The Lord and the Wayward Lady (5 page)

Marcus turned, met his mother’s eyes and nodded reassurance.

‘Don’t tire him,’ was all she said as she went out, the demi-train of her gown swishing on the carpet.

‘Who shot you?’ his father demanded.

‘Miss Latham, who is, of course, the young woman who delivered the parcel the other morning.’ Marcus kept his voice scrupulously matter-of-fact. If he was in his father’s shoes, nothing would make him more frustrated and unwell than getting half-truths and evasions. ‘I tracked her down to her place of employment, followed her home and startled her, looming out of the fog. It appears she carries a pistol in her reticule.’

As if speaking of it touched a nerve, a wrenching pang shot through the wound. Marcus gritted his teeth, looked longingly at the brandy decanter and decided that, on top of blood loss, even one glass would seriously impair his analytical ability.

‘She meant to kill you?’ His father’s knuckles whitened on the head of his cane.

‘Probably not.’ Marcus shook his head, wondering why he had any doubts. Nell had seen his face and she had still held the pistol to his chest. Could she really not have realized it was loaded when she did not deny it was hers? ‘But she’s lying to me, still. I mean to keep her here for a day or two, see if I cannot pry the truth out of her. She’s deeper into this business with the rope than she says. I know it.’

Beside anything else, he could recall the feel of the gun in his hand. It was a well-made lady’s weapon with an ivory handle, not some ancient, cheap pistol bought on impulse from a Spitalfields pawnshop. Her confederate must have given it to her; that was the most likely explanation.

‘Who can be behind it?’ Lord Narborough frowned. ‘Now, I mean. In ninety-four any of us were targets, and when Hebden and Wardale died, then I could have understood an attack.’ He swallowed and made a visible effort to regain his composure. ‘Feelings ran high.’

That was an understatement, Marcus thought, for the furore surrounding a murder, the unmasking of a spy ring, and a crisis of conscience that had never left his father in peace. ‘Almost twenty years,’ he pondered. ‘Enough time for the Wardale son to grow up.’

‘Young Nathan? He’ll be a man now. Last saw him when he was nine or ten. Blond child, big watchful eyes. Solemn little soul.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t suppose—’

‘Miss Latham is most definitely female.’ That earned an old-fashioned look from his father. ‘Blond, you say? Nathan Wardale’s not Nell’s dark man, then,’ Marcus
added before the earl could pursue the question of why he was so certain of Nell’s gender.

‘Unless she’s trying to deceive you with a description that is the opposite of the truth,’ his father said, sitting up straighter. ‘Could she be his mistress, do you suppose?’

‘No!’ Marcus startled himself with the vehemence of his response, then tried to justify it. ‘She lives in cheap lodgings near Spitalfields church. Decent enough, but not the sort of situation to keep one’s mistress.’

‘And you would know,’ the older man said with an unexpected crack of laughter. ‘Come to an arrangement with Mrs Jensen yet? You’ve got good taste, I’ll give you that. Expensive ware, that one.’

‘Not yet, no, sir,’ Marcus responded, refusing to rise to the bait. How the devil his father knew about Perdita, let alone any details about her, escaped him. It never did to underestimate the earl.

‘So, what are you going to do about her?’

‘Mrs Jensen?’ he asked, playing for time.

‘No, this Miss Latham.’ The earl turned his gaze on his son, wicked amusement lurking behind the intelligence. It was not often these days that Marcus was reminded where Honoria and Hal got their wildness from, but it was evident tonight. The strain might be bad for his father’s heart, but the puzzle and the excitement were good for his spirits and his brain. ‘Do you think she’ll try and kill off any of the rest of us?’

‘I doubt it. She is not that foolish,’ he said dryly. ‘She’ll stay here—if whoever is behind this sees we have his agent in our hands, that might provoke a reaction.’

‘And how do you intend to keep her here short of force? Your mother might have something to say about that.’

‘I have threatened Miss Latham with Bow Street and a charge of assault by shooting,’ Marcus explained, grinning back as his father’s face was transformed by an appreciative smile.

‘Very good. And what was her response?’

