The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel by Stefanie Sloane

Author:Stefanie Sloane
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780345517401
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2011-06-28T07:00:00+00:00

Marcus rode as close to the edge of the cliffs as he could, slowing to peer down the rough path that led to the cove below.

No light gleamed from a bonfire on the sandy shore, though that hardly meant the smuggling activities had ceased. More than likely, casks of wine, bolts of silk, and the Lord only knew what else were making their way either across the water from Calais or by land to London itself, where the items would be sold for a handsome profit.

Marcus surveyed the sea, stretching dark and unending toward the hidden shoreline of France.

Sir Arthur’s firm refusal to allow Nigel any further participation in the local smuggling game had made Marcus wonder.

He could swear Sir Arthur had expressed guilt.

The question was, what, exactly, did the man have to feel guilty over?

Pokey’s ears pricked up and he swung his head to the left just as a rider emerged from the woods.

“Marlowe.” Marcus reined the Thoroughbred around to meet his fellow agent.

Marlowe slowed his bay and pulled him to a halt. “Weston,” he replied good-naturedly. “You grow grimmer each time I see you. Isn’t the sea air good for your constitution?”

“You forget, I’m attending house parties and country dances while you’re gadding about the county,” Marcus said in a mockingly bitter tone.

“Jealous?” Marlowe asked, his grin big enough for Marcus to readily see in the moonlight.

“Of course—though I do enjoy the occasional jig.”

Marlowe laughed. “I’d pay good coin to see you dance a jig.”

“Give me the information I need to close this case and I’ll happily oblige,” Marcus assured the Corinthian.

Marlowe fumbled in his saddlebag. “Turns out the boy’s list includes some interesting frogs.”

“Meaning?” Marcus pressed, leaning forward in his saddle.

“You start with Smith,” he began. “A likely enough character—fisherman by trade, smuggler by necessity. There’s a few more of his ilk. Then the list takes a turn.”

Marcus recalled the contents of the boy’s neatly written note. “What of the Frenchmen—Chenard, Boutin, and DuBois? Nigel made it clear he wasn’t allowed near them—he didn’t even know their first names.”

“Hardly surprising if they’re the men I believe them to be,” Marlowe replied.

“Napoleon’s men?”

“Not just any of Napoleon’s men, no. These three, according to our sources, report directly to de Caulain-court.”

“Impossible.” If Napoleon’s valued minister of foreign affairs was involved, the situation was far more serious indeed.

“Not according to our contact,” Marlowe countered, “and I’d trust him with my life.”

Marcus considered Marlowe’s assessment, one not made lightly by any Corinthian. “But why would men at that level chance crossing the English Channel?”

“The Orlov emeralds,” Marlowe said succinctly.

“So you think it’s true, then? That they’re here?”

Marlowe nodded grimly. “Rumors are floating that Napoleon’s patience has run out. Once he secures Russia’s cooperation, he plans to take the rest of Western Europe in one fell swoop. The emeralds are all that he needs to move forward.”

The wind picked up off the water, ruffling Pokey’s mane as Marcus mulled this over. It would take a fortune the likes of which no monarchy had ever spent to secure such an army and the munitions necessary to win such a victory.

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