Nicola Cornick - Deceived

“Just so,” Marcus said.

“My apologies,” Alistair said. “You will not wish to hear your wife’s name bandied about.”

Marcus shut his lips in a grim line. When Alistair had spoken he had felt the kick of rage through his body like a lightning strike. God help him, if a passing reference to Isabella could do this to him…he felt a white-hot possessive fury that beat anything he had ever experienced before. By rights Isabella Di Cassilis was his, now more than ever, and he would not rest until it was true in word and deed, and the memory of all that had gone before was wiped out.

He clenched his fists in his pockets and slowly released them.

“This is a marriage of convenience, Alistair,” he said, with a passable attempt at nonchalance.

“And so far the convenience appears to be all on the princess’s side,” Alistair pointed out. “I hesitate to appear meddlesome, Marcus, but what is the benefit to you?”

Marcus met his eyes very directly. “I want a reckoning. She owes me that.”

Alistair was shaking his head. “There is nothing so bitter and empty as revenge, Marcus. Let it go.”

“It is not for me,” Marcus argued, knowing that he was lying in part at least. “Princess Isabella drove a wedge between India and her mother that never healed.”

“And you feel guilty about India,” Alistair said heavily. “So you think to make Princess Isabella suffer for your guilt.”

The anger seethed within Marcus. “I would not allow many men to get away with such a remark,” he said through shut teeth.

“Not many men would have the guts to tell you the truth,” Alistair said with unimpaired calm.

The tension in the room simmered down a degree. Marcus gave a short laugh. “Damn you, Alistair.”

“By all means, old fellow,” Alistair agreed.

There was a silence.

“I do feel guilty,” Marcus admitted, after a moment. “India and I led such separate lives. I was never there for her.”

“She would still have died, Marcus. You were not responsible for that.”

Marcus moved restlessly. “If I had been here in Town instead of at Stockhaven…”

Alistair shook his head. “Marcus, she stepped in front of a carriage. It was an accident.”

Marcus did not reply. He wondered if there would ever come a time when he could think of his late wife without the mixture of paralyzing guilt and remorse that he felt now.

“I do not suppose,” he said after a moment, “that you know where Princess Isabella will be this evening?”

Alistair looked at him suspiciously. “What, am I your social secretary now? She is your wife. That is the sort of thing that a husband should know.”

Marcus sighed. “Touché, old chap. So?”

Alistair sighed, too. “You will find her at the Duchess of Fordyce’s ball. The old lady is very high in the instep, but not too high to welcome royalty.”

“Foreign royalty with a tarnished reputation?”

“Always welcome. It gives Her Grace’s guests something to talk about.”

“Hmm.” Marcus found that he disliked the idea of people gaping at Isabella as though she were a freak show. He knew he should not give a rush either way, but he did, and the knowledge was not entirely welcome.

“Do you have an invitation?” he inquired.

Alistair looked wry. “Second sons do not receive invitations to the Duchess of Fordyce’s events, Marcus.” He frowned. “I thought that we were going to White’s tonight?”

Marcus shook his head. “My plans have changed. I would like to indulge my sudden taste for society. Do you think the Duchess would welcome an itinerant earl, if not a younger son?”

“If the earl were rich and respectable enough, he would be welcomed with open arms,” Alistair said dryly. “I am not certain that she approves of you, though, Marcus. You are somewhat disreputable.”

Marcus looked offended. “I am not!”

“Well, at the least you are…” Alistair waved his hand about vaguely as though trying to pluck a description from the air. “Eccentric. Different. You are not in the normal run of earls. You have odd interests.”

“My interests are not odd.”

Alistair picked a book from the table and tilted it toward the lamplight. “Theoretical Naval Architecture,” he read aloud. “I rest my case.”

Marcus shrugged. “I am undertaking the design of a new frigate for the admiralty. They are plagued by those fast ships of the American Navy and wish to match their skill.”

Alistair laughed. “I doubt that such projects, worthy as they are, will convince the Duchess of Fordyce that you are anything other than unconventional, Marcus.”

“Well, if the duchess will not invite me then I must invite myself,” Marcus said. “I doubt that she will go so far as to throw me from the door.”

Alistair raised his brows critically. “You will attend a society ball looking like that?”

“Of course.” Marcus got to his feet. “My story is that I am but recently returned from Italy. They are a great deal more casual in their dress on the continent.”

“They would need to be deplorably so to pass muster looking as you do,” Alistair said with a grin. “However, if we are fortunate, the evening will already be well advanced and no one will notice us.”

“On the contrary,” Marcus said, “I intend to make an entrance.”

“To what purpose?”

Marcus’s eyes gleamed. “To disconcert my wife, of course. It will be my pleasure.”

He got to his feet. “An undertaker’s mute, eh?” he said with a look at his friend. “How very appropriate, when I imagine that Princess Isabella will view my arrival very much as the funeral of all her plans.” He clapped Alistair on the back. “Let us waste no more time. I am anxious to claim my bride.”

“STOCKHAVEN HAS BEEN ASKING about you, Mr. Warwick.”

The room, at the top of a building in Wigmore Street, was hot and oppressive. Downstairs the expensive modiste’s shop that fronted the business was closed for the night. The equally expensive brothel that operated at the back was just starting to get busy.

A dazzling peach-and-gold sunset was fading over the London rooftops, but inside the room, the dirty windowpanes seemed to block out all that was fresh and alive. A bluebottle buzzed plaintively against the glass, seeking escape. The candles hissed softly. The man behind the desk was writing. He did not pause, or look up.

“Where?” His voice was very quiet. It was one of the things about Edward Warwick that frightened people; the contrast between the smooth surface and the viciousness beneath.

“In the Fleet.”

“I knew that.” Warwick looked up and a slight smile touched his mouth. “I might almost feel sorry for him. Three months in that hellhole and not a thing to show for it.” His expression sharpened, slate-gray eyes narrowing. “I take it that no one talked?”

“Of course not.” The other man was standing in front of the desk. He had not been invited to sit. “No one would dare, sir.”

Warwick stood up. He was not a tall man. Indeed, his air of near-frailty might lead some to underestimate him. He was fair, willowy and of such indeterminate appearance that no one was likely to remember him clearly. Which was just as it suited him.

“Then why are you here, Pearce?” There was a distinct undertone of menace in Warwick’s voice now. “It cannot be to tell me something I already know. I hope you are not wasting my time.”

The other man was nervous. “No, sir. I’m here because Stockhaven got married. In the Fleet, three days ago. We thought you might wish to know.”

Warwick froze. “Married? To whom?”

Pearce gulped. “To the Princess Isabella Di Cassilis, sir.”