revealing Phillippa Benning lying with her hands crossed over her body, eyes closed tight, newly covered in more dust. She looked almost innocent and, of course, slightly dead. But God bless her, Marcus thought, he could see her listening.
“It’s just me,” he said, his voice a little gruffer than had been intended. “Overhear any good conversations recently?”
Her eyes opened, found his, and locked to them. She stared at him somewhat weirdly, as if she was trying to memorize something. But he couldn’t be bothered to ask what.
“For heaven’s sake, it’s just me. Get up now; we haven’t much time.” He offered a hand, pulling her up and out. “I fear your dress is beyond saving now. We’ll sneak you out the back. And Mrs. Benning, it goes without saying that you would do well to forget what you saw and heard tonight.”
“Why? Because if I tell anyone I’ll be arrested as a French sympathizer?” she said with a queer sort of smile.
An eyebrow went up. “It’s a possibility. But I was warning you against the implications of having to explain how you came across such information. I fear far more people would be interested in how you came to be in that sarcophagus than in what you overheard while inside.”
“Oh,” she said, looking momentarily downcast, her brow furrowing, obviously stumped by the rightness of his assumption. Then she looked up at him with a smile. “Fear not, good sir, I am well willing to forget what I heard. And I could merely hope that you do the same, if you please.”
“I’ll forget yours, if you forget mine?”
“Seems fair, reasonable. Polite, even.”
He had just reached for the door handle, but her words made him turn and smile. “Do you see? That was simple enough. I told you the best way to assure my silence—”
“Was what?”
“Why, to ask me, politely.”
Three minutes later, at about the same time one of Lord Fieldstone’s footmen arrived at the library door to find it not only ajar but with a long trail of dust leading from it down the corridor, Phillippa found herself bundled quickly into a hired hack at the back gate of the Fieldstones’ garden. But suddenly it didn’t matter to her that her dress and her hair were an awful mess or that the hack was not her own soft, velvet-upholstered carriage. She was still too stunned by the very idea, the implications of what she had overheard.
Was it true?
Could it be possible?
Was unassuming, unnoticeable, surprisingly affable Marcus Worth . . . the Blue Raven?
Eight
H IS exploits were legendary: During the war, the papers had been crammed with details of his heroics. His prowess. His renown. He was rumored to have “removed” as many French from power as the guillotine had some twenty years before. And his cunning, his guile, unmatched. It was said he could slip into a bedchamber and steal a wife’s jewelry and her virtue all without waking her husband.
He was the Blue Raven.
The most infamous spy in all of England.
Generally, infamy is a negative in the career of a spy, but luckily, anonymity was preserved in that no living soul knew who laid claim to the sobriquet.
Until now, that is.
Phillippa could keep her countenance, she told herself several times over the course of the morning. (For indeed it was morning, having been sent home the night before and fallen asleep at an unprecedentedly early hour, she, therefore, was awake in similar fashion. Her maid nearly died of shock.) Yes, she was well able to hold her tongue. She could keep a secret as safe as a tomb. And did so.
For a whole hour.
Luckily, for herself as well as others, her chosen confidant was sworn to secrecy.
“Could he be? Is it even possible?” she whispered.
Bitsy, her Pomeranian secret keeper, didn’t react much to Phillippa’s question. He seemed far more interested in the breakfast ham.
Phillippa obligingly fed him a piece under the breakfast room table and was rewarded by a sympathetic nuzzle. Bitsy was wearing the
“It’s just me,” he said, his voice a little gruffer than had been intended. “Overhear any good conversations recently?”
Her eyes opened, found his, and locked to them. She stared at him somewhat weirdly, as if she was trying to memorize something. But he couldn’t be bothered to ask what.
“For heaven’s sake, it’s just me. Get up now; we haven’t much time.” He offered a hand, pulling her up and out. “I fear your dress is beyond saving now. We’ll sneak you out the back. And Mrs. Benning, it goes without saying that you would do well to forget what you saw and heard tonight.”
“Why? Because if I tell anyone I’ll be arrested as a French sympathizer?” she said with a queer sort of smile.
An eyebrow went up. “It’s a possibility. But I was warning you against the implications of having to explain how you came across such information. I fear far more people would be interested in how you came to be in that sarcophagus than in what you overheard while inside.”
“Oh,” she said, looking momentarily downcast, her brow furrowing, obviously stumped by the rightness of his assumption. Then she looked up at him with a smile. “Fear not, good sir, I am well willing to forget what I heard. And I could merely hope that you do the same, if you please.”
“I’ll forget yours, if you forget mine?”
“Seems fair, reasonable. Polite, even.”
He had just reached for the door handle, but her words made him turn and smile. “Do you see? That was simple enough. I told you the best way to assure my silence—”
“Was what?”
“Why, to ask me, politely.”
Three minutes later, at about the same time one of Lord Fieldstone’s footmen arrived at the library door to find it not only ajar but with a long trail of dust leading from it down the corridor, Phillippa found herself bundled quickly into a hired hack at the back gate of the Fieldstones’ garden. But suddenly it didn’t matter to her that her dress and her hair were an awful mess or that the hack was not her own soft, velvet-upholstered carriage. She was still too stunned by the very idea, the implications of what she had overheard.
Was it true?
Could it be possible?
Was unassuming, unnoticeable, surprisingly affable Marcus Worth . . . the Blue Raven?
Eight
H IS exploits were legendary: During the war, the papers had been crammed with details of his heroics. His prowess. His renown. He was rumored to have “removed” as many French from power as the guillotine had some twenty years before. And his cunning, his guile, unmatched. It was said he could slip into a bedchamber and steal a wife’s jewelry and her virtue all without waking her husband.
He was the Blue Raven.
The most infamous spy in all of England.
Generally, infamy is a negative in the career of a spy, but luckily, anonymity was preserved in that no living soul knew who laid claim to the sobriquet.
Until now, that is.
Phillippa could keep her countenance, she told herself several times over the course of the morning. (For indeed it was morning, having been sent home the night before and fallen asleep at an unprecedentedly early hour, she, therefore, was awake in similar fashion. Her maid nearly died of shock.) Yes, she was well able to hold her tongue. She could keep a secret as safe as a tomb. And did so.
For a whole hour.
Luckily, for herself as well as others, her chosen confidant was sworn to secrecy.
“Could he be? Is it even possible?” she whispered.
Bitsy, her Pomeranian secret keeper, didn’t react much to Phillippa’s question. He seemed far more interested in the breakfast ham.
Phillippa obligingly fed him a piece under the breakfast room table and was rewarded by a sympathetic nuzzle. Bitsy was wearing the
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