The Lord and the Wayward Lady (6 page)

‘All you need to understand about me, Nell, is that I will keep you safe.’

From the dark man perhaps. Salterton. But from
him?
Marcus Carlow wanted her safe entirely for his own purposes and she was certain he had not told her them all.

‘Your definition of safe differs from mine, Marcus.’ How easily she had slipped into using his name. But the image of a great house in the country was powerfully seductive. Big, safe, warm, with people all around and strangers immediately obvious.

Nell tried to tell herself that it was only for a few weeks and then she would be back in her old world. But that was not warm, not safe, and she would be all alone again. What harm could it do to escape for just a little while? It could hardly make things worse. Could it?

‘Very well,’ she conceded.

‘Thank you. This afternoon, after Miss Price returns, we will go to your lodgings.’ There were sounds of a bustle from the hall, a young lady’s laughter. ‘In fact, I think that may be her returning now.’

The journey to Dorset Street was enlivened at the beginning by Miss Price sinking into the carriage cushions only to start up with a cry and produce a small pistol from under her skirts. ‘What on earth?’

‘Ah.’ Marcus reached across and took it, slipping it into his pocket. ‘The footpad’s weapon.’

‘A thief with a nice taste in ivory-handled ladies’ pistols,’ Miss Price remarked, settling herself again.

‘No doubt stolen from a previous victim,’ Marcus said. He and the companion chatted easily, with the air of two people who had known each other for a long time and who, even if they had little in common in terms of station or interests, were comfortable together.

It was no doubt a relief to Marcus to know that with his mother so preoccupied with her husband’s health, his sisters were in safe hands. Nell felt a twinge of envy, contemplating Miss Price’s neat apparel and her position in the family.

It had not occurred to her to seek such a post herself as Rosalind had done. She felt a pang, recalling her sister, wondering, yet again, what had become of her.
Perhaps she could have followed in her footsteps, but at first her mother had needed her, especially in that nightmare time when they had found themselves utterly alone. Then, in Nell’s grief after her mother’s death, it had seemed so much easier to continue with the familiar and the secure, however humble.

Perhaps, when all this was over, she could talk to Miss Price, ask her advice about securing a similar position. But that assumed that this would all be resolved simply and happily with her reputation and her secrets intact.

‘Here we are.’ Marcus helped the two women out and Nell stood on the pavement looking at the tall, shabby house with new eyes, seeing it as her companions must, contrasting it with the crisp elegance of Albemarle Street.

‘I am fortunate in my neighbours,’ she said as the front door opened and they were greeted by a strong smell of stewing mutton and onions, a squall of crying from the Hutchins’ baby and the powerful voice of Bill Watkins who appeared to have been imbibing rather freely with his Saturday noon meal and was now roaring out one of the latest ballads.

‘Is that you, Miss Latham love?’ Mrs Drewe put her head round her door, chattering on despite the presence of two strangers. ‘Only Mr Westly was round for the rent.’ Her gaze was avid.

‘We called at his offices a few minutes ago,’ Nell said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Drewe. I shall be away for a few weeks, visiting friends. Mr Westly is keeping my room for me,’ she added as she led the way to the stairs. ‘So there’s no need to worry.’

‘They are all very honest,’ she murmured, trying not to sound defensive as they toiled up the stairs.

‘I am sure they are,’ Miss Price said tactfully as they reached the top landing. She sat by the cold hearth while Marcus went to stand at the window. He had his hands clasped behind his back, and was pointedly not staring round at a room that seemed to Nell even smaller, darker and shabbier now his tall, elegant figure was in it. She set about packing.

Her few clothes, her hairbrush and toilet things went into two valises, her gold chain and simple pearl stud earrings she was wearing already, another bag was sufficient to hold her few books. Nell bit her lip in indecision: should she take the other things, the items that were so carefully hidden?

