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January 17

Twelve days since her world had turned on its head, less than a fortnight since she had first seen Marcus Carlow and lost her heart. Nell smiled at Trevor, who was adjusting the perpetual calendar on the hall table as she came out of the breakfast parlour, wondering at her own composure.

Why was her inner turmoil not showing on her face? Somehow it was possible to function without everyone pointing a finger at her, exclaiming that she was a presumptuous, foolish, infatuated woman who had no business even dreaming of such a man as the Viscount Stanegate returning her feelings.

‘Good morning, Miss Latham. The frost’s heavier this morning,’ the footman observed, straightening the calendar and the silver salver. ‘Very cold if you were thinking of a walk this—’ The sound of horses outside sent him hurrying to the door. ‘Excuse me, Miss Latham.’

‘Who is it?’ Honoria, her inevitable fashion journal in hand, emerged from the parlour behind Nell, effectively cutting off the retreat she was contemplating. The Carlows might disregard the fact that they were entertaining a milliner, but they would hardly wish to introduce her to their acquaintances.

‘I don’t know,’ she began as Trevor opened the door for a bundled figure that, as it shed its voluminous carriage coat, was revealed as a slim, elegant man in his late forties.

‘Lord Keddinton,’ Honoria said with a smile, but no noticeable enthusiasm. ‘What a very cold day to be visiting. Papa is in his study, I believe.’

‘Godpapa!’ There was no restraint in Verity’s greeting. ‘Where have you come from, not from Wargrave, surely?’

‘My dears.’ The man kissed Verity’s cheek and smiled at Honoria, his gaze lingering as it fell on Nell. ‘I came up from town yesterday afternoon, stayed with my friend Brownlow in Berkhamsted overnight. I have a trifle of business with your father before I turn south for Warrenford Park.’

‘If the snow holds off, otherwise you will have to stay, which will be delightful,’ Verity said. ‘Oh, I am sorry, I am quite forgetting myself! Nell, this is my godfather, Robert Veryan, Viscount Keddinton. Godpapa, Miss Latham is staying with us.’

Nell managed a presentable curtsy. ‘Good morning, my lord.’

‘Good morning, Miss Latham. You have chosen a cold month for your country stay.’ He smiled, nodded and followed the footman through the hall towards the study.

‘What a lovely surprise,’ Verity said. ‘But I don’t expect he will be able to stay long, the roads must be so difficult with all this frost.’ She settled herself by the fire with her embroidery frame and began to sort silks. ‘You do curtsy nicely, Nell. I didn’t think milliners would learn how to do that.’ She went pink, suddenly realising that she had been less than tactful.

‘There is no call for it,’ Nell admitted, not wanting her to be embarrassed. ‘But I learned how to curtsy properly when…We were not always very hard up, you see,’ she finished lamely.

Honoria put down La Belle Assemblée. As usual, she was seeking out the most outrageous styles, guaranteeing another heated confrontation with her mother when they next visited the modiste. ‘We wondered, because of your manners and the way you speak, only Mama said not to ask because it was tactless.’

‘So it is,’ Verity said, still pink.

‘I grew up in moderate comfort,’ Nell said. ‘But then Mama was ill and then—well, the money ran out, so I had to work for a living.’

‘What a pity you don’t have a title,’ Honoria observed, oblivious to Verity’s frowns. ‘Because then you could have opened your own millinery shop. Lots of aristocratic French ladies have; it gives a real cachet.’

But I do have a title, Nell thought, startling herself. Or I did before they took it away. Lady Helena Wardale. She could not recall it ever being used. That was another person, a long time ago.

‘Well, even if I had, I do not have any money,’ she said making her voice bright. ‘It takes quite an investment to set up a business. I would have to rent a shop, buy materials and equipment, hire girls, advertise.’

‘I suppose it must be expensive,’ Verity said, threading her needle and beginning to add the leaves to a spray of roses. ‘Oh well, perhaps Marcus will send his new mistress to the shop that you work at and your employer will be so pleased she will increase your wages.’

Honoria laughed. ‘Really, Verity! I never thought I would hear you talking about such things.’

‘He has got a new one, I’m sure,’ her sister retorted. ‘And mistresses are very expensive, aren’t they, Nell?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Nell said repressively, reducing Verity to bushing silence again. Her own cheeks were burning as she bent over Verity’s work basket and began untangling a skein of pale blue silk. There had been that insane moment when she had been tempted by the thought of becoming Marcus’s mistress, tempted to throw away her principles and her upbringing and risk plunging into the life of the demi-monde. For money. Or had it been for money? Had she been falling in love with him even then and not realized it?