‘She said it was
nonsense,
but as she was ripping up her petticoats to bandage my wound, she was unable to develop the argument.’

‘Stopping you bleeding to death certainly weakens the case against her,’ the earl observed. ‘She could have fainted conveniently and left you to bleed.’ There was a tap at the door.

‘Dr Rowlands for Lord Stanegate, my lord.’

‘I’ll be with him directly.’ Marcus got to his feet and rested one hand on his father’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry yourself about this, sir. We’ll get to the bottom of it soon.’

‘Aye, and what are we going to find there?’ he heard the older man mutter as the door closed behind him.

Nell was beginning to feel as if she was involved in a fencing match against two opponents. Miss Price, impeccably polite, appeared to be analysing every word she said and finding it sadly wanting. Her half smile expressed more doubt than if she had been on her feet accusing Nell of shooting Lord Stanegate deliberately.

Beside her, Lady Honoria worried away at the certainty that she had seen Nell before.

‘A delightful bonnet, if I may say so,’ Miss Price observed.

‘Bonnet?’ Nell put up her hand, surprised to find it was still in place after the evening’s events. Lord Stanegate had pushed it off her head when he was
kissing her and she vaguely recalled jamming it back as she gathered up his clothing before getting out of the carriage.

‘Yes. An interesting pattern of plait; I noticed it at once. Perhaps you are a milliner?’

‘I am, as it happens.’ Plait? So that was how he had located her. She was always finding small bits clinging to her skirts when she got home after work, however carefully she brushed. And from the smile that curved the companion’s mouth, she assumed she knew all about how Marcus had found her.

‘Oh, I remember!’ Lady Honoria announced triumphantly. ‘You are the person who delivered that parcel the other morning. The one that made Papa ill…’ Her voice trailed away as she realized the import of what she was saying. ‘And now Marc’s been shot and you—’

‘Miss Latham was merely the messenger. She is assisting me in finding out what is going on,’ a deep voice said from the doorway, silencing the young woman.

Nell turned sideways to stare. Marcus Carlow was, thank Heavens, dressed again—or at least, decently covered. His open shirt collar was visible between the wide lapels of a silk robe that was distorted on the left shoulder where he was bandaged, his arm in a sling. She felt the tension ebb out of her, then stiffened. What was she thinking of, to feel relief that he was here? Did he really mean he believed her about the parcel? Nell intercepted a satirical glance and decided that no, he was not convinced. ‘She will be staying here for a while,’ he added.

‘I do not think so, my lord. I have told you all I know.’

‘But, Miss Latham,’ he said, smiling as he came in and sat down in the wing chair at right angles to her,
‘someone shot me. You may well be in danger as a result. As we have already discussed.’

He meant his threat to accuse her of deliberate assault. ‘I think I will take my chances on that,’ she said, making herself hold his eyes directly for the first time since that kiss. It was a mistake.

Heat seemed to fill her; she could feel the blush colouring her cheeks. That broad chest under her palms, the sleek planes of his pectoral muscles, the utter assurance of his kiss, the taste of him still on her lips… Nell got a grip on herself before she licked her lips. Did he even recall that embrace? Or had he been in some sort of near-unconscious state?

The dark eyes looked back, bland and polite, and she realised she could not tell. ‘I found where you live with very little effort, Miss Latham,’ the viscount said. ‘Others could too.’ He waited, giving her time to think that over, but he had no need. The shivery image of knives that the thought of the dark man always conjured up was enough.

‘Perhaps a night or two, if Lady Narborough permits,’ she agreed, wondering why she felt she had surrendered far more than a few days of her life.

‘M
y dear Carlow, Marcus!’ Marcus stood up as Lord Keddinton strolled into the library, the picture of dry, slender elegance from his raised eyebrows to the slim hand holding his cane. ‘What is this I hear about illness and injury?’ His sweeping gesture encompassed the earl’s footstool and stick and Marcus’s sling, his pale eyes bright with interest.

‘A practical joke gone awry and an encounter with a footpad,’ Marcus said easily. ‘This is a mere scratch.’ A night’s rest allowed him to carry off the painfully throbbing wound with tolerable ease this morning. ‘You will take a glass of wine, sir?’