‘My lord, would you be so kind as to move the bed to one side?’ She had, thank goodness, placed the chamber pot in the bedside cupboard, so his lordship would not be edified by a view of that. His servants’ rooms were doubtless infinitely more respectable than this. ‘Thank you.’ The narrow bed shifted easily on the well-waxed boards. She poked out the knothole in the middle of the floor, hooked her finger in and pulled.

‘Cunning,’ Marcus observed, then tactfully looked away while she lifted out the items inside. A bag containing the emergency reserve of money she kept in her room—the rest, her small savings, were in the bank—was tucked into one of the valises. The only other thing in her hidey-hole, a worn writing slope, held her parents’ letters and her mother’s diary.

‘Read them,’ her mother had urged in those last few days after the sudden fever had taken hold of her lungs. ‘Read them and understand, you are old enough now.’ But Nell had never felt strong enough to do so. She knelt
on the hard floor, lifted the lid and looked inside, wondering if she would find the name
Carlow
in those yellowing pages, whether she wanted to know what they held. Finally she turned the key in the lock, hung it on its ribbon round her neck inside her bodice, replaced the floorboard and stood up, the box in her hands.

‘I will take this; it contains my mother’s letters,’ she said, hoping that sentimental reason was sufficient explanation for wanting to take a battered old box with her.

‘You are all alone?’ Miss Price asked, enough sympathy in her voice to bring tears to Nell’s eyes. She nodded, unable to speak for a moment and the other woman turned away under pretext of scolding Marcus for slipping his arm out of the sling.

‘Miss Latham and I are quite capable of managing two valises and a writing slope between us, if you take the other bag,’ she said with some asperity. ‘Why is it, Miss Latham, that gentlemen insist on treating us as though we are weaklings?’

‘Good manners, gallantry—’ Marcus began.

‘A desire to show off your superior muscles?’ Miss Price murmured, shaking her head, and he gave in, thrust his arm back in the sling and picked up just the book bag on his way to the door.

Nell stood for a moment, wondering why she felt such a strong premonition that she would never come back here. Something must have shown on her face, for Miss Price tucked her free hand under her arm. ‘Ready? You must call me Diana. I am sure you are going to be very happy staying at Stanegate Court.’

‘Thank you. And you must call me Nell,’ Nell responded, managing to find a smile from somewhere.

Mrs Drewe was lurking when they reached the front hall again. ‘Did the other gentleman find you, Miss Latham?’ she asked, her eyes darting over every detail of Marcus’s tall figure. ‘Forgot to ask when you came in.’

‘Other gentleman?’ she asked. ‘Which other gentleman?’ She could guess the answer.

‘The dark one. Looked like a foreigner, if you ask me, duck. One of those Italians, I’ll be bound. Nice clothes though, for all that.’

‘No,’ she said steadily, conscious of Marcus moving up closer behind her. ‘Did he leave a message?’

‘Oh no, duck. Just to say he’d catch up with you when he needed to.’

N
ell travelled to Stanegate Court in the carriage with Diana Price and the Carlow sisters. Lord and Lady Narborough took another carriage and a lumbering coach followed conveying valets, dressers and luggage.

Despite the cold, Marcus rode, giving Nell an excellent opportunity, should she feel so inclined, to admire his horsemanship, his well-bred mount, his glossy boots and the breadth of his shoulders under the caped riding coat. He appeared to have discarded his sling. After one glance, she turned her attention firmly to the interior of the carriage and told herself it was his business if he chose to aggravate the wound by vigorous exercise. She was not responsible for male pride.

‘Marc prefers riding to driving,’ Verity confided. The direction of her gaze had been noted. ‘He rides very well.’

‘So does Hal. He rides even better,’ Honoria said, with the air of someone continuing a long-standing argument. ‘Hal is our other brother and he is a cavalry officer, Miss Latham.’

‘Marc drives better than Hal,’ Verity retorted.

