Читать книгу Deceived - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 13

MR. CHURCHWARD THE ELDER, of the renowned London firm Churchward and Churchward, lawyers to the noble and the discerning, was startled to receive a visit early the following morning from no less a personage than Princess Isabella Di Cassilis. He had seen the princess only the day before, when he had had the melancholy duty of informing her of her late husband’s appalling debts. Princess Isabella had taken the news well and had promised him that she would apprise him shortly of the steps that she meant to take to clear the sum. It seemed that she had already found a solution.

Mr. Churchward came forward, hand outstretched. Had Princess Isabella not already been seated, he would certainly have dusted the chair for her. Although he professed a total impartiality toward all his clientele, it was in fact the case that Princess Isabella was one of Mr. Churchward’s most favored clients. The lawyer had some very chivalrous ideas about ladies in distress and he would have liked nothing more than to see a hero on a white charger ride to the rescue of this particular courageous lady. Unfortunately he was not that man. He was only her lawyer.

“Madam!” He took her hand and shook it warmly. “There was no need for you to come to my chambers. I should have been delighted to call upon you.”

“I would not dream of putting you to so much trouble, Mr. Churchward,” Isabella said with a smile that made Mr. Churchward tingle down to his toes. “This is a simple matter and will take a mere moment. I have come to settle my debt and I wondered whether you would deal with Henshalls for me?”

“Of course!” The lawyer shuddered to think of a lady as delicate as the Princess setting foot in the moneylenders’ offices. Not that Princess Isabella appeared fragile, precisely. A lady who had survived the rigors of marriage to the feckless Prince Ernest was to be congratulated on her hardiness. Mr. Churchward shook his head. His expression said all that was needed on the subject of profligate princes who ran through a fortune and then proceeded to accumulate debt with the gusto that others collected paintings or Grecian antiquities. Irresponsible, foolish, selfish, callous and downright unpleasant were descriptions of Prince Ernest that might have sprung to Mr. Churchward’s lips had he been less discreet. His mouth compressed to a thin line as he regarded the lady who was obliged to reap the consequences of Prince Ernest’s financial recklessness.

The princess gave him another of her mischievous smiles, which set his blood pressure awry and caused him to blush deeply. Delving in her reticule, Princess Isabella extracted a piece of paper.

“I believe that Henshalls will find this in order,” she said sweetly. “They will not care for it much, but they cannot argue with it.”

Mr. Churchward, who had expected to be holding a money order, found that he was in fact clutching a marriage certificate. Further perusal confirmed that it was for a marriage contracted in the Fleet Prison. Accompanying it was a note that stated that a certain John Ellis was prepared to take on his wife’s debts in their entirety.

Mr. Churchward gasped and adjusted his spectacles, the better to confirm the news his sinking heart was telling him.

“But madam…I…You…”

“I took your advice, Mr. Churchward,” Isabella said, “and arranged a marriage. You will find that it is quite legal.”

Mr. Churchward was flushed with agitation. The certificate dropped from his nerveless fingers to the wooden table. He moved several files agitatedly and at random, upsetting the ordered calm of his desktop.

“My advice was to marry a gentleman of fortune, Princess, not a debtor!” he spluttered. “Upon my word, madam, I cannot believe—” He broke off and scanned the sheet of paper. “It is legal, you say?”

“Of course.” Isabella looked very collected. “It is also temporary. As we agreed yesterday, Mr. Churchward, I would like you to place the house in Brunswick Gardens up for sale. I think it will fetch a goodly sum, for it is in quite a fashionable neighborhood. Once the sale is made and Aunt Jane’s legacy is also proved, I will pay Henshalls what I owe them.”

Mr. Churchward made a whimpering noise like a cat inadvertently trodden upon. He removed his glasses and polished them feverishly. The dent that they had left on his nose was bright red against the pallor of the rest of his face. Even his voice sounded pale.

“And the marriage, madam?”

