won’t be anything else right now, I believe I’ll just go down ta the servant’s hall ta see about arranging the afternoon tea.”
“That would be fine, Marianne, thank you.”
Marianne could not leave the room fast enough. She forced herself to walk slowly to the bedchamber door and open it, but once she was out in the corridor and the door was firmly shut behind her, she nearly flew down the long hallway to the servants’ staircase.
Once inside the stairwell, she pressed her back against the wall and let out her pent-up breath, while a mixture of fear, shock, and undiluted amazement swirled through her body.
‘Bell’? ‘Playacting at being a servant’? The name Beau, and working for the Home Office? The exact type of position that would have him searching for a criminal. She’d begun to assume he was a Bow Street Runner, but now she had little doubt.
Nicholas Baxter, or Beau, was the Marquess of Bellingham, and a spy for the Home Office. And she’d been sleeping with him for the last three nights.
Oh, dear God. She had a very important letter to write.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was two o’clock in the morning before Beau finally threw himself into his lonely cot and pulled the blanket over his head. Then he cursed. Marianne had not come. Was she waiting for him in her room?
They had a sort of an unspoken agreement that they would meet in his bedchamber. He’d spent the last two hours wondering if he should go over to hers, but now it was clear. Even if she had thought he was coming, why hadn’t she searched him out by now, to see what was keeping him?
Blast. Probably the same thing that had kept him from going to her room. Damnable pride. Now it was far too late. If he tramped over there at this hour, he’d no doubt wake her up and embarrass himself at the same time.
They didn’t have an arrangement. Not one written in stone, at any rate. So why was he so out of sorts at missing her for one blasted night?
He’d told her too much. He already knew that. He’d wanted to know more about her and while he could have lied to her about his name and about his reasons for being here, something had made him tell the truth. Their connection had made him tell the truth. And just as much as he hoped she hadn’t lied to him, he hadn’t been able to lie to her. It was an uncomfortable position for a spy to be in. Especially a spy in the middle of a mission. He had no business getting close to her. No business whatsoever.
Hell, he’d even had the thought for a moment to two: what if Marianne was the servant who’d helped Lord Copperpot write the letter? But he’d quickly discarded the notion. He simply refused to believe that it was her. Though he surely needed to see a sample of her writing before he could completely rule her out. Blast. Now he had two samples to gather, and very little time left to do it.
He’d spent a good part of the day trying to come up with a ploy to get Mr. Wilson to write something. But each reason he invented ended up sounding more ridiculous than the last. He’d even contemplating asking for Mrs. Cotswold’s help, but she’d made it clear at the beginning of the bet that she intended to treat them all no differently than the real servants. She was committed to the end, even after Kendall and Worth had packed up and left.
What, precisely, did Marianne know? For all Beau knew, she’d made him as a spy and had been sleeping with him to ward off his suspicions. Wouldn’t that serve him right for letting down his guard?
He’d told her he was looking for a criminal. She may well have guessed.
Beau scrubbed a hand across his face. She’d asked him about Miss Wharton’s maid, Albina, last night. But when he’d told her he didn’t know the woman, Marianne had dropped the subject. Surely, she didn’t think Frances Wharton’s maid had been involved in her brother’s death somehow.
But that was the problem. He had more questions than answers at the moment, and he greatly disliked being in such a position.
He had managed to sneak into both Lord Hightower’s and Lord Cunningham’s rooms the last two days to search for any sign of their guilt. But he’d turned up exactly nothing. And listening at doors had