The Lord and the Wayward Lady (7 page)

But her resolution to think of nothing but ladylike behaviour did not survive long once she was dressed and alone in the jewel box of a room. The writing slope seemed to call to her, crouching like a toad in the middle of the polished table.

Her hands shook as she opened it. Diary or letters? Just one letter, the most recent, that was all she could cope with. The pink silk ribbon was faded with age as she untied the bow and lifted the topmost folded paper. The paper crackled, brittle and yellow, as she smoothed it out. It was clear to read, a strong male handwriting in spluttering brown ink with a pen that had seen better days.

Newgate.

Nell dropped the sheet in shock, then forced herself to pick it up again.

Her father had hanged for something so awful that they had stripped him of his title.
Hanged.
That was
what the silken rope was about. She remembered now, a nobleman was hanged with that, not with coarse hemp.

The letter fluttered to the embroidered bedcover and this time she did not pick it up. Papa had gone to his death believing that George Carlow—the Earl of Narborough, that nice man who was so ill—could have saved him, and suspecting that he had the worst of reasons for not doing so.

Her father had betrayed her mother with another woman and had been forgiven for it.

Nell stared blindly at the wall. So much made sense now: her mother’s reticence; her aloofness from their neighbours; their quiet, retired life. The money from a fixed income ebbing away inexorably as three children grew up and prices rose. Her bitterness and sadness.

Had Nathan and Rosalind known the truth? Nathan should have inherited a title, lands. She scrabbled through the pile of letters until she found an earlier one with the address wrapper still intact.
The Countess of Leybourne.
That made sense now, the memory of someone talking about the Earl of Leybourne when she had been small and of being hushed.

An earl. Hanged.
She had known there had been scandal and tragedy surrounding her father’s death, but not this, never this. A dry sob rose in her throat, but there were no tears. Perhaps it was the shock, but her mind was clear and her hands, as she folded the letter away and turned the key, were steady.

Courage,
she told herself. Somehow her own tragic history had resurfaced; it was too much of a coincidence that she had become accidentally entangled with the Carlows just when someone decided to attack them
with the memories of that old scandal. Someone was pulling strings, and she had no idea who or why.

Now she had to go downstairs, make conversation, sit and break bread with the man who had stood by and let her father hang. If her father’s suspicions were correct, Lord Narborough might even have been guilty of something far worse than abandoning his friend. She had to keep her knowledge secret. If Marcus Carlow found out who she was, he would believe she had every motive in the world for seeing his father dead, for wreaking vengeance on the entire Carlow family.

There would be a time to let her emotions sweep her away with grief for the past, for her parents. But not now, not while that man watched her, alert for the slightest weakness.

I
t was as though the good clothes wrought their own magic, Marcus thought, studying Nell as she pecked at her dinner. With her hair dressed by the maid and in one of Honoria’s evening gowns—its amber silk making her eyes greener and her hair more richly honey-brown—she looked every bit as much the well-bred young lady as did his sisters. But then, he realized, he had paid little attention to her clear speech and obvious education. She might be a milliner now, but she had not always been one. Miss Latham had been born and brought up a lady. More secrets. More lies.

She was very pale and avoided looking at him, which was an achievement, considering that he sat opposite her. With five women and only two men, the table was, of necessity, unbalanced. He was flanked by Verity and Diana Price, with Nell and Honoria opposite. His father had felt well enough to take the head of the table; his mother, elegant as always, was at the foot.

But Nell, while she did not look at him, could not seem able to keep her eyes off his father, her expression
serious, questioning, as it kept flickering towards the earl. Was she watching him for signs of weakness, anxious about the effect her delivery of the parcel had had on his health?

She caught the fullness of her underlip in her teeth and the unconscious gesture drew his attention to her mouth and sent a lance of heat straight to his loins. He must have made some movement, for her eyes finally met his, colour touching her cheeks at whatever she saw there. She looked away again and listened to Verity’s chatter about the plans for her come-out ball, but Marcus sensed her wary attention was still on him.

She had hardly spoken a word all through the meal. That might simply be the shyness of a young woman propelled into a world far above her own. But it was obvious Nell Latham knew the rules of polite Society. Faced with a table laid for a formal dinner, she had not made a single wrong move and her behaviour with the servants showed the polite self-confidence of someone used to domestic staff. And yet she lived in that garret. Yes, gently bred indeed—and what had brought about her fall?

He watched her now as she thanked the footman for refilling her water glass, her smile vanishing as she darted another glance towards his father.

‘Mrs Poulson tells me that Lady Wyveton has returned to the Hall,’ his mother remarked. ‘Her housekeeper told Mrs Poulson that she is very low in spirits, poor lady. I mention it,’ she added with a glance at her daughters, ‘because I do not believe in whispering behind her back. Better that what has happened is known and a kindly discretion observed rather than gossip and speculation.’

‘Wyveton deserves to be horsewhipped,’ the earl said darkly. ‘Carrying on like that with a married woman, right under his own wife’s nose. And her own cousin at that. Outrageous.’