‘Damn it!’ Marcus half rose from his chair as his father slammed his fist down on the desk, making the inkwell rock dangerously. ‘Are you saying that Wardale was innocent? That I helped send an innocent man to his death?’

‘No, no, my dear Carlow, of course not,’ Veryan soothed. ‘I was just asking if you’d thought of anything else, anything that could explain this persecution. I was simply speculating. You must remember, when I visited you in London you said nothing of this—the rope was a practical joke, Stanegate’s wound the result of an encounter with a footpad, that was all.

‘When I got your letter, I have to confess my mind was a total blank, and it isn’t much clearer now. Of course the man was guilty, but just because that’s a fact doesn’t mean someone may believe otherwise. We discussed this before Christmas, you recall, and you did not feel so heated then.’

‘Well, it sounds as though you were hoping he was innocent,’ the earl said, subsiding back into his seat. His hands were not quite steady as they gripped the carved arms of the big chair and Marcus got up, splashed brandy into a glass and set it on the desk beside him. ‘Part of me wishes it were so. Will Wardale was my best friend, for God’s sake. But if he was blameless then there’s injustice added to murder and treachery.’

‘The roads must be bad,’ Marcus remarked into the silence that greeted that observation. ‘This frost seems to be hardening.’ Veryan cast a sharp glance at him and Marcus tipped his head infinitesimally towards the door.

‘Indeed, yes. Well, I had best be on my way.’ One thing, Marcus reflected, Veryan was so damn sharp you never had to give him more than a hint.

‘A pity.’ Marcus steered him firmly towards the threshold. ‘It would have been delightful if you could have stayed for luncheon, but Mama will understand.’

‘Another time, perhaps.’ Veryan looked back at his old friend. ‘I’ve set Gregson, my confidential secretary, to dig out the old files while I’m away. He’s a bright young man, we’ll see what he can find. Good day, Carlow.’

The viscount stopped a safe distance from the closed study door. ‘Well, this is doing your father no good at all, is it? A good thing, perhaps, that outburst was not heard by anyone but us or it might have been misconstrued as coming from a guilty conscience.’

‘Damn it, Veryan!’

‘I said misconstrued,’ the older man said calmly. ‘Is there anything else you want to tell me about it?’

‘Possibly.’ Still feeling defensive, Marcus opened the library door and motioned Veryan inside. ‘I had hopes he was finding this more stimulating than upsetting, but the reminder that there might be some doubt about Wardale’s guilt—that hit him hard.’

‘So, what else is there?’ Veryan strolled over to the globe and set it spinning, one long finger tracing across the continents like an emperor seeking new lands to conquer. ‘Anything to do with that charming young lady I met in the hall on my arrival by any chance?’

‘Miss Latham? She delivered the parcel that set this whole nightmare going.’

‘And is she the owner of a pistol, one wonders?’

‘Of course not.’ He trusted Veryan, but the identity of whoever had shot him—a capital crime at worst—was not something he intended to reveal to anyone outside the family.

‘No. Quite.’ Apparently intent on the borders of Russia, Veryan did not lift his head. ‘A young lady of mystery, then?’

‘A milliner, that is genuine enough. She says the man who sent the parcel used her employer to secure its delivery.’

‘Possible.’

‘But she is hiding something,’ Marcus said, half to himself. ‘I want to believe she is telling me the truth and yet, somehow, I cannot.’

‘Then trust your instincts,’ Veryan said, looking up suddenly, his pale eyes intent. ‘With a male suspect there are obvious methods of getting to the truth, regrettably coarse though some of those methods may be. With women, perhaps one needs to be slightly more…subtle.’ His smile did not quite reach his eyes.

With an unpleasant taste in his mouth, Marcus watched Veryan’s carriage disappear down the drive. Veryan’s veiled suggestion that he seduce the truth out of Nell chimed all too closely with his own desires to be comfortable. It felt as though he had somehow let Nell down by talking about her to the other man and that he had revealed too much of his own thoughts to the experienced spymaster.

He gave himself a brisk mental shake and went back to the study, determined to take both his, and his father’s, mind off the mystery by discussing coppicing and the troublesome flooding in the West Meadow.

Nell sat in the window seat, arms tight around her knees, staring out into the bright sunlight. The frosted world was radiant, untouched except for the marks of Lord Keddinton’s carriage cutting through the whiteness on the drive and the birds’ tiny footprints on the lawns. This place was so peaceful, so lovely, so apparently secure. Once, she had had a home like this, and that security had been built on sand.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ The deep voice behind her made her jump. Marcus.