“I will end that as well, of course.” Isabella snapped her reticule shut with a decisive click. “It is a matter of convenience only. Mr. Ellis will be confined to the Fleet for the foreseeable future.”

Various objections flitted through Mr. Churchward’s mind. Doubtless the princess, like many other persons unacquainted with the law, thought that it was relatively simple to achieve an annulment of a marriage. Most people erroneously assumed that non-consummation was sufficient grounds. He started to rehearse the explanations in his mind, saw the decisive set of Isabella’s jaw, and decided to bide his time. It was, after all, too late. Part of the skill in dealing with his noble clients lay in choosing one’s moment. This was not the right time to suggest to the princess that she might in fact be wed for better or worse.

Mr. Churchward mopped his forehead with his large, practical handkerchief.

“I shall not take any more of your time, Mr. Churchward,” Isabella said. She gave him a final, very sweet smile. “I shall be leaving Town for my house in Salterton in a few weeks, but I should be delighted to entertain you to tea before I go.”

“Salterton…Of course…We must speak further about your inheritance….” Mr. Churchward mumbled. Another raft of objections came into his mind. He had not yet had the chance to speak to Princess Isabella in detail about her legacy from her aunt, Lady Jane Southern, for other more pressing matters had taken precedence. He wondered how much the princess knew about her inheritance of Salterton Hall and the encumbrances upon the estate.

Churchward mopped his brow again. Should he acquaint her with the difficulties now, and explain the very delicate nature of her relationship with her tenant in the dower house? He hesitated. Best not. Isabella was already on her feet in preparation for leaving. He did not wish to detain her now.

“Perhaps we might make an appointment for next week, madam,” he suggested. “I would appreciate the opportunity to acquaint you with the detail of your estate.”

Isabella nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Churchward. Will Tuesday be convenient?”

She was already halfway out of the door, leaving nothing but a faint, delicious perfume shimmering in the air. Churchward heard her give an airy farewell to the staff in the outer office; there was the sound of her steps on the stairs, gathering speed as though she were rid of some tiresome encumbrance. Mr. Churchward smiled wryly. By the time she reached the street she would be almost running.

He perused the marriage lines and the promissory note for a third time. His hand stole toward the drawer of his battered cabinet, where a bottle of sherry was hidden for emergencies. This was a full-scale emergency if ever there was one. He paused. It would, however, be better to deal with Henshalls first. He did not relish giving those most ruthless of moneylenders the news that Princess Isabella Di Cassilis’s debts were now impossible to claim, the responsibility of some luckless wastrel in the Fleet Prison. He reached for his hat and folded the marriage lines within the pocket of his waistcoat. Sometimes he felt he did not get paid sufficient for the trials of his work. Still, for Princess Isabella Di Cassilis he would do almost anything.

An hour later, Mr. Churchward tottered back up the stairs to his chambers. He had been pale before; now he was ashen. He went directly to the cabinet, extracted the sherry and resisted the temptation to drink it straight down from the bottle. He was shaking so much that the neck of the bottle rattled like a cannonade against his sherry glass. He collapsed into his chair with a heartfelt sigh, raised his glass and gulped the revivifying liquid down with as little regard as though it had been water.

To his great amazement, the Henshall brothers had been very pleased to see him. Only an hour before, they had received a visit from a gentleman who had settled in full—and in cash—the debts of Princess Isabella Di Cassilis. There had been handshakes all round.

Mr. Churchward lay back in his chair as the sherry warmed his veins. He tried to make sense of the aspects of the case that puzzled him, which were practically all of them. Princess Isabella had given him to understand that her new husband was under lock and key and would remain so for the foreseeable future, yet when Churchward had arrived at the moneylenders’ he had discovered that the gentleman was not only at liberty but had already paid the princess’s debt.

He wondered why on earth Isabella had not told him her husband’s true identity.

He wondered what on earth Marcus Stockhaven, one of the richest men in the Ton, had been doing in the Fleet Prison.

And he wondered what the devil his two most noble clients were doing contracting an apparent marriage of convenience and then expecting him to arrange an annulment.

