Page 25 of The Marquess of Temptation
"I see he has not mentioned me at all," Dubois huffed, a flash of annoyance crossing his long, thin face. "I am not surprised; he seems to have completely forgotten me and our work, since meeting you."
"I am sorry," Hestia offered, wondering why she was apologising, when it was the Marquess who was at fault. "Do you study hieroglyphics as well?"
"I do not study them," Dubois replied arrogantly, "I live and breathe them. Tell me, has Lord Delaney mentioned the missing stone to you?"
"No," Hestia answered honestly, she hadn't the faintest idea what the Frenchman was speaking of. He narrowed his eyes in annoyance at her reply and heaved an irritated sigh.
"For the past year, Falconbridge and I have been trying to decipher a steele from ancient Egypt. Our progress is being hampered by the fact that a large piece of it is missing. The missing piece was thought to have been stolen by pirates, who attacked a British Navy ship. The man suspected of this act of theft was none other than your father."
Dubois finished speaking and looked at her pointedly, waiting for her response, but Hestia was speechless at his revelation.
"Has Lord Delaney not yet asked you if you know where the stone might be?" he questioned impatiently.
When Hestia shook her head, he clucked his tongue in disapproval.
"Honestly, there is no point in pussyfooting around the question.Doyou know where it might be? Did your father ever tell you where he hid his treasures?"
"My father pawned nearly everything he stole," she whispered, delivering her words in a voice that shook with threatened tears. "He wasn't particularly adept at managing his finances. If he had stolen that stone that you are looking for, Sir, then I regret to inform you that it could be anywhere. Perhaps try Mr Meagher's Pawn Shop, in Truro. He might remember purchasing it from my father."
"Truro," Dubois gave a snort, "I'm not trekking all the way back there again."
"Again?" Hestia tried to keep her voice steady as she spoke, ignoring her heart which was hammering a wild tattoo in her chest.
"I was there a few months ago," Dubois gave a Gallic shrug, "Hoping that I might find some information on the stone. My journey bore little fruit, sadly. When Falconbridge said he was marrying you, I hoped that you might be useful to our search. I can see I was wrong. Good day, Miss Stockbow."
Pierre Dubois touched the brim of his hat in a goodbye salutation, leaving Hestia standing alone on the path, rooted to the spot in shock.
Her mind was whirring as she tried to register all that had transpired. This man, this blonde man, had been in Truro just before her father's death. He obviously believed that David Stockbow had stolen the stone, and he certainly seemed obsessed by getting it back.
Was it possible that Pierre Dubois had killed her father?
A chill wind brought her mind back to the present and she decided that she had had enough of Green Park. Hestia hurried back the path she had come down, clutching her shawl tightly around her body for warmth. There was something else bothering her, something that Dubois had said.
He had questioned if Falconbridge had asked her "yet" where the stone might be, which implied that the two men had been discussing her. It also implied that the Marquess, for all his talk of honour, chivalry and responsibility, had ulterior motives when he had asked her to be his bride.
Anger began to simmer within and by the time that Hestia arrived back at the Thackery's Mayfair home, her fury was fit to boil over.
"Where on earth have you been?"
The authoritative tone of the Marquess as he greeted her in the entrance hall, did little to dampen Hestia's rage. His handsome face wore a look of smug superiority, and he seemed filled with righteous indignation. Well, she'd show him indignation.
"Out for a walk," she snapped, as she passed her shawl to a waiting footman, who quickly disappeared with it.
"Alone?"
If she had not been so angry herself, the icy fury in that one word would have petrified her. Falconbridge's expression was thunderous at her revelation that she had walked alone, despite his previously having forbid it.
"No. Not alone, I brought Henry," Hestia said, tugging at the buttons of her gloves as she struggled to take them off. "And I met your friend Mr. Dubois. Tell me, my Lord, when were you going to reveal to me that you thought I was keeping the location of stolen historical artifacts a secret? Before or after the wedding?"
His stunned silence was most gratifying. Hestia checked a victorious smile that was threatening and concentrated instead on trying to unbutton her gloves, which was proving a most difficult task.
"Here," the Marquess finally said, coming to stand beside her, "Allow me."
He took her hand in his and began to undo the dozen or so buttons which ran from her elbow to her wrist. He worked quickly to free one hand, but took his time over the second glove. She watched, a little breathlessly, as he worked his way, painstakingly slowly, to the final button. She had not known that such a simple act could be turned into something that felt almost sinfully intimate.
"Please believe me," Falconbridge said, as he pulled the glove from her hand. "That your father's connection to my work, in no way influenced my decision to marry you. In fact, until Dubois mentioned it, it had completely left my mind."
"Why should I believe you?" Hestia questioned.