Diana rolled her eyes at Nell. ‘Your brothers ride like centaurs,’ she said. ‘Both of them. They also ride neck or nothing, have been brought home on a hurdle many times and I hope I do not have to remind you, Honoria, not to try and emulate them.’

‘Miss Latham—’

‘Nell.’

‘Oh, thank you, that is much cosier.’ Verity, with her engaging smile, seemed little more than a girl, hardly ready for her first Season. Nell smiled back. ‘It is very nice that you are able to join us. But I didn’t know Marc knew you, so how—’

‘Verity—’ Diana began.

‘Nell saved Marc from a footpad,’ Honoria said, regarding Nell’s flushed face a little quizzically. ‘And she delivered that parcel for Papa, only—’

‘It was such a shame that when your brother went to thank her he met someone with a pistol,’ Diana said brightly.

‘Oh, I see.’ Verity subsided, obviously satisfied with the explanation. Honoria, it was equally obvious, was putting two and two together and coming up with at least six. A little smile tweaked at the corner of her very pretty mouth and there was a twinkle—not unlike Marcus’s—in her eyes.

She thinks he and I are…involved,
Nell thought with a sudden flash of insight, followed by a wave of embarrassment. But surely she would not think her brother would bring his mistress to his parents’ house?

‘Lord Stanegate is worried that the man might attack me, because I was a witness,’ she said with what composure she could, telling herself that she was refining too
much upon every change of tone or fleeting glance. ‘He may well live near my home, you see.’

The remainder of the journey passed safely enough, aided by Miss Price’s travelling chess set and Honoria’s bag full of fashion journals, although not without both sisters bemoaning the necessity of their father’s health requiring country air so close to the start of the Season.

Stanegate Court was a surprise. Nell had not known what to expect, but it had not been this low, rambling house of half timbering and mellow red brick, its roofs swooping in the comfortable sag of age, and woodlands of ancient beeches and oaks crowding close on the frosted hillside behind. If she had visualised Marcus anywhere it would have been in chilly Palladian splendour with ordered rooms and ranks of pillars.

‘It is bigger than it looks,’ Honoria commented as the carriage drew up in front of a vast timbered porch. ‘There are wings at the back at all sorts of odd angles. Mama and I think the whole thing needs pulling down and rebuilding in the modern style, but Papa and Marc wouldn’t countenance it.’

‘But it is perfect,’ Nell breathed as she alighted, stopping to admire it as the other women walked towards the door. ‘Perfect.’

‘You think so?’ She turned to find Marcus behind her, reins in hand. He was white about the mouth and had thrust his right hand between the buttons of his coat to support the arm.

‘You should not have ridden,’ she said, frowning at him and ignoring the question. ‘You have doubtless inflamed the wound.’

‘Your concern would ring more truly if you had not
been the instigator of the damage,’ he replied, his voice as chilly as she was beginning to feel. He was tired and in pain, she was certain. And of course, being male, was not going to admit as much, let alone that it was his fault, so his temper was raw.

‘It would be most inconvenient for me if you were to die,’ she darted back at him. ‘And besides, it was entirely your fault!’

‘That you were carrying a loaded pistol?’

‘I did not know it was,’ she protested.

‘Oh, come now. I was not born yesterday.’ Marcus handed the reins to a waiting groom. ‘Thank you, Havers.’ He stood frowning after the horse as it was led away. ‘No intelligent person carries a weapon when they do not know if it is loaded or not. They most certainly do not point it at someone.’ He brought his attention back from the horse to fix on her face. ‘And, whatever else you may or may not be, Nell, you are intelligent.’

‘I pulled the trigger when I found it—pointed out of the window, of course—and nothing happened. The trigger must have been jammed and came unstuck when I was trying to get my keys out.’

He looked unconvinced as they turned to walk into the house.

