The marquess stopped, his silence gathering menacing weight, then finished in a soft, hard voice, "And so that people like you could sit safe and smug in England and judge him."
Blushing was the curse of the redhead, and Desdemona was true to her breed. Waves of hot, humiliated color spread from her hairline to her collar and below. "I'm sorry," she said painfully. "No matter how angry I am about what your brother has done to my niece, I should not have spoken as I did." She was more than ashamed; she also felt bereft at the withdrawal of Wolverton's usual warmth. To her relief, his expression eased.
"Your reaction is not unusual," he said. "Spying requires nerves of steel and a number of skills a gentleman shouldn't have. Robin was very, very good at it, or he would never have survived. He has been tested in ways that would break most men, and that very nearly broke him."
"Is that why you're so protective of him?" she asked quietly.
"I would be anyhow. He's the only family I have left, and even though I know he's ferociously competent, he's still my little brother." Wolverton sighed. "I know very little beyond what he has chosen to tell me since he returned to England, and I am devoutly grateful that I wasn't better informed during the years he was abroad. God knows it was bad enough wondering if I would ever see him again, or if he would simply disappear, one of the nameless unmourned dead, and I would never know how or when."
The marquess broke off abruptly, his face tight. Several heartbeats passed before he continued. 'To give you an idea of the sort of thing he accomplished in his 'disgraceful' career, last year he helped frustrate a plot aimed at blowing up the British Embassy during the Paris peace conference."
Desdemona gasped, thinking who might have been killed in such an explosion. Likely the Foreign Minister, Castlereagh, perhaps even Wellington. The political ramifications were staggering, not only for Britain, but for the whole of Europe.
Wolverton smiled wryly. "You see why I said this must be confidential? That's only a sample of what Robin accomplished. I'm told the powers at Whitehall are considering making him a baron for services rendered, only they don't know what to say that could be made public knowledge."
"Being made a peer for espionage might be a first."
"Robin has been breaking new ground his whole life. As a boy there was no harm in him, but he could be mischievous in amazingly inventive ways." The marquess's expression lightened. "For example, I believe he was the only boy ever expelled from Eton on his very first day of school."
Desdemona chuckled. "A dubious honor. How did he do that?"
"He introduced six sheep into the headmaster's drawing room. I never did learn how he managed it. It was a calculated act, performed because he wanted to go to Winchester, not Eton." Wolverton smiled reminiscently. "Even if a title is offered, I'm not sure he would take it. Once when we were boys, we were swimming in the lake at Wolverhampton when I got a vicious cramp. I almost drowned. He dragged me out, an impressive feat considering that I was twice his size and thrashing like a reaper. When I recovered, I pointed out that he could have left me in the water and been the next Marquess of Wolverton."
"And?" Desdemona prompted.
His eyes twinkled. "Robin said that was the best possible argument for fishing me out of the lake."
Desdemona bit her lip. "The more I hear about your brother, the more dreadfully likable he sounds."
"Robin got all the charm and dash in the family. And despite what you think, he's honorable as well."
Desdemona surveyed the marquess's substantial frame, a faint smile on her face. "You seem to have inherited an adequate share of all three traits."
Wolverton stared for a moment, color rising in his face. Then he got to his feet and wandered to the window to avoid her eyes. It was the first time she had seen him disconcerted.
Served him right, she thought with satisfaction; he had been disconcerting her from the first moment they had met. Deciding that it was time to leave the personal, she asked, "Do you suppose Simmons and his men caught up with our fugitives?"
The marquess's glance outside had been idle, but his gaze sharpened. "Perhaps he did. There are two very batteredlooking fellows walking down the high street. Since I saw one of them with Simmons earlier, my guess is that they tried and failed to take Robin and your niece."
She joined him at the window and incredulously surveyed the two mauled bruisers. "Your brother did that?"
"Probably. He was small and almost girlishly attractive as a boy. Such are the horrors of the English public schools that he had to choose between fighting or groveling. If he'd stayed at Eton, I could have looked out for him, but as it was…" Wolverton's voice trailed off.
"Obviously your brother had no taste for groveling." Suddenly aware of how close she was to the marquess's very large, very masculine frame, she unobtrusively edged away. "What now, my lord? I doubt they will return to the drovers."
His brow furrowed. "I agree. Now that our fugitives have been alerted, it will be almost impossible to find them on the road. There are too many routes, too many ways for them to disguise themselves. Perhaps the time has come for you to go to London and wait for your niece to call."
She eyed him suspiciously. The sense that they were allies was eroding rapidly. "You've something else in mind?"
"A possibility has occurred to me." He forestalled her question with one hand. "I promise that if I guess correctly, I will bring both of our runaways to you in London."
Avoiding the question of whether she would give up searching, she asked, "What if they don't wish to come?"
"I will use sweet reason to persuade them." He gave a half smile. "Using force on Robin would not be advisable."
Remembering the battered ruffians who had just passed, she had to agree.
Wolverton picked up his hat and prepared to leave, then paused. "Why were you named Desdemona?"
"It's a family tradition to give the boys Latin names and the girls Shakespearean ones," she explained.
"But your niece's name is Latin."
"There are occasional exceptions. My brother Maximus was named after GreatAunt Maxima, and passed the name on to his daughter. Aunt Maxima died a few months back, ripe in years and wickedness. I'm going to miss her."
"Do you mean Lady Clendennon? She was the only Maxima I ever met." When Desdemona nodded, he said, "Forceful females are clearly another Collins family tradition. Less and less do I think your niece could have been persuaded to stay with Robin against her principles."
"That remains to be seen," Desdemona said dryly. Recalled to a sense of her mission, she tugged her shawl close, collected her reticule, and prepared to leave.
The marquess stood aside, but before opening the door, he halted and looked down at her, his gaze intense. As if mesmerized, he raised a hand to her face, tracing the lines of temple and ear, brushing across her cheek, caressing the curve of her throat. His touch was very delicate, as if he were trying to memorize the tones and texture of her skin with his fingertips.
She stood stock still, fighting to maintain her composure. Everywhere he touched blazed with sensation. She had never known gentleness in her marriage, and it was shocking to realize how vulnerable she was to it.
She raised her eyes to Wolverton's and was immediately sorry. The warmth she saw there was far more dangerous than a blow. He was so large, powerful not only physically but in his air of authority. In another moment he would bend over to kiss her, and if that happened…
She jerked away and opened the door herself. "I shall hope to see you and our errant relations in London, Wolverton." Then she bolted.
Giles gazed at the door that had slammed in his face. Why would a strongminded woman of the world become as skittish as a convent bred virgin when he showed interest in her? The simple explanation was that she had taken him in aversion.