‘Thank you. If you still have that admirable claret I may stay all morning. A footpad, you say? Really, the streets are hardly safe at night these days.’ With a smile, Robert Veryan—Lord Keddinton—made himself comfortable, crossed one leg over the other and steepled his fingers, watching Marcus pour.

Five or six years younger than the earl, Keddinton had risen high in the circles of government power since the
days when Lord Narborough had been an active spy catcher and he had been a mere confidential secretary on the outskirts of the charmed circle of secrets and danger. His precise role was never spoken of publicly, but he had a reputation for knowing everything, most especially things people wanted to keep hidden.

‘You are well informed, sir.’ Marcus handed him a glass and set one beside his father. ‘As always.’

‘Oh, nothing is said outside these walls of the matter, I am sure.’ Keddinton inhaled the bouquet for a moment, then took a leisurely sip. ‘No, I called with a little gift for my goddaughter and she told me.’

‘And what has Verity done to deserve a gift?’ enquired the earl.

‘Nothing whatsoever—the best reason for giving a lady a present, I always think. Merely a set of enamelled buttons I saw this morning in Tessier’s. A pretty trifle.’

‘You spoil her.’

‘My godchildren interest me.’ Viscount Keddinton twirled the wine glass, admiring the colour against the light. ‘I like to keep in touch.’

‘That must take some effort, you have quite a few,’ Marcus observed.

‘I have been honoured by the confidence their parents place in me.’ Keddinton turned to the earl. ‘A practical joke, you say?’

‘Some friend of Hal’s, I have no doubt,’ the earl said easily. ‘Sent Marc a parcel which I opened—thought there was a snake inside! Gave me such a start my blasted heart was all over the place.’

‘And it was not a snake?’ Veryan set down his glass and fixed his full attention on the earl.

‘No. Merely a cord of sorts. How are Felicity and the family, Veryan?’

The conversation passed to family matters. Marcus sat letting the two older men talk, his mind on the puzzle of the rope. He would speak to his father about confiding in Veryan; the man knew all about the scandal of ninety-four. They had discussed it only that Christmas when Keddinton had visited in company with his new confidential secretary who expressed an informed, if tactless, interest in the case. Keddinton had long been at the centre of the shadowy world of secrets that surrounded the heart of government. He could be an excellent source of information and would bring a powerful brain to bear on the mystery.

‘Let me show you out, sir.’ When his father’s friend finally took his leave, Marcus strolled down the stairs beside him, restless with his own weakness from loss of blood and his inability to see clear to the heart of this strange threat.

‘There was no message with the parcel?’ Veryan asked abruptly.

‘No. As I say, a prank misfiring, that is all.’ He must speak to his father first before confiding in Veryan.

‘Of course. Please give my compliments to your mother. I am sorry to have missed her.’

Marcus stood staring at the hallstand and its gleaming card tray for a long moment after Wellow had closed the door behind Lord Keddinton.

‘Where is Miss Latham, Wellow?’ He had been putting off that confrontation all morning. Sleep had not only rested his hurts, it had also ensured that he faced the morning feeling rather more clear-headed than he had the
night before. And one picture that was very clear indeed was of Nell clawing her way out of his embrace—if that was not too polite a word for how he had taken her. The fact that there had been an answering flash of desire in her eyes, just for one moment, did not excuse falling on a virgin like a starving man on a loaf.

She had not come down to breakfast; no doubt she wished to avoid him, he concluded ruefully. It would be easier to mistrust her if the wrongdoing were all on her side, he told himself with a grimace at his own thought processes.

‘Miss Latham is alone in the White Salon, my lord. Lady Verity having just gone shopping with Lady Narborough and Miss Price having accompanied Lady Honoria for a dress fitting; Miss Latham is reading, I believe.’

He should probably call his mother’s dresser to sit in the corner for propriety, Marcus thought, opening the door. But if he did, he could hardly discuss last night.

‘Miss Latham.’

