Louise Allen - The Lord and the Wayward Lady

‘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.

‘My 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?’