‘I suppose you’ve been sitting on that horse for miles in the cold with your shoulder hurting more and more, too pig-headed to give up and ride inside and it has put you thoroughly out of temper,’ she observed. ‘I can see you find my carrying a weapon suspicious and think that I should have waited in a ladylike manner to be attacked and then screamed in the hope of some gallant rescuer rushing to my aid.

‘Well, in my world, my lord, knights on white chargers are somewhat thin on the ground and defenceless females have to fend for themselves. Good afternoon,’ she added punctiliously to a startled-looking butler who was standing just inside the door.

‘Watson, the Blue Guest Suite for Miss Latham and find a girl to wait on her.’

‘Certainly, my lord. Lord Narborough has retired to his rooms. Her ladyship has sent for the doctor. However,’ he added as Marcus swore under his breath and turned towards the stairs, ‘I collect it is more in the nature of a precaution, my lord. His lordship was in, er, good voice a few moments ago.’

‘The country suits Lord Narborough?’ Nell ventured, more concerned about the earl’s welfare than prolonging her quarrel with his son.

‘Mama is happier when he is in town because she sets much store in Dr Rowlands. My father is happier in the country. My sisters are unhappy to be torn, as they see it, from their preparations for the Season. Miss Price, no doubt, is less than delighted to have to deal with their moods.’ He looked at her from under levelled brows. The butler, who appeared to sense atmosphere with considerable accuracy, melted away towards the rear of the vast beamed hall.

‘And you?’ Nell asked, smarting under the double lash of his bad temper and her own nagging conscience about the pistol. ‘Are you unhappy, my lord?’

There was a long silence while his lordship appeared to be counting. ‘I, Miss Latham? I have been forced to leave town at the start of what I was anticipating to be an enjoyable negotiation with my next—what was your
delightful word? Ah yes,
convenient.
And do not attempt to look scandalized at my mentioning her. You raised the subject in the first place. I have a furrow through my shoulder that hurts like the very devil.’ She opened her mouth and shut it with a snap as he added, ‘And do not tell me again I should not have ridden today or we will fall out most grievously. I have sulking sisters, an anxious mother and a secretive, lying milliner on my hands. Yes, Nell. I could be described as less than happy.’

‘Then I suggest you count your numerous blessings, my lord. I am endeavouring to find some to count myself,’ she retorted. ‘If I could be shown to my room; I have no doubt I will see you at dinner.’

‘Or just as soon as you choose to tell me all the truth,’ he flung back.

Watching Nell sweep off across the stone flags with as much outraged dignity as a duchess in a temper, Marcus bit back an oath and found himself admiring the delectable rear view of his reluctant houseguest. Her gown might be old and shabby, but her deportment was that of a lady and the sway of her hips, downright alluring.

He unclenched his teeth and snapped his fingers at a footman. ‘Help me out of this coat.’ Damn it, she was right, he should not have ridden, he thought, wincing as the man eased off the heavy garment. He was behaving in a way that he criticized in his own brother, recalling sending Hal frequent lectures about failing to allow wounds time to heal.

It was time to remind himself that he was, perforce, the sensible brother, the one with the responsibilities, the one who held the family together. He was not the brother
who made love to young women in carriages, got himself shot—or lost his temper, come to that. That was Hal, who managed with Janus-like dexterity to be an exemplary officer on one hand and a hellion on the other.

‘Send my valet to me,’ he said curtly, making for the stairs. A bath, a fresh bandage, a change of linen and some reflection in tranquillity were called for. ‘And Andrewes,’ he added as a further thought struck him. ‘We must look after Miss Latham while she is with us. Ask Wilkins and Trevor to ensure she does not get…lost. If she goes anywhere, they are to keep an eye on her. This is an easy house to lose one’s way in,’ he added blandly as the footman struggled to keep the speculation off his face.

He opened his chamber door to find his mother sitting beside the fire. ‘Mama?’

‘Your father is resting with a book.’ She fiddled with the pleats of her skirt. ‘The journey gave me time to think. Why, exactly, have you brought Miss Latham with us?’