She was sitting very upright at the table in the window, a book open in her hands, her bent head making a graceful curve of her neck above the simple leaf-brown bodice of her gown. As he spoke, she looked up and closed the book, keeping one finger inserted to mark her place.

‘My lord.’

There was little of the weary, frightened milliner about the woman in front of him, just a dignified young lady in a plain gown interrupted by a man when she thought she was alone. Then the colour flooded her cheeks and she stood up with more haste than grace, dispelling the illusion. No, Nell had not forgotten that damned kiss.

‘My lord.’ Nell bobbed a curtsy, all too conscious that she had behaved as though she were an equal by remaining in her seat like a guest, not the milliner that she was. She had allowed Miss Price to take care of her last night, to lend her night things. She had been sent up supper to her room, and now she had forgotten her place in the sheer comfort and luxury of it all.

My place might be to curtsy and defer, but I will not let him take advantage of me, not after last night.
Nell had lost a great deal of sleep, lying wide-eyed in the darkness, wondering what on earth had come over her to let the viscount so much as touch her, let alone to have responded for that fatal moment.

‘Marcus,’ he said, smiling his cool smile. ‘I told you last night. You have no need to stand up for me, Nell. May I sit down?’

‘Of course.’ How polite they were being. ‘I hope the fact that you are downstairs means that the wound is not troubling you too much this morning?’ That had been another waking nightmare: that he contracted a fever, the wound became infected, he died—and she became a murderer.

‘A trifle uncomfortable, that is all. There is no fever.’

She lowered herself to her seat cautiously, in time with him. ‘My lord, I cannot call you by your given name; it is not suitable. It would give the impression of an intimacy…’ She ran out of words.

‘And after a certain incident last night, intimacy is the last thing you wish to encourage?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair and studying her across the circumference of the table.

He was nothing if not direct! The colour left her face; she felt it as a chill on the skin. ‘Indeed.’

‘I apologise. I have no excuse for my loss of control. It will not happen again.’

Instinct told her not to believe him; men could not be trusted. But his eyes were wide and candid. Serious. Nell blew out a small, pent-up breath, her conscience pricking her. ‘I…it was not entirely your fault. For a moment I just wanted to be held.’

‘And then you changed your mind?’ She had fought him like a fury, that was what he meant, she acknowledged. Wounded and dazed as he had been, a good push would have been more than adequate to repel him, she was sure. There had been no need to struggle like a wild thing.

‘Er…yes,’ she said. There was speculation on his face for a moment, then it was gone. ‘My lord, I should go home.’

‘No.’ He said it flatly and for the first time she actually believed that he would keep her by force if necessary. ‘You are not very obedient, Nell, and I know you have more to tell me than has yet come out. You will call me Marcus when we are alone. Is Nell Latham your real name?’

‘Yes!’ It was. Or at least, it was one that long use entitled her to.

Marcus Carlow studied her with openly sceptical eyes, but he did not comment, only seemed to reach a decision. ‘This is how it will be. You will go this afternoon with Miss Price and me to your lodgings and we will collect whatever you need for a prolonged stay and make sure your valuables are secured—’

‘I cannot stay here for days! I have employment that will vanish if I am away. Today is Saturday, thank goodness, but on Monday—’

‘I will write to Madame Elizabeth informing her that the Countess of Narborough requires your presence,’ he continued as if she had not spoken. ‘It would take less than the very broad hint I will give her of future patronage, should she continue to employ you, for your post there to be secure.’

Lady Narborough and the Misses Carlow would not thank him for having their choice of milliner dictated! Or perhaps he would send his mistress there.
Nell eyed him, her thoughts concealed behind a mask of composure, then could not resist a jab at his assumption of control.

‘Madame does good business providing for the convenients of rich city merchants, as well as their wives,’ she observed. ‘But perhaps the mistress of a viscount expects a milliner of the top flight?’

Lord Stanegate—
Marcus
—gave a snort of laughter, surprising her. She had expected one of his quelling looks. ‘You remind me of a small matter of business I must conclude.
Convenients
indeed, what a very mealy-mouthed euphemism, Nell.’

