The Lord and the Wayward Lady (12 page)

‘It is nothing. I have tired my shoulder, I should have let Havers help you down.’

And that was a lie, Nell thought, puzzled. If she had learned one thing about Marcus Carlow it was that he did not willingly admit to physical weakness. Had he glimpsed that enigmatic figure on the crown of the hill? In which case, why not say so?
Because he is determined not to trust you, of course,
she told herself.
You are not a lady so you are an obvious suspect. And if his father was innocent of wrongdoing when Papa died, he was most certainly guilty of a suspicious mind and lack of faith in his friend. Like father, like son.
At least Marcus had not renewed his offer of a
carte blanche.

But when she came down before dinner, bathed, changed and rested, his mood had switched again. In fact, the entire family seemed cheerful and harmonious, and it did not take Nell long to realize that it was a significant improvement in Lord Narborough’s mood that had lifted all their spirits.

‘Papa is so much better,’ Verity whispered, linking
her arm through Nell’s and steering her towards the sofa. ‘I heard him say to Marc that a little danger is always invigorating, which I do not understand. What danger? Unless he means Marc being shot, and one would hardly call that invigorating.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Nell agreed with feeling. ‘But who knows with men? They may be talking about a dangerous wager on a cock fight.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Verity agreed, with her touching ability to think the best about everyone and everything. ‘Did you enjoy your ride?’

Dinner was animated enough for Nell to retreat unnoticed into her thoughts. Slowly she was becoming accustomed to the reality of what had happened to her father. She had known something had been very wrong all the time she was growing up, she could see that now. She had not even been truly surprised about the manner of his death. At some point in her childhood, perhaps when she was far too young to understand, something had been said, something that as she had grown came to make sense—a sense that she simply had not wanted to confront.

So, what do you do, faced with a best friend who is accused of being a murderer and perhaps a spy? she wondered, watching Lord Narborough’s expression as he talked to Honoria.

You help him escape, surely? But what if the victim is also a friend and you honestly believe the first friend to be a traitor? Would honour forbid you to help? Male honour was a touchy thing, she knew, beginning to have a glimmering of the dilemma that confronted Lord Narborough.

After the meal the men left their port early, coming
into the salon in time to applaud a spirited country dance Honoria was performing on the piano. Verity joined her for a duet, a sweetly sentimental ballad that had Lady Narborough dabbing at her eyes. Lord Narborough closed the backgammon board and settled back to listen.

The countess was persuaded to the piano to perform a short Mozart piece, but all his sisters’ teasing would not get Marcus to sing.

‘And what about Miss Latham?’ the earl enquired, peering into her shadowy corner. ‘Will you not play for us?’

‘I am afraid I cannot, my lord.’ She could just recall the presence of a piano in the parlour, but it had been sold early on.

‘But you can sing?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she admitted warily. ‘But my voice is quite untrained and I have hardly sung for so long—’ Not since before Mama’s illness when she had sat with Mama and Rosalind, their voices mingling, all their worries forgotten in the music. Mama had a beautiful voice, Rosalind one almost as good. Her own performance she found hard to judge.

‘Try now,’ Lady Narborough urged.

Nell came to her feet. It seemed churlish not to join in the harmless entertainment. ‘Very well, but I do not answer for the results; I may set the hounds howling.’

There was a pile of song sheets on the piano. Verity spread them out for her as Nell bit her lip, scanning them for something simple and familiar. ‘This one.’ She handed the music to Honoria, who propped it on the stand and played the introductory bars. Nell took a deep breath, fixed her eyes on a still life on the far wall, and began to sing.

And this time Honoria and Verity joined in the chorus, falling silent again as Nell picked up the maiden’s lament. When the last chorus was sung and the last note died away, Lady Narborough applauded, exclaiming in delight.

But as Nell looked round the room, she saw the earl was staring at her, as though he was not seeing her at all, but something else very far away. Marcus glanced sharply from his father to her.

‘Father?’

‘Charming, Miss Latham, charming,’ the earl said at last, seeming to emerge from a trance. ‘You remind me of…times long ago.’ He got to his feet and turned to his wife. ‘You’ll excuse me, my dear. I think I will retire.’

Nell endured Marcus’s speculative stare for another ten minutes before confessing, ‘I am quite exhausted from my ride. I hope you will excuse me?’

Times long ago,
Nell thought, climbing the stairs. It had been one of her mother’s favourite tunes. Was her voice like enough to Mama’s for it to stir a memory in Lord Narborough’s mind, or was she simply refining too
much upon the actions of a tired man who was not in good health?

