The Lord and the Wayward Lady Page 7

  ‘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.’

  Chapter Six

  Nell 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.

  But her resolution to think of nothing but ladylike behaviour did not survive long once she was dressed and alone in the jewel box of a room. The writing slope seemed to call to her, crouching like a toad in the middle of the polished table.

  Her hands shook as she opened it. Diary or letters? Just one letter, the most recent, that was all she could cope with. The pink silk ribbon was faded with age as she untied the bow and lifted the topmost folded paper. The paper crackled, brittle and yellow, as she smoothed it out. It was clear to read, a strong male handwriting in spluttering brown ink with a pen that had seen better days.

  Newgate.

  Nell dropped the sheet in shock, then forced herself to pick it up again.

  March 16, 1795

  My darling, tomorrow is my last day on earth. I have stopped hoping now that George Carlow will relent, will make any effort to save me. He could, if he wished, I know it. He has the ear of those high enough, if only he will tell the truth about what happened. Why he will not, I do not know. Is it because of that sin I committed that you, my love, have forgiven me for? Could his priggish disapproval of adultery be enough to see me hang when he knows me innocent of the greater crimes for which I am condemned? Or is there some other reason?

>   I can hardly believe that. Yet others believe it of me. If it is true, if George is behind this tangle of lies, you must beware. Trust no one, least of all him. He will try and tell you his conscience and his honour dictated his actions, his treachery to his oldest friend. Honour? I hope he has enough to keep away tomorrow. I do not want to go to my Maker with the sight of his face before me.

  Your money they cannot touch. They have taken my title, my lands, my wealth, my name—my life is the least of it. Your dowry is safe. Even at my most profligate, I never touched that. You know where to go, where to hide to start your new life.

  I beg you not to come tomorrow. I want to know you are with the children, that you, at least, are safe. Kiss them for me. Tell them their father loves them as I love their mother. I have not always shown that love as I should, but I give it now, with all my heart.

  Your devoted husband, to death and beyond,

  William.

  Her father had hanged for something so awful that they had stripped him of his title. Hanged. That was what the silken rope was about. She remembered now, a nobleman was hanged with that, not with coarse hemp.

  The letter fluttered to the embroidered bedcover and this time she did not pick it up. Papa had gone to his death believing that George Carlow—the Earl of Narborough, that nice man who was so ill—could have saved him, and suspecting that he had the worst of reasons for not doing so.

  Her father had betrayed her mother with another woman and had been forgiven for it.

  Nell stared blindly at the wall. So much made sense now: her mother’s reticence; her aloofness from their neighbours; their quiet, retired life. The money from a fixed income ebbing away inexorably as three children grew up and prices rose. Her bitterness and sadness.

  Had Nathan and Rosalind known the truth? Nathan should have inherited a title, lands. She scrabbled through the pile of letters until she found an earlier one with the address wrapper still intact. The Countess of Leybourne. That made sense now, the memory of someone talking about the Earl of Leybourne when she had been small and of being hushed.