Deceived (17 page)

Marcus stood up. "When I wish you to accompany me to social events I shall give you a day's notice."

"I see." Isabella did see. Tonight, whatever the event was, he did not require her presence at his side.

"You will write the retraction for the
Times?"
Marcus added, as though he still did not quite believe her.

"Of course," Isabella said politely.

Marcus hesitated. "Very well, then. Good day, my lady."

Isabella did not move for a moment. She listened as he went out and heard him calling a cheerful word of thanks to Belton. She felt cold and stiff despite the warmth of the day. And she felt oddly empty. What she had planned—what she had
wanted
—was to be preparing to move to Salterton by now. The social whirl of London held no attractions for her. She had spent twelve years living in a royal fishbowl and now she wanted some peace.

But that was not how matters had turned out. She was trapped in Town because her husband required it, but her days were empty. She was supposed to seek his permission for any activity she wished to indulge in and, since he held the purse strings, her options were severely curtailed. She was beginning to see that this might be how Marcus intended to punish her for what he saw as her past misdemeanors.

She stood up abruptly, spilling the needlework on the floor and leaving it there. She crossed to her escritoire. First there was the newspaper retraction to write. Then she needed to take some time to think. She had to plan very carefully, for she had no intention of letting Marcus dictate her life.

She sat down and selected a quill. Drawing the paper toward her, she started to write:
The Princess Isabella Di Cassilis would like it made clear that she did not marry the Earl of Stockhaven for his money.
There. That was a retraction. She paused, chewing the tip of the quill.
Indeed, the princess would like to point out that it is the earl who is the fortune hunter since through the match he has gained possession of Salterton Hall in Dorset, a property that he has long desired. . . .

She finished the paragraph, dusted it down, and reread it with a certain satisfaction. If that did not make Marcus incandescent with rage she would be extremely surprised. Well, he had asked for a retraction. . .but he had not said that she should not mention anything else in her statement.

"Check," she said aloud. "And you had best beware, my lord, for next time it will be mate."

The copy of the
Times
was still lying on the sofa where Marcus had discarded it. Isabella picked it up absentmindedly, then her gaze sharpened on an article on the front page.

Return to London of the American ambassador and his wife. . .

She sat down slowly, still reading. When she reached the end of the article, a smile spread across her face. She had not looked for such good fortune. Since returning to England and discovering Ernest's debts, all the breaks had appeared to be against her. But now her luck had turned. She crossed once again to the escritoire, chose her best writing paper and dipped her quill in the ink.

M
arcus's companion that night
was tall, dark and had a remarkably bushy beard. When Marcus arrived at the Golden Key Inn, Townsend, the Bow Street runner, was already seated in a quiet corner, puffing on a clay pipe that added to the general fug of the room. When he saw Marcus, he made to stand, but Marcus put a hand on his shoulder again to hold him in his seat. He did not want to be conspicuous.

"Good evening, sir," Townsend said. "Pint of ale?"

Marcus acquiesced. He had drunk far worse things when he was in the navy. He looked around. The bar, with its low ceiling and black beams was noisy and hot but no one was paying them particular attention.

"You have some news for me?"

"Aye, sir, I do." The runner drew thoughtfully on his clay pipe.

Marcus sat forward. "About Warwick?"

Townsend viewed him with his mild blue eyes. "No, sir. There's not a criminal in London would talk about Warwick. My news is about the lad you were looking for—Channing, wasn't it?"

Marcus nodded. Throughout his search for Warwick, Edward Channing had seldom been far from his mind. He remembered the boy's delirium and the mixture of fear and respect in his tone when he had spoken of Warwick. He remembered the grief-stricken silence of Edward's parents. He had hoped against hope that one day he would be able to give them good news.

He realized that Townsend was watching him and there was a shade of pity in his eyes. "A relative of yours was he, sir?' the runner asked now.

"The son of one of my tenants," Marcus said. He focused abruptly. "You said was?"

Townsend nodded slowly. "Died in the poorhouse," he said simply. "In
Shoreditch
."

Marcus felt a huge regret, followed by a shock of anger.

"Died—of what?"

"Fever, they said. He was left there a few weeks ago." Townsend cleared his throat. "Fellow who brought him in had found him on the street. He was already sickly, in a very bad way, so I'm told. Never recovered enough to tell them more than his name and his age, and that he was from the country. I think it was the lad you're looking for, sir. I found his name when I was going through the burial records. The details match."

Marcus nodded. He did not doubt it. He thought of John and Mary Channing again. All hope had been extinguished for them now. He thought of Warwick, who would use a child and discard him on the street when he became sick and useless. He felt a cold fury. Townsend was still talking.

"Might I be so bold as to inquire into your plans now, sir?"

Marcus drained his tankard. "I go to Salterton. The boy's parents must be told. And I think it is the only way to find Warwick. No one here will give him away but I have something that he wants. Sooner or later he will come for it"

The runner puffed slowly on his pipe. "You might be right at that, sir. Any ideas what it is that you have of his?"

"I am without a clue," Marcus said with a rueful smile.

