Louise Allen - The Lord and the Wayward Lady

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.