“Dear oh dear oh dear,” Mr. Churchward said unhappily, emptying the sherry bottle into his glass. A third glass of sherry was previously unknown in Mr. Churchward’s experience, but such unsettling circumstances called for extreme measures.

“HOW DO I LOOK?”

Marcus Stockhaven tilted his head to one side, the better to appreciate the set of his neck cloth in the mirror above the drawing-room mantelpiece.

“Like a man who has spent three months trying to tie his cravat in a dark cellar,” his friend Alistair Cantrell said brutally.

Marcus grinned. “That bad?” He surveyed his reflection thoughtfully in the mirror and rubbed a hand over the stubble shadowing his chin. “I need a barber.”

“You need more than that.” Alistair looked around. “Where is your valet?”

“I gave all the servants leave of absence whilst I was away,” Marcus said. “Why do you think you are pouring your own brandy?”

He watched as Alistair folded his lanky length into the armchair beside the fireplace. Stockhaven House was small as London town houses went, and wholly unostentatious. The Earls of Stockhaven had never felt the need to boast their wealth and lineage through vulgar display, and Marcus was no exception. Nevertheless, a house like this required a staff to run it. The room was cold, for the June evening had turned unseasonably damp. No fire glowed in the grate. The dust sat thickly on the cherrywood furniture and the whole house felt faintly unloved.

“So,” Alistair said, turning from contemplation of his brandy to study Marcus’s face. “Why the change of plan?”

Marcus shrugged. “My business was all but complete,” he said, “and I was starting to draw attention in a manner that I could ill afford.” He took a mouthful of brandy, grimaced and put his glass down. “Either someone has been selling off my liquor whilst I was in the Fleet and replacing it with tea dregs or I have lost my taste for brandy.”

Alistair looked amused. “It has an excellent flavor, Marcus.”

“Then my sense of taste has definitely been ruined by the disgusting swill that passes for food inside,” Marcus said, sighing. “I thought as much. A man must be desperate indeed to tolerate such appalling slops.”

Alistair grinned. “Just like Harrow, as I recall. But did you discover what you wanted?” He gestured with his brandy glass. “Did you find Warwick—and his criminals? You must know that I am expiring with curiosity. Tell me all.”

Marcus stretched out his long legs toward the empty fire grate. He felt as chill as the house, cold and empty. One of the reasons he had been able to spend three months in the Fleet was that there was no one to notice his absence. In the years since his wife had died, he had traveled widely. No one was in the least surprised when he disappeared for months on end, and positions in his service were eagerly sought since his servants had the longest holidays in London.

In the three days since his release from the Fleet Prison, he had noticed more than ever before the emptiness of Stockhaven House. It was odd, for previously his solitude had never disturbed him. Now, however, he felt that he wanted more—although he was not sure exactly what more was. A house full of servants did not seem the answer.

“I discovered that the prison is a fertile ground for the recruitment of men to the criminal fraternity,” he said, in reply to Alistair’s question. “Debtors who are desperate for their freedom will promise anything to those who buy them out of jail.”

Alistair pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “Just as you thought. But surely it would be better to recruit a bunch of hardened criminals in Newgate rather than the Fleet?”

Marcus shook his head. “What is the point of recruiting a man who may well hang the next day? The debtors of the Fleet are a better class of criminal. Some may not even be criminals at all. But all are frantic for lack of money, and the man who can buy them out of prison has a hold over them for the rest of their lives.”

“Is Edward Warwick one such?” Alistair asked.

Marcus nodded. Hunting Warwick, a criminal mastermind, was the reason he had gone into the Fleet in the first place. “He is certainly one of the main players,” he said. “I spent three months in a cell with men who were terrified of his very name. All my cell mates were too afraid to tell me more than the merest scraps of information about him. I learned that Warwick buys a man’s debts—buys their very souls—so that they dance to his tune.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “It sounds as though you were wise to make your inquiries incognito. You never met the man yourself during your time in the Fleet?”

