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

the ocean …
    Scar Face had staggered up to dance with a number of his friends. They were getting louder and more raucous. And their dancing skills left quite a bit to be desired.
    A man walked toward Marcus, his appearance mirroring that of Scar Face and his cohorts: rough and faded clothing with the brine of the sea still on his boots. “Don’t mind Simon and the boys. They’re only having a spot of fun.” He pulled the chair out opposite Marcus and sat.
    Marcus took another pull from his tankard. “If not in Lulworth, then where else?” he asked, the words learned from Sully only hours before.
    “From sunup to sundown, a man can never go wrong in Lulworth, ’tis true,” the man replied, recounting word for word what the Corinthians had told Marcus to accept.
     … This crocodile I could plainly see
    Was none of the common race …
    “James Marlowe,” the man said by way of introduction, “or Jamie, as my new friends seem so fond of calling me.”
    Marcus knew enough of the peerage to connect Marlowe with the House of Richmond, though he could not remember the man’s rank. Not that it would have mattered, as he looked like a native Dorset fisherman.
    “Weston.”
     … I lost my hold and away I flew
    Right into the crocodile’s mouth
.
    “Do tell Carmichael of the singing, won’t you? Particularly this ballad, which I’m sure he’ll find of great importance to the case,” Marcus said sarcastically.
    Marlowe laughed heartily. “You’re not of a mind to believe the Weymouth coast activities bear a connection to the London robberies?”
    “Are you?” Marcus countered, draining his tankard. “Or are you inclined to believe the more plausible explanation?”he asked, patting his thigh very near the bullet wound.
    Marlowe rubbed at his beard-roughened jaw. “I’ll admit as much, though the news from London does make one wonder.”
    “Do tell,” Marcus urged, more than eager to turn his pathetic excuse for a holiday into something far meatier.
    “Another robbery in Mayfair. Sheffield, just as our informant told us,” Marlowe offered, his tone remaining casual.
    Scar Face trundled across the tavern and embraced Marcus, pulling him to his feet.
    So now I’m safe on earth once more
,
    Resolved no more to roam …
    “A golden voice, this one,” the drunken Scar Face assured Marlowe before returning to his friends.
    Marcus sat back down, the ditty having given him time to think. “Sheffield seems an obvious enough mark, don’t you think?”
    “True enough, though the thieves took only what our informant said they would—one of the Orlov emeralds.”
    Marcus absorbed the information with particular interest, though his gaze remained neutral.
    “These Orlov emeralds, what do you know of them?” Marcus asked, having, in true Corinthian style, received only the necessary information when Carmichael and he had spoken of the smuggling.
    Marlowe took a swig of his ale. “Well, there’s eight emeralds in all—egg-sized, from what I’ve been told. They were originally fashioned into a necklace for Empress Catherine nearly fifty years ago. The piece was stolen and the jewels were split up and sold. Most of them found their way here, to England.”
    Marcus wondered at the name. “Orlov? Surely not named for Alexei Orlov?”
    Marlowe paused, applauding Scar Face’s jig. “No, not for the man who murdered Catherine’s husband—for his brother, Gregory, rumored to be her lover. From what we’ve learned, the Empress was outraged when she learned of the theft. Seems the emeralds had been in the Orlov family for generations—bore mystical qualities or some such nonsense. Whether they do or don’t is of no consequence. They’re worth a fortune, and every emperor since has attempted to recover them.”
    “And what does Napoleon have to do with these particular emeralds?” Marcus pressed.
    “Emperor Alexander promised to behave and maintain the trade embargo against Britain if Napoleon finds