Nell was making no bones about staring at his father now. She was looking at him directly, a frown between her rather strong brown brows, her expression, if it was not too fanciful to think so, one of scarce-controlled anger.

‘Will there be a divorce, Papa?’ Honoria asked, eyes wide with the horror of it.

‘One hopes not. Let this be a warning to both of you to consider most carefully the company you keep. It was an imprudent marriage, come to ruin.’

‘Is the man beyond forgiveness, then, my lord?’ It was the first remark that Nell had made, other than requests to pass the butter or the salt, or murmured thanks. Everyone stared at her. ‘Might there not be some extenuating circumstance, or perhaps he has repented?’ she persisted.

‘It is unforgivable, whatever the circumstances,’ the earl said, colour high in his cheeks. ‘It always leads to degradation and disaster. I knew a case once—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘You will call upon Lady Wyveton, my dear?’

The conversation moved into safer waters, but Marcus kept his eye on Nell. How bizarre, that she should defend the adulterer. Most women would champion the wife—except in cases such as Lady Caroline Lamb’s—and castigate the husband. Had Nell once been involved with a married man?

Warned earlier by his mother that keeping his father sitting over the decanters after dinner would earn her
severe displeasure, Marcus lured him into the salon after one moderate glass with promises of backgammon. As it happened, Verity begged for a chess lesson which the earl granted with an indulgent chuckle, leaving Marcus free to observe his target.

His mother, Diana Price and Honoria were deep in discussion over the all-important gowns for the Carlow ball. Nell was sitting beside them, her expression politely attentive, her eyes unfocused, looking inwards. Just what was going on in that neatly coiffed head?

‘Miss Latham?’

She started. ‘My lord?’

‘Would you care to stroll through the Long Gallery?’

‘I confess some exercise before retiring would be welcome after such a long time in the carriage.’ She rose, then hesitated.
Oh, artistically done, Miss Latham, now the excuse…
‘But you should be resting, my lord. Your wound—’

He had thrust his hand between the buttons of his swallow-tailed coat, refusing to attempt his dinner encumbered by a sling, and now his shoulder was aching like the very devil. ‘Hardly a twinge,’ Marcus lied. Nell’s mouth pursed in a moue of disbelief, but she laid her hand on his offered arm and allowed herself to be walked to the door.

‘This is a fascinating house,’ she observed with the air of one determined to make polite conversation. Marcus led her across the Great Hall and up the shallow stairs with their grotesque carvings on every newel post. ‘Is it Tudor?’

‘Mainly. It was built by my ancestor, the first viscount. The land and the title were a gift from Henry VIII
in return, so the family legend goes, for marrying an inconvenient mistress of the monarch’s at the time he was courting Jane Seymour. The story is, of course, that she was with child.’

Nell shot him an assessing glance as though measuring him up to fill the monstrous monarch’s shoes. ‘Poor woman. I hope she had some liking for your ancestor.’

Marcus remarked, half jesting, ‘You have no sympathy for an adulterous king then?’ Nell tripped on the top step and he caught her arm to steady her. Far too thin, he thought in an attempt to deny the frisson that touching her produced.

‘I imagine what he wanted, he took,’ she said with a shiver that transmitted itself to his hand, still curled lightly about her upper arm. ‘He had all the power and they had none, those women he ordered to his bed.’

‘And yet you defended an adulterer to my father?’

‘Every case is different, every person is different. To condemn without understanding is harsh.’ Her voice was urgent with an undertone of distress and there was colour in her cheeks.

‘You speak from experience then?’ Marcus asked with every intention of provoking her into lowering her guard.

‘Of adultery? You are suggesting I have been some man’s mistress?’ Nell tugged her arm free of Marcus’s hold, conscious that she had let his fingers linger there too long, just for the illusory comfort they gave, and despising herself for it. ‘You think I am Salterton’s whore? Is that what you are implying?’ The thought of the dark man with his air of menace and his dancer’s sinister grace touching her, made her shudder.

‘You were not born to the life you are leading,’ he countered, his intelligent face watchful as he probed.

‘And that makes me what, exactly? Other than unfortunate?’ she demanded. ‘I deliver a parcel and now you feel free to question my morals, probe into my life?’ Would she be this angry, or less, if she had not discovered the sinister link between their families? ‘You are no better than Henry VIII—overbearing, arrogant and perfectly prepared to browbeat a woman.’

‘I will do what I have to, to protect my family,’ Marcus said flatly, but there was colour on his cheekbones and his eyes were angry. ‘Sooner or later you will tell me what I want to know.’

‘After you produce the thumbscrews?’ she flashed, flinging open the nearest door and marching through it. ‘Drag me down to the dungeons? No doubt this house has them—to go with the warders who appear every time I walk anywhere alone.’

‘The footmen are there for your protection and I very much regret the house has no dungeons,’ he said with what she could swear was real feeling.

