her mind?

  Pushing all thoughts of Victor aside, she focused on the mystery of Mr. Danbury's last night departures. After stumbling upon a private meeting earlier in the day, she now knew it had nothing to do with seeking an amorous liaison. The raised voices echoing from inside the chapter house revealed a disagreement over the best way to proceed with their assignment.

  Assignment?

  The word had been clear, specific, but the nature of their enquiry remained a mystery.

  Mr. Danbury acted with a certain apprehension in her presence, although he was far more hospitable since their conversation in the garth. She often found him looking in her direction when he thought she wouldn't notice. Her overly suspicious mind played its cunning tricks and refused to be tempered.

  Anna convinced herself it all had something to do with Victor's death. It was too much of a coincidence — her arrival, their sudden, secret assignment.

  What if Victor did have a contact abroad?

  She knew he shipped girls out of London but had no idea where. He had kept it from her until the River Police had stepped up their patrols and he had been forced to hide a girl at Labelles.

  What if his contact had followed her? What if he was here in France and knew she was the one responsible for killing Victor?

  Had Lord Danesfield uncovered information and asked Mr. Danbury to investigate? They were situated on the coast, after all.

  The years she'd spent running Victor's establishment, were years spent in ignorance. She could never quite gauge his mood, never really knew what bizarre request would fall from his grim lips. She never knew the full extent of the dastardly deeds committed at his behest, and she'd be damned before she'd let another man play her for a naive fool.

  Gathering the thick blanket and the candlestick from on top of the dresser, Anna made her way downstairs. The door to the chapter house was unlocked. She let herself in, placed her candle on the side table and settled into the wingback chair tucked away in the far corner of the room.

  Despite the simplicity of the small vaulted chamber, it held an inherently masculine feel. The solid mahogany desk sat strong and proud in the middle of the room. The tiled floor and stone walls should have made it feel cold, but the leather-bound books lining the shelves on one wall created a blanket of rich autumnal colour. The moonlight beyond the solitary stained glass window brought the coloured image to life. The red hues of the saint's cloak coupled with the golden halo, creating its own sense of warmth.

  If the last few nights were any indication, she would be waiting hours for their return. Pulling the blanket up around her shoulders, she shuffled further back into the seat and made herself more comfortable.

  For the first fifteen minutes, she imagined numerous conversations with Mr. Danbury.
Like a Covent Garden actress learning her lines, she used various tones and different mannerisms to convey the point that she insisted on knowing the nature of this secret assignment. If they were acting on her behalf, she deserved to know the truth.

  As her lids grew heavy, she blinked and tried to fight the overwhelming need to sleep. Anna soon lost the battle of wills, her world descending into darkness as she closed her eyes.

  "Good Lord, are you not going to bed?"

  Tristan's voice permeated the peaceful realms of her mind.

  "In a moment, there's something I need to do first."

  Somewhere in the distance, she heard Mr. Danbury's reply, heard the creaking of a door, the dull thud of boots on the tiled floor.

  Anna's lids fluttered as she became accustomed to her surroundings and she saw the broad figure of Mr. Danbury standing before his desk. He had his back to her as he rummaged through his private papers. Even if she had not heard the patter of raindrops against the window, she knew from the damp ends of the wavy locks brushing his shoulders that the storm had broken.

  Should she offer a discreet cough? Or should she wait for him to turn and notice her? The longer she sat there, the harder the decision became.

  Mr. Danbury flicked the lid on the inkwell, dipped his pen and scratched a few notes. Once satisfied with his work, he sprinkled dust from the pounce pot over the wet ink, blowing away the residue.

  She was about to speak when he tugged his shirt from his breeches and pulled it up over his head. He screwed it into a ball and wiped across his neck and shoulders. It was not the sight of his muscled torso that caused the odd flutter in her chest. Three raised rivulets ran across his back. The dark pink scars were thin, like the marks left from a beating with a strap or whip.

  A faint gasp escaped from her lips.

  He froze.

  She knew he would turn around. She knew she had to find a way to remain calm and in control, to not be weak or easily overpowered.

  "Mr. Danbury," she said, wrapping her blanket around her shoulders as she stood to greet him. "You're home at long last."

  He drew in a deep breath before turning to face her. She expected anger, a sign of irritation at the very least. But the look she received from him caused the strange flutter to return.