‘Birds of paradise, lightskirts, Cyprians, demi-reps?’ she countered. ‘Is that free-spoken enough for you, my…Marcus?’

He smiled again. What a very attractive smile he had, especially when his eyes held that wicked twinkle. He was not, she guessed, thinking about her. Not with that look. She felt a fleeting twinge of envy for the woman he was contemplating and a sensual frisson of recollection.

‘Where was I?’ he continued. ‘Ah, yes, we have dealt
with your employer. On what terms do you settle with your landlord?’

‘Weekly, in advance. But—’

‘We will pay him for, let us say, a month to keep your room.’

‘A month! But that is ridiculous, I cannot—’

‘You say
but
and
cannot
too often for me, Nell.’

‘What am I to say, then? Yes, Marcus? Anything you say, Marcus? Whatever you say, Marcus, however ridiculous? You are too used to having your own way, my lord! I cannot, and will not, stay here a month, and that is that.’

‘We are not staying here, we are going into the country, to Stanegate Court, our family seat in Hertfordshire. There we can consider this puzzle in tranquillity, my father can rest—the local doctor is excellent—and the girls can stop dragging their mother around every shop in London.’

‘You do not need me for that. I know nothing more than I have told you.’

‘I do not believe you. You are a liar, Nell,’ he said, still smiling that smile she had thought so attractive just a moment before. ‘You know it and I know it. You have secrets you are not telling me.’

But they are secrets I hardly know myself and do not understand,
she wanted to say, closing her lips tight on the words. ‘You cannot force me to leave London and to go into the country,’ she said at last, realising as she spoke that her very lack of denial increased his suspicions.

‘Of course I can. How are you going to stop me? Young women are kidnapped all the time, but rarely into comfort as a houseguest. Will you run to Bow Street and lay an information against Viscount Stanegate? Will
you protest that I forced you into this house last night, that I forced you to converse and take tea with my sister and her companion?

‘And after that brutality you took supper and allowed one of our maids to tuck you up in bed without a murmur of protest? They will be appalled at such a tale.’

‘You chose to be sarcastic, my lord.’ Nell glared at him, trying to see a way out. ‘Well, now I realize how foolish I was to have stayed and will walk out of the front door. What will you do about that, pray?’

Marcus shrugged. ‘If you chose to try and escape, I will have you bundled into a locked carriage, transported to Stanegate, locked up in one of the estate cottages and guarded, but you won’t do anything that foolish, will you, Nell?’ All the amusement had gone out of his eyes.

‘It would certainly give you cause for complaint, if you found yourself in the presence of a magistrate eventually, but who would they believe, do you think? Or would you prefer to go home, unprotected, and see if your dark man has done with you, knowing that I am in the country, too far away to call upon?’

A tirade about the inequality of their positions was not going to help. ‘You think that this is more than a practical joke, don’t you?’ Nell said at last when she had her seething temper under control. ‘You believe Salterton means real harm in sending that rope—and it was not intended to scare Lord Narborough into thinking it was a snake, it has some other meaning. You suspect you know what lies behind this.’

It was Marcus’s turn to fall silent. Nell wondered if he meant to answer her at all. Then he said sombrely, ‘I may
be wrong, but if I am correct it is an old story, a nightmare that should have been long forgotten. You know all about old nightmares, do you not? I can sense it.’

The shudder that ran through her must have been visible to him. He seemed suddenly focused, as though he would read her mind. The piercing grey eyes were hooded; he knew he had scored a hit.
An old nightmare. Yes, that is exactly what I feel stirring. But it is coincidence, surely, that has brought me here? If it is not, if Salterton knows who I am—then he knows my real name. He knows more than I do about my past.

‘You are afraid.’ It was a statement.

‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I dislike mysteries. I dislike insecurity. And that man makes me think of knives.’
And I am afraid of you and your family because Mama spoke your name with hate and yet you have all been kind to me, so now I do not know what to trust.
But the man in front of her had not been
kind.
He had been autocratic, bad tempered, sexually domineering—and yet… ‘And I dislike not understanding you,’ she snapped, provoking another of his disconcerting laughs. ‘And I do not want to be kidnapped, you arrogant man.’