‘I am sure you do— Oh!’ She had found the Long Gallery, yards of windows on her left, their panes black onto the winter night and, on her right, portrait after portrait, ranks of them filling the space between the waist-heigh panelling and the ornately plastered ceiling, interrupted only by candle sconces and the carved stone of the fireplace. Charmed into forgetting their quarrel, she stood and stared.

‘Let us call a truce and look at the pictures,’ Marcus suggested, coming to her side. He made no effort to take her arm, but began to walk slowly, glancing up at the
wall as he went. ‘That’s the first earl. A dull man with a genius for toadying to Queen Anne. There’s the wife of the Tudor viscount with her eldest son.’

‘Who looks nothing like Henry VIII,’ Nell pointed out.

‘All babies look like Henry VIII,’ Marcus said. ‘These are the early-eighteenth-century portraits.’ Nell dutifully studied a number of sombre gentlemen in magnificent waistcoats and even more splendid wigs, flanked by their ladies who displayed considerably more bosom than she felt was strictly necessary.

‘My father,’ Marcus said, stopping beneath a full-length portrait of a young man holding the bridle of a stallion against a background of rolling parkland. The house could be glimpsed in the distance.

Lord Narborough was extremely handsome in those days. ‘You resemble him closely,’ Nell observed, not adding that the man in the painting looked as though he had not a care in the world while the one standing next to her had two sharp lines between his brows when he frowned. And he frowned a lot, mostly at her it seemed.

‘Thank you, but you flatter me. I do have his colouring,’ Marcus conceded. ‘And here, at the end, are all of us together.’ The family group showed a young couple, a baby in the wife’s arms—that must be Verity—a small boy and girl playing with a puppy—Honoria and the absent Hal—and a serious boy leaning against the arm of his mother’s chair. So, Marcus was frowning even at the age of nine or ten.

‘Delightful,’ she said politely. Somewhere, long since lost, there had been a portrait of her own family. She could just recall having to sit very still on Mama’s knee, bribed with sweetmeats. ‘When was this painted?’

‘Ninety-four. I was nine. It was shortly afterwards that my father become…unwell.’

The year before Papa was hanged. Was he unfaithful to Mama even as they posed for their own portrait? Was he the man Lord Narborough began to refer to at dinner? And had Lord Narborough been so judgemental about this sin that he refused to help Papa when he was in danger of his life? Or was there more to all this? She must read all of the letters and the diary, however painful it would be. She had opened Pandora’s box; now she was incapable of keeping the truths and the hurt locked away. A stab of grief lanced through her, almost upsetting her careful poise.

‘What is it, Nell?’ Something must have shown on her face as she turned from that happy family group, sitting in their sunlit garden. Marcus put out his hand to catch hers.

‘You know where you belong, don’t you?’ she demanded, her own misery and confusion spilling out. ‘Where you come from, who you are.’

‘Of course.’ He was puzzled. Naturally. He had always known who he was, no inner uncertainty of identity or purpose ever rocked Marcus Carlow’s world. ‘And you do not?’

Somehow he had pulled her gently to stand in front of him, his hand on her shoulder. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to take the one step forward that brought her close enough to lay her palm against his chest, and then, she was not sure how, her forehead was against the cool blue silk of his waistcoat.

He was so solid, so capable, so male. She wanted to touch him, to soak up that strength and certainty. She
wanted to be held, to have someone stronger, more powerful than herself say that it would all be well, that she need not fight any longer, that there would be enough money for food and the rent, that there were no mysteries. She wanted someone to tell her that the past was past and could not hurt her any more. To tell her sweet lies, give her comfort. She knew it was fantasy, that she could not rely on anyone but herself and yet…

‘Nell?’ His voice was muffled by her hair, gentler than she had heard it before. Something thrummed through her, bone-deep, like the vibration of a great bell, felt rather than heard.

‘I just want to be held.’ The words spilled out as his arms came round her.

‘Shh.’ He rocked her gently, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other circling her shoulders. ‘Let go of it, Nell. You don’t have to fight
all
the time.’

He understands. It’s so hard alone, so lonely. So cold.
She tipped up her face to look at him, to tell him that and found no need for words as his mouth came down and took hers in a kiss that soothed and stroked and lulled her into a dream of safety and certainty.

Marcus’s lips were warm, oh so warm. They caressed her mouth with a gentle pressure until she opened to him with a sigh that was like coming home and she leaned into the strength and the heat and felt her body turn to silk and flame and still he simply held her and spoke, silently, with his lips and his tongue and his strength while she melted, surrendering.
At last, at last.

Gradually his breathing quickened; she felt his body tense against hers, and the hand that had curved protectively around her shoulders moved, urgent, seeking,
found the swell of her hip, the dip of her waist, up to the curve of her breast and he became just
man
, just another male wanting her body, wanting her secrets, wanting her surrender.

‘No!’ She pushed him away, as desperate as she had felt in the carriage, the panic clogging her lungs, the pulse wild in her throat. ‘Stop! Stop now!’

Marcus threw up his hands, stepped back, his eyes dark, his lips parted. They looked swollen. Hers must be too. That kiss, that foolish kiss, had been no simple brush of the lips.