‘Because I have concerns for her welfare.’ Marcus kept his voice even as he strolled to the fire and held out a hand to the warmth. His mother watched him, her face troubled. Oh, to hell with it! He was not beating around the bush. ‘Are you concerned that I have installed my mistress under your roof?’ he asked bluntly.

‘I, well… Of course not, you would never do such a thing. Only it is more than a little odd, my dear. She appears to be a very well-mannered, well-spoken young woman, but she is, after all, a milliner.’

‘Who may be in danger from a violent man in her locality. Mama, this is not a subject I would normally speak of to you, but as you allude to it, I am discussing terms with a certain Mrs Jensen.’

‘Excellent.’ The countess stood up, colour bright in her cheeks as she brushed her skirts into order with some emphasis. ‘Forgive me, my dear. I should remember before speaking that you are my level-headed son!’

‘Indeed, Mama.’ Usually undemonstrative, he surprised both of them by leaning over and kissing her cheek. ‘Be kind to Miss Latham for me. I would wish her to feel at ease. Perhaps the girls could lend her a gown or two?’

A relaxed Nell would be easier to break down, he thought as his valet slipped back into the room. He was aware that his grim expression had Allsop tiptoeing around, but was disinclined to put on a false front for the man. Let Nell relax, enjoy a little luxury. He would be, if not charming, at least civil, and in time her guard would slip. And then he would strike.

Nell perched on the edge of the big damask-hung bed and tried not to appear impossibly gauche as she stared round the room. Miriam, the maid who had been sent to her, was unpacking her meagre possessions and conferring with another woman who bobbed a curtsy and left. Doubtless to inform the rest of the servants’ hall just how humble the new guest was, Nell thought with a sigh.

The rich draperies that hung at the windows set off a dusk-darkened view of sweeping parkland, gilded frames surrounded landscapes and portraits. The furniture was frivolous, French and entirely feminine, and Miriam’s footsteps were swallowed up in the deep pile of the carpet.

There was a dressing room with its own closet and a tub and room for a hundred more gowns than she
possessed and it all seemed achingly familiar. Once she had known a room like this, when she had been very, very small. Mama had been there, young and pretty and laughing with a man she knew must be Papa, and she and Nathan and Rosalind had come in to say goodnight and Nell knew, with a deep certainty, that it was always like that when Papa had been with them. Warmth and luxury and laughter.

The scent had been the same too. Potpourri, sandalwood drawer linings, the aroma of burning apple wood; familiar and long-lost, just as the library smell had been. Which meant that once they really had been wealthy. Not just comfortably off—she could remember
those
days clearly: the little house in Rye, the modest respectability that had proved so fragile—but wealthy like this. And looking back she realized that Mama’s style of manner and her insistence on deportment reflected the needs of a life quite different from the one they had been living.

Miriam had set the battered old writing slope on a table with as much care as if it was a costly dressing case. The feel of the tiny key around her neck had Nell pulling it out, turning it between her fingers. Should she open the box, read the diary and the letters? Which was worse? Knowing the truth or imagining it?

The other maid came back, garments draped over her arms. ‘Lady Honoria and Lady Verity thought you might wish to borrow some gowns, Miss Latham, seeing as how your luggage got lost. And there’s some indoor shoes, miss, just come from the cobblers, that Lady Verity thought would fit.’

The key on its ribbon slid back under her bodice as Nell got up. So, her face was saved in front of the
servants at least. She smiled and tried not to show her emotions at the thought of those pretty gowns, the light fabrics, the big Paisley shawl, the brand-new silk stockings that lay on top.

‘Dinner will be in an hour and a half, miss. Would you like to take your bath and to change now?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Time to get used to her new clothes. Time to practise walking and smiling and chattering of polite nothings so she could survive the first formal meal in this fairy-tale world into which Marcus Carlow had propelled her.