But Marcus was not tired or ill. Why could he not believe her innocent of harm or bad intentions? Somehow his suspicions were becoming more than worrying; they were hurtful. She wanted him to like her, to trust her, she realized. And some foolish, unrealistic part of her that still clung to fantasy and to optimism wanted more from him, wanted…love.

The candle in her hand shook so hard that the flame guttered and went out. Nell stood on the darkened landing and forced herself to confront that word. It seemed she was in danger of losing her heart to Marcus Carlow, and one did not get more foolish than that.

I am the penniless daughter of an executed, disgraced man. I might as well long for the man in the moon.
Only the man in the moon was infinitely far away, not so close that she could touch him, not so near that he could kiss her with casual arrogance and dissolve every iota of sense and self-restraint she possessed. The man in the moon had not shared her bed so that she knew what he looked like fresh from sleep, the shadow of his morning beard on his lean cheeks.

She could not tell them who she was, she realized. Not because she feared their anger or their retribution, but because she could not bear to see Marcus’s face when he found out that she was deceiving him, could not face that final rejection.

January 17

T
welve days since her world had turned on its head, less than a fortnight since she had first seen Marcus Carlow and lost her heart. Nell smiled at Trevor, who was adjusting the perpetual calendar on the hall table as she came out of the breakfast parlour, wondering at her own composure.

Why was her inner turmoil not showing on her face? Somehow it was possible to function without everyone pointing a finger at her, exclaiming that she was a presumptuous, foolish, infatuated woman who had no business even dreaming of such a man as the Viscount Stanegate returning her feelings.

‘Good morning, Miss Latham. The frost’s heavier this morning,’ the footman observed, straightening the calendar and the silver salver. ‘Very cold if you were thinking of a walk this—’ The sound of horses outside sent him hurrying to the door. ‘Excuse me, Miss Latham.’

‘Who is it?’ Honoria, her inevitable fashion journal in hand, emerged from the parlour behind Nell, effectively cutting off the retreat she was contemplating. The Carlows might disregard the fact that they were entertaining a milliner, but they would hardly wish to introduce her to their acquaintances.

‘I don’t know,’ she began as Trevor opened the door for a bundled figure that, as it shed its voluminous carriage coat, was revealed as a slim, elegant man in his late forties.

‘Lord Keddinton,’ Honoria said with a smile, but no noticeable enthusiasm. ‘What a very cold day to be visiting. Papa is in his study, I believe.’

‘Godpapa!’ There was no restraint in Verity’s greeting. ‘Where have you come from, not from Wargrave, surely?’

‘My dears.’ The man kissed Verity’s cheek and smiled at Honoria, his gaze lingering as it fell on Nell. ‘I came up from town yesterday afternoon, stayed with my friend Brownlow in Berkhamsted overnight. I have a trifle of business with your father before I turn south for Warrenford Park.’

‘If the snow holds off, otherwise you will have to stay, which will be delightful,’ Verity said. ‘Oh, I am sorry, I am quite forgetting myself! Nell, this is my godfather, Robert Veryan, Viscount Keddinton. Godpapa, Miss Latham is staying with us.’

Nell managed a presentable curtsy. ‘Good morning, my lord.’

‘Good morning, Miss Latham. You have chosen a cold month for your country stay.’ He smiled, nodded and followed the footman through the hall towards the study.

‘What a lovely surprise,’ Verity said. ‘But I don’t
expect he will be able to stay long, the roads must be so difficult with all this frost.’ She settled herself by the fire with her embroidery frame and began to sort silks. ‘You do curtsy nicely, Nell. I didn’t think milliners would learn how to do that.’ She went pink, suddenly realising that she had been less than tactful.

‘There is no call for it,’ Nell admitted, not wanting her to be embarrassed. ‘But I learned how to curtsy properly when… We were not always very hard up, you see,’ she finished lamely.

Honoria put down
La Belle Assemblée.
As usual, she was seeking out the most outrageous styles, guaranteeing another heated confrontation with her mother when they next visited the
modiste
. ‘We wondered, because of your manners and the way you speak, only Mama said not to ask because it was tactless.’

‘So it is,’ Verity said, still pink.

‘I grew up in moderate comfort,’ Nell said. ‘But then Mama was ill and then—well, the money ran out, so I had to work for a living.’

‘What a pity you don’t have a title,’ Honoria observed, oblivious to Verity’s frowns. ‘Because then you could have opened your own millinery shop. Lots of aristocratic French ladies have; it gives a real
cachet
.’

But I do have a title,
Nell thought, startling herself.
Or I did before they took it away. Lady Helena Wardale.
She could not recall it ever being used. That was another person, a long time ago.

