Marcus waved his brother off and rose from his seat. “Sit. I’ll get the liquor. We may polish it off.” Marcus brought over a crystal decanter, and the two brothers pulled up chairs across from each other.
“I heard about the Thomas Gainsborough painting,” Roman said.
“It never ceases to amaze me how fast gossip travels in this town. It has only been a day.”
“Do you know who stole it?” Roman asked.
“No.”
“Do you have any idea why the auctioneer claimed you did?”
“No.”
“Have you questioned the man?”
“Dante Black is missing. No one knows his whereabouts,” Marcus said, his frustration evident in his voice. He had tried to locate Dante, but the auctioneer had not appeared at his place of business or his residence since yesterday’s auction.
“Do you need help investigating?” Roman asked. “I have resources—”
“No. I can handle the matter.”
“Just as you handled Bridget?”
Marcus’s head snapped up. “Ah, your true feelings always surface, don’t they, Roman?”
The tragedy and treachery of Bridget always came up between them. It had destroyed their bond as brothers. And here it was again, like water when it freezes between a tiny crack in a rock, splitting the rock in two, separating it forever.
Marcus was the first to admit he had been a reckless fool in his early twenties. For years, Marcus’s father had told him he was worthless. Marcus had grown to believe his father’s prophecy and had become a rogue and a womanizer.
And then Marcus had met Bridget Turner, the flirtatious daughter of a prosperous London merchant whose family was not included in the tedious workings of the beau monde that he had grown to resent. At first Marcus had avoided her like he did all self-professed virgins. Messy business, he had thought. But she had been relentless in her pursuit of him, and despite Roman’s warnings to end the liaison, Marcus and Bridget had continued their affair.
When she had become pregnant, he had at first been alarmed. But the more Marcus had thought about it, about having a child of his own, he became thrilled. Here was a chance to raise a child with love, unlike how he and his brother had been brought up. Marcus secretly proposed to Bridget, and on the morning of their anticipated elopement, he had shown up an eager groom.
But Bridget had tricked and betrayed him; she had not been the innocent, loving girl he had believed her to be. She had aspirations above her station, and unbeknownst to Marcus, she had mistakenly thought him the heir to the earldom. Once his status as the younger son was revealed to her, she had cruelly rejected him as valueless. When Bridget’s double-crossing had failed, her father had threatened to toss her into the streets. She had retaliated by doing the unthinkable: She had taken her life and that of their unborn babe. Marcus had been devastated, not just from the murder of his child, but from Bridget’s shocking deception.
When Roman learned of the girl’s death, they had a fierce fight. Roman was angry that Marcus had not ended the affair as he had advised, and he hadn’t believed the story of Bridget’s duplicity. Whereas Bridget’s chicanery had failed during her lifetime, it created a bitter rift between the once-close brothers after her death.
Marcus had felt betrayed by everyone he had ever trusted. Bridget had killed herself and his child. Roman had rejected him. His father thought him a useless spendthrift. Marcus had left home and had begun to drink himself into oblivion when, by the grace of God, he met Blake Mallorey. The newly returned Earl of Ravenspear had fled his own past demons and had introduced Marcus to the Stock Exchange.
Roman leaned forward, his expression serious. “I didn’t mean to bring up old wounds, Marcus. I only offer aid if you need help finding the real culprit,” he said, his tone apologetic.
Roman had recently tried to make amends with Marcus, and as a result, their relationship had gone from frigid to irritably tolerant.
“I appreciate your offer,” Marcus said, “but I am not the same man as in my youth. I don’t need my older brother to fix my problems. I’ll find the man responsible and it will be on my terms.”
Chapter 9
Two unpleasant visits in one day could turn a focused stockbroker into a bitter businessman. Only this time, as Marcus lifted the brass knocker to bang on the door, a smiling housekeeper greeted him and immediately ushered him inside.
Simone Winston glided down the staircase to greet him. “Marcus, darling. What a wonderful surprise.”
A wealthy widow in her early forties, Simone was twelve years older than Marcus. With a crown of auburn hair, a porcelain complexion, and a voluptuous figure, Simone was sought after as a lover by many males of the beau monde. That she had been having an affair with the dark and dangerous Marcus Hawksley added an air of mystery to her widowed status.
How irrational and ironic was society, Marcus thought, for if a widow entered into a salacious relationship with him, it would enhance her reputation, but if an innocent such as Isabel Cameron was even suspected of being alone in a room with him, it would destroy hers beyond repair.
Dressed in a green silk concoction that set her hair aflame, Simone wrapped slender arms around Marcus’s neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Her familiar expensive perfume enveloped him.
“I’m so glad you came to see me, Marcus. I felt horrible after our argument last week, and I’ve missed you terribly.”
She pressed her full breasts against his chest, but this time, he was slow to respond to her feminine allure.
He pulled back. “It’s good to see you, too, Simone, but there’s something I must tell you.”
“There’s no need to apologize, darling. I understand you have been under pressure at the Stock Exchange, and that you truly did not mean what you had said last week about us never marrying.”
His mouth set in annoyance. “May we talk elsewhere, Simone, other than in the front hall?”
She licked a full bottom lip. “Of course, darling. Let’s go upstairs.” She took his hand and turned.
Marcus didn’t budge. “Your bedroom is not what I had in mind. Perhaps one of the sitting rooms.”
She froze. She appeared stunned that any man would turn down her bedroom. “The sitting room?” Her gaze slid downward, noting his tailored suit. “You’re coming from the Exchange. I don’t understand your obsession with working really. You don’t need to—”
“Not now, Simone.” His tone was impatient and finally gained her full attention.
“How impolite of me. You must need refreshment.” She led him to the first room on the right, a lavishly decorated sitting room for receiving formal guests. She went to a sideboard and made to pour him a drink.
“That’s not necessary. I don’t want a drink. I want to talk.”
She turned, arching a well-plucked eyebrow.
Unsure how to break the news to her, he chose a straightforward approach. “I’m afraid we can no longer see each other. I’m to be married.”
All animation left her face. “Married! To whom?”
“Lady Isabel Cameron.”
“How could you? Not less than one week ago, you stood before me and said you would not marry—me or anyone. We had a terrible fight over it. And now you are telling me you want to end our affair because you are to marry?”
“I’m sorry for misleading you.”
Cold eyes sniped at him. “You’re sorry! What changed your mind?”
“The