"Ah, well." The runner lumbered to his feet. "I'll tell Sir Walter the latest. He'll be glad to know you are on the case. We'll catch the bastard sooner or later." He gestured to the empty glasses. "Your shout, is it, sir?"

Marcus laughed. "Of course. Thank you for your help, Townsend. Can I press you to another?"

The runner shook his head, pulling his waistcoat down over his rotund belly. "Got a home to go to, sir. You, too, most likely. I'll say good night."

He disappeared through the fug of smoke and the crowd closed behind him. Marcus was left alone amid the bustle and noise of the public house. It was an odd feeling to be in so crowded a place and yet to be so alone. He did have a home to go to, of course, though he doubted that it would be as welcoming as Townsend's. It was more of a house than a home. He had employed only a skeleton staff the week past, knowing that there were Isabella's servants to be accommodated and also that he might be traveling to Salterton soon as well. Stockhaven House would be dark and quiet and somehow cold. It was not an encouraging thought.

He paid handsomely for the drinks and went out into the night followed by the grateful landlord's blessing. The air was thick and humid. He did not like these hot nights. The fresh heat of summer was delightful but in the city the sultry air could press down with stifling power. He thought of the slums where disease flourished and children like Edward Channing died alone and unlamented. His fury and hatred of Warwick simmered unabated.

Even though it was hot, he chose to walk home rather than take a hack. The journey was without incident, but as he turned into Mayfair he caught a glimpse of a woman hurrying around the corner. She was cloaked, little more than a flying shadow in the dark. And yet there was something about the way she moved that seemed instantly familiar. . . . He took an impulsive step forward.

"Isabella!"

The woman did not turn. Marcus was left in the lamplight with a watchman looking at him curiously. He felt rather foolish. Isabella had told him that she was at home that evening, and even were she not, she would hardly be walking alone in Mayfair. The simple fact was that she was beginning to haunt his thoughts. He fancied he saw her in every woman he met. Even when he was thinking of something else, her presence filled his mind.

Without realizing what he was doing, he turned into Brunswick Avenue and from there into Brunswick Gardens. The lights were still burning at the house. It was not very late. He told himself that it was a perfectly acceptable hour to make a social call. Especially on his wife.

He rang the bell.

Belton did not look impressed to see him. His lugubrious face lengthened.

"Good evening, my lord."

"Good evening, Belton." Marcus stepped inside, glancing around the hall for any sign of Isabella. He was aware of feeling a curious tension. "Is Lady Stockhaven at home?"

"Her Serene Highness," Belton said with emphasis, "has retired for the night, my lord."

A suspicion was growing in Marcus's mind; a suspicion that Isabella, far from retiring, was out on the town and that her servants were covering up for her. He had known it could not possibly be true that she had no social engagements. No doubt she was at some risqué dinner with Carew and Lonsdale dancing attendance.

"I would like to see her," he said.

Belton's mouth turned down at the corners. He was standing foursquare in front of the staircase, as though he was physically forbidding Marcus to proceed.

"I regret that Her Serene Highness gave no instructions for you to be admitted, my lord," he said.

T am her husband," Marcus pointed out.

"That is so, sir," Belton agreed with unruffled calm. Still he did not move.

Marcus looked at Belton and Belton looked back at him, unflinching.

"Belton? Who is calling at this ungodly hour? I am trying to sleep!"

Marcus looked up abruptly.

Isabella was standing at the head of the stairs. She had a pale blue robe on and her hair was loose, tumbling about her face and down her back. Her feet were bare. It was quite obvious that she had been in bed. Marcus's heart lurched. He realized that he had not seen her like that since she was seventeen.

Isabella did not come down. She stood on the top step, one hand resting on the banister, and looked down at him. The height of the stair, its curving elegance, seemed to give her an air of untouchable authority.

Marcus looked pointedly at Belton, who in turn gazed blankly into the middle distance.

"Excuse me, Belton. I would like to talk to my wife." Marcus could barely keep the impatience from his voice.

Belton turned. "The Earl of Stockhaven would like to speak with you, Your Serene Highness."

There was a pause. "Then let him come up, Belton," Isabella said.

Marcus took the stairs two at a time and reached Isabella's side in mere seconds.

"You were in bed," he said slowly. He reached out and touched her cheek. Her skin was warm and soft beneath his fingers. Because he touched her so seldom, and wanted to touch her all the time, it felt like an intolerable temptation. He wanted to tangle his hands in her unbound hair and feel its silkiness between his fingers; that autumn hair, vivid with red and brown and gold. He saw her lashes flicker. She swallowed. Although she was unmoving beneath his touch, he sensed the same ache of longing in her blood that was in him. Her eyes were a deep blue, slumberous with a desire she could not conceal.

"It is past eleven," she said, and her tone was even although he could see the pulse beating frantically in her throat. "What did you wish to talk about, my lord?"

Marcus's mind was blank. Talking was not at the top of his priorities.

"I—" He could not begin to remember why he had come here in the first place. His hand slipped to the smooth skin of her neck, stroking down to the hollow at the base of her throat. Her fingers clenched on the robe, holding it closer to her chest.

"I wanted to see you," he said.

She looked at him briefly and then away. "I thought that you were engaged tonight?" Her tone was a little husky.

"I was. My business is concluded."