‘Well, even if I had, I do not have any money,’ she said making her voice bright. ‘It takes quite an investment to set up a business. I would have to rent a shop, buy materials and equipment, hire girls, advertise.’

‘I suppose it must be expensive,’ Verity said, threading her needle and beginning to add the leaves to a spray of roses. ‘Oh well, perhaps Marcus will send his new mistress to the shop that you work at and your employer will be so pleased she will increase your wages.’

Honoria laughed. ‘Really, Verity! I never thought I would hear you talking about such things.’

‘He has got a new one, I’m sure,’ her sister retorted. ‘And mistresses are very expensive, aren’t they, Nell?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Nell said repressively, reducing Verity to bushing silence again. Her own cheeks were burning as she bent over Verity’s work basket and began untangling a skein of pale blue silk. There had been that insane moment when she had been tempted by the thought of becoming Marcus’s mistress, tempted to throw away her principles and her upbringing and risk plunging into the life of the
demi-monde.
For money. Or had it been for money? Had she been falling in love with him even then and not realized it?

‘Damn it!’ Marcus half rose from his chair as his father slammed his fist down on the desk, making the inkwell rock dangerously. ‘Are you saying that Wardale was innocent? That I helped send an innocent man to his death?’

‘No, no, my dear Carlow, of course not,’ Veryan soothed. ‘I was just asking if you’d thought of anything else, anything that could explain this persecution. I was simply speculating. You must remember, when I visited you in London you said nothing of this—the rope was a practical joke, Stanegate’s wound the result of an encounter with a footpad, that was all.

‘When I got your letter, I have to confess my mind was a total blank, and it isn’t much clearer now. Of course the man was guilty, but just because that’s a fact doesn’t mean someone may believe otherwise. We discussed this before Christmas, you recall, and you did not feel so heated then.’

‘Well, it sounds as though you were hoping he was innocent,’ the earl said, subsiding back into his seat. His hands were not quite steady as they gripped the carved arms of the big chair and Marcus got up, splashed brandy into a glass and set it on the desk beside him. ‘Part of me wishes it were so. Will Wardale was my best friend, for God’s sake. But if he was blameless then there’s injustice added to murder and treachery.’

‘The roads must be bad,’ Marcus remarked into the silence that greeted that observation. ‘This frost seems to be hardening.’ Veryan cast a sharp glance at him and Marcus tipped his head infinitesimally towards the door.

‘Indeed, yes. Well, I had best be on my way.’ One thing, Marcus reflected, Veryan was so damn sharp you never had to give him more than a hint.

‘A pity.’ Marcus steered him firmly towards the threshold. ‘It would have been delightful if you could have stayed for luncheon, but Mama will understand.’

‘Another time, perhaps.’ Veryan looked back at his old friend. ‘I’ve set Gregson, my confidential secretary, to dig out the old files while I’m away. He’s a bright young man, we’ll see what he can find. Good day, Carlow.’

The viscount stopped a safe distance from the closed study door. ‘Well, this is doing your father no good at all, is it? A good thing, perhaps, that outburst was not heard by anyone but us or it might have been misconstrued as coming from a guilty conscience.’

‘Damn it, Veryan!’

‘I said misconstrued,’ the older man said calmly. ‘Is there anything else you want to tell me about it?’

‘Possibly.’ Still feeling defensive, Marcus opened the library door and motioned Veryan inside. ‘I had hopes he was finding this more stimulating than upsetting, but the reminder that there might be some doubt about Wardale’s guilt—that hit him hard.’

‘So, what else is there?’ Veryan strolled over to the globe and set it spinning, one long finger tracing across the continents like an emperor seeking new lands to conquer. ‘Anything to do with that charming young lady I met in the hall on my arrival by any chance?’

‘Miss Latham? She delivered the parcel that set this whole nightmare going.’

‘And is she the owner of a pistol, one wonders?’

‘Of course not.’ He trusted Veryan, but the identity of whoever had shot him—a capital crime at worst—was not something he intended to reveal to anyone outside the family.

‘No. Quite.’ Apparently intent on the borders of Russia, Veryan did not lift his head. ‘A young lady of mystery, then?’

‘A milliner, that is genuine enough. She says the man who sent the parcel used her employer to secure its delivery.’

‘Possible.’

‘But she is hiding something,’ Marcus said, half to himself. ‘I want to believe she is telling me the truth and yet, somehow, I cannot.’

‘Then trust your instincts,’ Veryan said, looking up suddenly, his pale eyes intent. ‘With a male suspect
there are obvious methods of getting to the truth, regrettably coarse though some of those methods may be. With women, perhaps one needs to be slightly more…subtle.’ His smile did not quite reach his eyes.