“Unfortunately not, although he regularly visits the prison to recruit his men. But perhaps it was fortunate that Warwick and I have not yet met.” Marcus’s mouth took on a grim line. “We will one day and I would wish to be better prepared.”

Alistair Cantrell nodded. “So did you discover anything useful about the fire at Salterton? Can you tie it to Warwick for sure?”

“Yes, I can,” Marcus said. His gaze turned inward, away from the cold, dusty room. It had been bad, that winter night at Salterton six months ago. It was the night that his wife’s mother, Lady Jane Southern, had died. He had been up at Salterton Hall trying to restore order and bring comfort to the servants, many of whom had served the Southern family for years. Marcus had been grief struck and bone weary, and when he returned to his own house in the grounds at nigh on midnight, he had wanted nothing but the oblivion of sleep. Instead, he had caught a lad in the very act of burgling his late wife’s chamber. The boy had overturned a lamp in his attempts to escape. In a matter of seconds the tapestries and curtains were ablaze and so was the boy’s clothing. The lad had made a desperate leap from the window in an attempt to escape.

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.”

Marcus had never had much to say to Freddie, Lord Standish. It was an accident of marriage that had made them cousins-in-law and their paths had seldom crossed. In fact he had once sensed a dislike of him in Freddie, all the stronger for remaining unspoken, and had steered clear of the man with an indifferent shrug.

He had a warmer regard for Isabella’s sister Penelope, a fearsome bluestocking who had the misfortune to share a small house with Freddie in an unfashionable part of Town. But Pen Standish never went into society, so he did not know her well.

“I could not see Standish choosing to live at Salterton,” Marcus said. “Town is his natural habitat.”

“He could always have sold the house,” Alistair pointed out.

“Which was no doubt one of the reasons Lady Jane chose to leave it to another member of the family,” Marcus said. “She wished it to go to someone whom she thought cared for it.”

Alistair looked quizzical. “Not to you, Marcus? The old lady was monstrous fond of you.”

“No,” Marcus said, shaking his head a little. “She did not leave it to me.”

“Then whom?”

“I believe her heir is Princess Isabella Di Cassilis,” Marcus said.

Alistair pursed his lips into a silent whistle. His eyes were bright. “So that was why you wished me to check on the princess’s debts! I had heard that she had returned to London. The papers have been full of the news.”

Marcus hesitated. Despite asking Alistair to discover the information on Isabella’s debt to Henshalls, he had not confided the truth of his marriage to his oldest friend. Alistair, who had been his groomsman at the ill-fated wedding twelve years ago, would be astonished to know that Marcus had offered marriage to Isabella now. No, he would be beyond astonishment. He would imagine that Marcus had lost his mind. And for Marcus to admit that his motive was a stark and ruthless revenge seemed somehow ignoble. It was not the sort of thing one man confessed to another. Nevertheless, he could not keep his friend in ignorance any longer. The whole of London would soon know of the match.

“There was another reason that I was interested in the princess’s situation,” he said slowly. “We were married on Tuesday.”

He waited while Alistair blinked owlishly, looked at the brandy bottle and then back at him. Alistair’s lips moved silently, forming the words princess and married. Marcus grinned.

“Damned if your brandy hasn’t been tampered with after all, Marcus,” Alistair said, after a moment. “Either that or I’m touched in the attic. I thought you said that you were married to the Princess Isabella. Must be hearing things.”

“You heard aright,” Marcus said. He smiled slightly. “I realize that the news of my nuptials is somewhat sudden.”

“And unexpected.” Alistair was frowning at him. “I had no idea that you were so attached to Salterton Hall that you were prepared to marry the heiress to gain it,” he added. “Why could you not simply make Lady Jane an offer to buy the house? Or was that too easy for you?”

“It was not like that,” Marcus said ruefully.

“A whirlwind courtship in the Fleet, was it?” Alistair said sarcastically. “Ah, the pure romance of it all!” He sat back in his wide armchair, looking resigned. “Damn it, Marcus, I hate the way you spring these surprises.”