‘Yes, in London, snow or frost soon turns into filthy sludge,’ she agreed without turning.

‘Would you like to drive out with me?’

That brought her round, catching at her skirts to keep her ankles modestly covered. As she did so, Nell smiled at the impulse. She had been in bed in her nightgown with this man, for goodness’ sake! It was past time for worrying about her ankles.

‘You like the idea?’ He had caught the smile, although he must be wondering about the accompanying blush.

‘The ground is too hard for the horses, surely?’ What was this? Another olive branch or an opportunity for interrogation?

‘Not if we stay at a walk. There is a stand of timber my father and I disagree about. He wants it clear felled, I favour coppicing. A second look would be useful and the fresh air welcome.’ When she did not respond, uncertain what she wanted, he added, ‘And your company, of course.’

‘Thank you, it would be pleasant, if you do not mind waiting while I find my coat and boots.’

‘Borrow a muff,’ he called after her as she whisked up the stairs, her mood lifting from mild melancholy to sudden happiness. Even if this house was less of a safe fortress than it seemed and the people within it not everything they purported to be, it was still a waking dream to cling to while it lasted. And she would be alone with Marcus again, that heartstopping, frightening pleasure.

‘You are very quiet,’ he observed, glancing down at her as the curricle proceeded sedately along the drive. ‘Or are you unable to speak under all that?’

Nell was wrapped up in her coat, a rug around her legs, a scarf about her neck, and Honoria’s vastly fashionable muff covering her knees like a large shaggy dog. The matching fur hat came down almost to her nose, so she had to tip up her head to look at him.

‘There is too much to look at,’ she explained. ‘This is like a fairy-tale scene at Astley’s Amphitheatre.’

‘You’ve been there?’

Nell made herself relax and tried not to feel defensive. Even milliners might save up to go to Astley’s now and again. ‘Oh, yes. Not often, of course.’ When they had come back to London, selling the little villa in Rye and moving into rented rooms, there had been enough for occasional treats for a while. She remembered the lights and the spangles, the white horses and the acrobats, and she smiled.

‘Is your head better?’ Marcus asked abruptly when she did not elaborate.

‘Yes, thank you. You are a good physician.’

‘Not at all. But I am glad it is all right. My conscience was pricking me for not insisting on the doctor after all.’

‘I expect I have a hard head,’ she said lightly, watching her breath puff into the frigid air.

‘You were lucky not to have been killed,’ Marcus said, a snap of anger in his voice. ‘How could he have hit a woman?’

‘Perhaps he did not know I was one?’ Nell suggested. ‘My candle blew out almost immediately. But to believe that, you would have to accept I am not in league with him.’

‘I do accept it. ‘The pair broke into a trot and were ruthlessly reined back in.

‘But you still do not trust me.’

‘Give me your word that you are hiding nothing from me, Nell, and I will take it.’ The silence stretched on while she wrestled with her conscience. They were out of the parkland and into the woods before Marcus said, ‘I thought as much. You mistrust me as much as I do you.’

‘I might not tell you my secrets, but I do not lie to you,’ she said bitterly. ‘Admit that, at least.’ She wanted him, wanted his trust and his belief and, impossibly, his love. She wanted to believe his father innocent of any wrong, to believe that he had only followed his conscience and his honour. She wanted her father to have been innocent and faithful. She wanted, she knew, the moon.

Nell twisted on the seat, clumsy under the thick rug, her knee bumping against his. ‘Marcus—’ she began, not knowing what she meant to say. The words died in her throat as she saw his face, unguarded. There was pain there, conflict. Need. This was not any easier for him, so fiercely protective of his family, than it was for her, she realized.

‘Marcus,’ she repeated, and he pulled up the pair, turned and looked down into her face. Neither of them spoke. But the vapour in the air betrayed the sharp breath he had taken and the look in his eyes stopped her heart for one dizzying moment.

They were at a fork in the road. Without speaking, he turned uphill, the pair working hard in the traces to manage the slope of the rutted track. After a few minutes they emerged into a clearing with a view down through the trees to the vale below. With its back to the woods stood a strange tower built of split flints, its battlements crumbling, its one window and door facing west.

‘The folly,’ Marcus said, driving the team into an open-fronted shack by its side. ‘We picnic here, almost all the year round.’

Without explanation, he helped her down from her seat, threw rugs over the horses and reached up to take a key from on top of a beam. Heart pounding, Nell followed him through the fake medieval door into a charming but chilly room in the Gothic taste with a stone floor, arched ceiling and a fireplace. Tin trunks and rustic tables and chairs made up all the furnishing.