With an unpleasant taste in his mouth, Marcus watched Veryan’s carriage disappear down the drive. Veryan’s veiled suggestion that he seduce the truth out of Nell chimed all too closely with his own desires to be comfortable. It felt as though he had somehow let Nell down by talking about her to the other man and that he had revealed too much of his own thoughts to the experienced spymaster.

He gave himself a brisk mental shake and went back to the study, determined to take both his, and his father’s, mind off the mystery by discussing coppicing and the troublesome flooding in the West Meadow.

Nell sat in the window seat, arms tight around her knees, staring out into the bright sunlight. The frosted world was radiant, untouched except for the marks of Lord Keddinton’s carriage cutting through the whiteness on the drive and the birds’ tiny footprints on the lawns. This place was so peaceful, so lovely, so apparently secure. Once, she had had a home like this, and that security had been built on sand.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ The deep voice behind her made her jump.
Marcus.

‘Yes, in London, snow or frost soon turns into filthy sludge,’ she agreed without turning.

‘Would you like to drive out with me?’

That brought her round, catching at her skirts to keep her ankles modestly covered. As she did so, Nell smiled
at the impulse. She had been in bed in her nightgown with this man, for goodness’ sake! It was past time for worrying about her ankles.

‘You like the idea?’ He had caught the smile, although he must be wondering about the accompanying blush.

‘The ground is too hard for the horses, surely?’ What was this? Another olive branch or an opportunity for interrogation?

‘Not if we stay at a walk. There is a stand of timber my father and I disagree about. He wants it clear felled, I favour coppicing. A second look would be useful and the fresh air welcome.’ When she did not respond, uncertain what she wanted, he added, ‘And your company, of course.’

‘Thank you, it would be pleasant, if you do not mind waiting while I find my coat and boots.’

‘Borrow a muff,’ he called after her as she whisked up the stairs, her mood lifting from mild melancholy to sudden happiness. Even if this house was less of a safe fortress than it seemed and the people within it not everything they purported to be, it was still a waking dream to cling to while it lasted. And she would be alone with Marcus again, that heart-stopping, frightening pleasure.

‘You are very quiet,’ he observed, glancing down at her as the curricle proceeded sedately along the drive. ‘Or are you unable to speak under all that?’

Nell was wrapped up in her coat, a rug around her legs, a scarf about her neck, and Honoria’s vastly fashionable muff covering her knees like a large shaggy dog. The matching fur hat came down almost to her nose, so she had to tip up her head to look at him.

‘There is too much to look at,’ she explained. ‘This is like a fairy-tale scene at Astley’s Amphitheatre.’

‘You’ve been there?’

Nell made herself relax and tried not to feel defensive. Even milliners might save up to go to Astley’s now and again. ‘Oh, yes. Not often, of course.’ When they had come back to London, selling the little villa in Rye and moving into rented rooms, there had been enough for occasional treats for a while. She remembered the lights and the spangles, the white horses and the acrobats, and she smiled.

‘Is your head better?’ Marcus asked abruptly when she did not elaborate.

‘Yes, thank you. You are a good physician.’

‘Not at all. But I am glad it is all right. My conscience was pricking me for not insisting on the doctor after all.’

‘I expect I have a hard head,’ she said lightly, watching her breath puff into the frigid air.

‘You were lucky not to have been killed,’ Marcus said, a snap of anger in his voice. ‘How could he have hit a woman?’

‘Perhaps he did not know I was one?’ Nell suggested. ‘My candle blew out almost immediately. But to believe that, you would have to accept I am not in league with him.’

‘I do accept it.’ The pair broke into a trot and were ruthlessly reined back in.

‘But you still do not trust me.’

‘Give me your word that you are hiding nothing from me, Nell, and I will take it.’ The silence stretched on while she wrestled with her conscience. They were out of the parkland and into the woods before Marcus
said, ‘I thought as much. You mistrust me as much as I do you.’

‘I might not tell you my secrets, but I do not lie to you,’ she said bitterly. ‘Admit that, at least.’ She wanted him, wanted his trust and his belief and, impossibly, his love. She wanted to believe his father innocent of any wrong, to believe that he had only followed his conscience and his honour. She wanted her father to have been innocent and faithful. She wanted, she knew, the moon.

Nell twisted on the seat, clumsy under the thick rug, her knee bumping against his. ‘Marcus—’ she began, not knowing what she meant to say. The words died in her throat as she saw his face, unguarded. There was pain there, conflict. Need. This was not any easier for him, so fiercely protective of his family, than it was for her, she realized.