Nicola Cornick - Deceived

The evening took on a nightmarish horror.

Fire was a terrifying phenomenon. Marcus had seen it rip through a battleship more than once. Even now he could hear the crack as the arsenal exploded and feel the shock wave run through the water. The fire that had gutted the second floor of his house at Salterton had been on a much smaller scale, but it was no less devastating. He could still see the image of the young lad lying on the gravel, a small, crumpled figure barely more than eleven years old, too pitiful to think of as a criminal. When he reached the boy’s side he feared him dead, but the youth was alive and delirious. His eyes were open and he kept repeating the name Warwick like an enchantment. When Marcus questioned him gently, he murmured, “Mr. Warwick sent me to find what is rightfully his.” And then he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Marcus called the physician, who was still up at Salterton Hall, and paid for the treatment himself. He felt an obscure guilt over the boy’s injuries, as though he were responsible for the lad’s plight. The boy was the son of one of the Salterton villagers and they took him home to nurse him. There was puzzlement and embarrassment in their eyes as they tried to explain to Marcus that Edward was a good lad and they did not understand where it had all gone wrong. Marcus did not press charges, despite the disapproval of the constable. And then a few weeks later he heard that the lad had run away, although still dangerously weakened by his injuries. His parents shrank still further into themselves and became shadows of the people they had been. Once respected and sure of their place in the community, they became like ghosts. John Channing worked in his cobbler’s shop as he had always done, but was dour and unsmiling. Mary Channing took in laundry but turned her face away from the gossip of her neighbors. And when Marcus called, he soon realized that his presence was a torment to them, not a comfort, for it reminded them of the disgrace their son had brought on their name.

It was then that Marcus determined to find out what had happened to lead Edward Channing astray. He wanted to discover the identity of the mysterious puppet master whose manipulations drove Edward to ransack Marcus’s house and then burn it down. He needed to know what the lad had been searching for.

And there was another mystery. On the evening of her death, Lady Jane Southern had a visitor. No one saw him leave and, in the aftermath of her death, most people forgot him. But Marcus possessed a strange conviction that his appearance had something to do with both Lady Jane’s death and the fire.

“Mr. Warwick sent me to find what is rightfully his….”

Marcus had no notion what it was that he apparently possessed. He had only the name of Warwick to give him a lead, and he trod very carefully in his investigations, making no overt inquiries, drawing as little attention as possible.

It was when he approached the home secretary, Lord Sidmouth, that he discovered the connection to the Fleet Prison. Sidmouth proved to be most interested in Warwick and his activities. The man was a master criminal, the home secretary had said, drawing his supporters from those desperate debtors who thronged the Fleet. He’d given Marcus tacit permission to continue his inquiries—inside the prison.

Alistair was waiting patiently, his gaze thoughtful on Marcus’s face. His friend was the only other person who knew of Marcus’s quest to find Edward Warwick.

“I had to go very cautiously to avoid suspicion,” Marcus said now. “I let slip that I had heard of a fire at a big house in Salterton, and of rich pickings there, and a few agreed that Edward Warwick had said that there had been treasure there but that it had not been found.”

“Treasure?” Alistair said, frowning.

“That was the word they used.”

“Which could be money, or jewels…”

“Or information.”

Alistair rubbed his brow. “Information in your own house of which you know nothing, Marcus?”

“Perhaps,” Marcus said. “Or information that Lady Jane possessed. Curious, is it not?” He turned his empty brandy glass between his fingers. “I am no closer to discovering what it is that Warwick wants, nor to finding out any more about the man himself than I knew before. He has as many names and disguises as he has criminal interests, but he is so feared and protected that I could find out little more.”

“So you asked in the Fleet and found little,” Alistair said thoughtfully, “and what do you propose to do now?”

“Two things,” Marcus said. He knew that he could not let the matter go now.

“I shall make further discreet inquiries into Warwick’s business here in London, and if that fails to turn up new information I shall return to Salterton, where it all began, and see what else I may discover from there. The renovation of the dower house is almost complete. It will be good to see how it progresses.”

“I suppose that you will have a new landlord now that Lady Jane has passed away,” Alistair said thoughtfully. “To whom did she leave her estate? Freddie Standish would be her closest male relative, I assume?”

“He is,” Marcus said, “but he does not inherit. The hall was not entailed.” He paused. The lease on his house at Salterton, which was little more than a cottage orneé that stood in the grounds of Salterton Hall, had been granted to him when he had married Isabella’s cousin, India Southern. He had plenty of houses but it had been a convenient arrangement to take Salterton Cottage for it provided India with a home of her own when she wished to visit her parents at the hall. Lady Jane had been fond of him and had allowed him to retain the lease after India’s death and although he had visited Salterton less frequently, he still paid a visit there every so often. It was on one of these visits that Lady Jane had told him that she had left Salterton Hall to Isabella on her death. Marcus had already known, though he did not say so. The terms of Lady Jane’s will had thrust a sharp wedge between herself and her daughter India when first they had come to light.

“Mama has always favored Isabella over me!” India had said to him once in a passionate outburst that was utterly out of character for her. “She told me that I had no need of Salterton because I was married to you, and that Isabella had always cared for the place far more than I!” India’s face had contorted with distress. “My cousin has been writing to Mama and pretending to an interest and a concern that she does not feel! First she marries that disgusting old man for his money and now she cuts me out of my inheritance! I cannot believe Mama would do such a thing to me!”

Marcus had tried to soothe her but India would not be comforted, and there had been a tense atmosphere between mother and daughter ever after. Since India had predeceased her mother, the matter of the inheritance of Salterton had become almost academic, but Marcus had never forgotten the bitter betrayal that India felt. It seemed a further example of Isabella’s cupidity.

A sardonic smile curved Marcus’s lips at the thought of his new wife as an heiress—and his landlady. What was it that Isabella had said? Her financial embarrassment was of a temporary nature and their marriage of convenience would last only until she had sold her house and realized her inheritance. He had assumed that she had some expectation of salvaging something at least from Prince Ernest’s estate, but now he wondered if it was in fact Jane Southern’s legacy that Isabella was relying on. It was another link in the shadowy chain of family ties and old history that bound them to one another.

“Freddie Standish needs the money,” Alistair said, breaking into Marcus’s thoughts. “He will not be pleased to lose the inheritance. He survives on nothing but his pay and Miss Standish’s meager allowance, so I hear. He is rather a ram-shackle fellow.”