Marcus sighed. “In truth there is little to tell. We met, we married and now I am come to claim my bride.”

“As one does,” Alistair said dryly. He shifted, rubbing his brow. “I suppose you are aware that Fleet marriages were made illegal nigh on fifty years ago?”

“I am aware.” Marcus stood up and dusted the sleeves of his jacket in an attempt to make the ancient evening outfit look a little less shiny and a little more acceptable for wearing in polite society. If he was to make a show of claiming Isabella, then he wanted to look his best to do it. His efforts were unsuccessful, however. He mused that perhaps he should visit his tailor as well as his barber on the morrow.

“This marriage, however, is not illegal,” he continued. “It was celebrated by a proper priest and authorized by special license. It is signed and sealed. You may trust Princess Isabella to have made sure of that. She could not afford for the marriage to be overset.”

Alistair nodded. “Of course. The debts.”

“Precisely.”

Alistair’s mouth turned down at the corners with deep disapproval.

“I do believe that one of us is mad here, Marcus, and I am not sure that it is I. How could you even countenance such an arrangement, given the history between yourself and Princess Isabella?” He caught Marcus’s sleeve and compelled him to sit down. “Cease fussing over that jacket, Marcus. Nothing will make it look any better. Instead tell me what is going on.”

Marcus sat back with a sigh. “It is a marriage of convenience,” he said. “Princess Isabella needed a husband to keep her debtors at bay and on the strength of our brief, previous acquaintance she approached me for assistance. Which I was—” He hesitated. “Persuaded to give.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Of all the rum starts, Marcus! Brief, previous acquaintance indeed!”

“I appreciate that it must appear strange,” Marcus said. He sat forward, feeling the constriction of the jacket across his shoulders. “Hmm. I require a new wardrobe—”

“To go with your new wife, I suppose,” Alistair said. “You are not making sense, Marcus. I thought that no one but I knew of your sojourn in the Fleet. How did Princess Isabella find you?”

“By happy chance,” Marcus said, a little grimly. “As I said, she needed a debtor and I was available.”

“The devil you were! Does she know that you were in the Fleet by your own choice?”

“Not yet,” Marcus said. “It is one of the many surprises that I have in store for her tonight. I cannot pretend that she will be pleased to see me, but that cannot be helped.”

Alistair peered at him. “I always thought that weddings were supposed to be happy affairs,” he said. “You do not seem very enamored of your bride, Marcus. Furthermore, this is not like you at all.”

Marcus fidgeted restlessly. He felt irritable and rather suspected it was with himself.

“On the contrary it is very like me. I become bored with the conventions of society—”

“So you arrange to be locked in the Fleet and then marry a shady princess into the bargain,” Alistair said.

“Exactly.” Marcus paused. “The marriage is a secret for the time being, however. I should be obliged if you would keep it so, Alistair.”

“Why?” his friend asked bluntly. “I mean, why is it a secret, not why should I help you keep it so, which goes without saying if you wish it of me.”

“There are various reasons,” Marcus said. “Firstly, my wife is unaware that I have achieved my release from prison and I wish to discuss the matter with her before our marriage becomes common knowledge. Secondly…” He hesitated. “Well, I have said that it is a match of convenience. It may be that the marriage will not endure long.”

Alistair was shaking his head. “Dashed irregular. The more I hear, the worse it becomes. Hope you know what you’re doing, Marcus.”

“I am not certain that I do,” Marcus conceded. “However, if I could ask you to keep the secret for now…?”

“Mute as an undertaker’s boy, I promise you,” Alistair said. He shook his head. “Lord, but I’d give a monkey to see the Dowagers’ faces when they realize another earl is off the marriage mart! And caught by a lady with such a scandalous reputation—” He stopped. There was a short and very pointed silence. The bleakness in Marcus’s heart was matched only by the pity in Alistair’s eyes.

“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.”