The Lord and the Wayward Lady. Louise Allen
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‘Safe?’ Marcus felt a twinge of admiration for the way she held his eyes with hers. Her chin came up. ‘I see you are serious about the threat,’ she murmured, her voice dropping as she glanced sideways at the other women.
‘Not a threat. I never threaten, Miss Latham. It was a promise.’
‘You promised to keep me safe just now,’ she retorted. ‘I think.’
‘And so I will, if you stay here.’ Safe at least from whatever she was frightened of outside. Inside, he was not going to promise to keep his hands off her throat if she was not completely frank with him and soon.
‘Did you say threat, Marc?’ Honoria, her hearing as sharp as her eyes, turned in the doorway.
‘I was shot in the street, very close to Miss Latham’s house. I fear she could be in danger if she returns there so soon,’ Marcus said, urging the three women through the door of the salon.
‘Lord Narborough is ringing.’ They all turned towards the stairs as Miss Price came down. ‘I heard movement inside his room. He may be intending to come down if no one answers.’
‘He most certainly is,’ Lord Narborough said as he appeared at the head of the stairs, clad in a green silk robe, his stick in his hand. ‘I’ve been ringing for the past five minutes. What the devil is going on?’ He paused, stared at his blood-smeared son and grabbed for the banister. ‘My God, Marcus, what has happened to you?’
‘A flesh wound, nothing more. It looks worse than it is.’ Marcus reached his father before the earl’s knees gave way, his own legs feeling like sponges as he ran up the stairs. ‘Sir, come back to your room. The doctor is on his way.’ He closed his fingers on his father’s wrist unobtrusively as they walked slowly back. He did not like his colour. Behind him he heard the rustle of his mother’s skirts. ‘I’ll tell you all about it.’
Nell sat down on an upright chair, spine straight, shoulders back, as though impeccable deportment could armour her against whatever might befall her in this house. She could only hope that none of them recognized her from that first, ill-fated visit. What had happened in the carriage she could not even begin to think about. It had been too shocking, too violent, too complex to contemplate now, despite her body’s betraying shivers.
Lady Honoria sat down opposite her, eyes bright with curiosity. She was very pretty and beautifully gowned, Nell observed, and she had an air about her of barely suppressed energy. A handful, Nell had no doubt. The other woman, clad in elegant simplicity in dove-grey silk, was a few years older, Nell guessed, noticing that her gown was home-made, with taste and skill. The paid companion, perhaps?
She tugged the bell pull and came to sit beside Lady Honoria. ‘I am Diana Price, companion to Lady Honoria and Lady Verity. Tea should not be long. You were not yourself wounded in the attack, Miss Latham?’
‘No. Fortunately. It was somewhat alarming, however.’
‘Was it footpads?’ Lady Honoria asked.
‘With a pistol?’ Miss Price countered. ‘That is not their usual weapon, I would have thought.’ She frowned at Nell, puzzled. ‘What exactly happened?’
‘I was on my doorstep, about to take my keys from my reticule,’ Nell began, picking her words with care. ‘And Lord Stanegate was passing. And then there was the incident and the gun went off in the struggle and he was hit in the shoulder. Fortunately the coachman was able to get him into the carriage.’
‘Extraordinary.’ Nell’s heart sank. Lady Honoria was bubbling with excitement, too caught up in the drama to notice the gaping holes in Nell’s account. Miss Price, however, was regarding her with cool, intelligent eyes, speculation lurking in their depths.
The arrival of the butler with the tea tray was a welcome distraction. The ritual of pouring and passing reduced the encounter to a normal social occasion. Nell accepted a macaroon with real gratitude and let herself relax. It was a grave mistake.
‘But I have seen you before, Miss Latham,’ Lady Honoria said, her brow wrinkled in concentration. ‘I know I have. Now, where could that have been?’
‘I am all right, don’t fuss, my dear.’ The earl managed a smile for his wife as Marcus eased him back into his wing chair. ‘You let us talk, hmm?’
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,