Nell went to the window and rubbed at the small panes. ‘It is very clean and tidy.’ She had to say something, anything.

‘As I said, we use it a lot.’ Marcus was on his knees on the hearth, stacking kindling and wood shavings from the pile standing ready. The fire flamed into life as he added more wood. She stood watching him as he worked—his kneeling figure, his bent head, the vulnerable skin between his hair line and his collar that she wanted to touch so much—and felt the room grow warmer, far warmer than the blaze he was kindling justified.

When he stood, turned to face her, she found there were no words, not even a question. She knew why she wanted to be there, why Marcus had brought her there, and she knew, if she turned and walked away, he would let her go.

Nell laid the muff and hat on the table and unwrapped the scarf from round her neck. Her hands, as she peeled off her gloves, were suddenly quite steady. She loved him. She wanted him, and she was so tired, so very, very tired, of being alone. This would not be for long, she knew that; he would not want her again, once he had taken her. She had no arts, no experience of lovemaking to hold a sophisticated man of the world. What had happened to her would make her stiff and awkward in his arms however hard she tried to relax. But she would know, just once, what it meant to lie with a man in mutual desire and passion, and that memory would last for a lifetime of loneliness.

Marcus lifted the lid of one of the trunks and brought out blankets and cushions which he spread and heaped before the hearth into a makeshift bed and then slowly, his eyes on her face, he began to unbutton his greatcoat.

She followed his actions, her coat joining his on a chair, her fingers fumbling with the laces on her stout shoes as he sat and pulled off his glossy brown boots. He had more garments than she, but his were easier to remove—coat, waistcoat and neckcloth discarded while she was still undoing the buttons on her spencer.

And then he did move, stepping round the bed to draw her to the fire, holding her close, stilling her fingers on the fastenings of her plain wool gown.

There was cold air at her back and heat from the fire in front. She did not know whether she was hot or chilled until she felt the warmth of his body and slid her arms round him, holding him close, suddenly too shy to look up into his face.

‘Nell.’ Marcus knelt, bringing her with him, pulling a blanket up around her shoulders. ‘Don’t be frightened.’

She shook her head in denial that she could fear him. Her hands found his shirt, pushed it open, the buttons slipping free easily, and then she was inside the linen, her palms skimming the hot, smooth skin over his ribs, and he caught his breath with a sound that was almost a sob.

Impatient, she pushed the shirt back to reveal the muscled torso she had glimpsed on that nightmare carriage ride after she had shot him. There was a light dressing still on his shoulder; the bruises had faded, but the scars over his ribs still gleamed white.

‘What happened?’ Wanting to understand his body, she touched them lightly with her fingertips.

‘A riding accident when I was eighteen. I took a header into a freshly cut and laid hedge. I was lucky nothing went straight in—there were enough spikes and sharp stakes.’

‘Oh.’ She pressed her palms to the marks as though she could sooth the long-ago pain. She brushed her fingers over the dark hair, shying round his nipples. She traced the line of his collarbone, the hint of a cleft in his chin, lifting her hand to stroke between his brows. ‘You are not frowning now.’

‘No.’ Marcus smiled at her with his eyes, unmoving as she explored, daring to touch, too uncertain to caress. It was as though he understood that she needed to reassure herself that it was him, not that other man from her nightmares.

‘May I?’ He touched the buttons of her gown and she nodded sharply, feeling her body jerky with nerves and desire. ‘Oh, Nell.’ He seemed to find the sight of her bare shoulders, the curve of her breasts, in some way remarkable, for his hand remained where it was, a fraction above her skin, his gaze intent.

Nell tugged at the plain, worn chemise, suddenly conscious that he would be used to smoothing the fragility of silk and lawn from the pampered skin of his mistress, not much-washed cotton that was regrettably now less than snow-white.

‘Nell,’ Marcus murmured, catching her nervous hand in his. ‘You could be dressed in sackcloth and you would still be lovely.’

‘Oh.’ She could feel herself blushing, but it was with pleasure now, her confidence building. Nell took hold of the ends of the tape that gathered the neckline together and pulled. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘I do,’ he said, smiling as he pushed the loosened straps from her shoulders. ‘Trust me, Nell.’

With my body? ‘Yes,’ she murmured to the top of his dark head as he bent and kissed along the line where her corset ended. ‘Oh!’ His tongue slid between skin and boning, grazing the top of her nipple. ‘Oh, yes.’