Deceiver

by Nicola Cornick

  Freddie Standish was partaking of breakfast when the message arrived. He was still rather cast adrift from the previous night's drinking and so was picking at a piece of toast and trying to disguise from Pen the fact that he felt distinctly liverish. It was this that he later blamed for his inattention when the maid brought in the note. The girl had only been with them two weeks and was quite hopeless, but the woman at the employment agency had indicated that that was all they could expect for the wages they were paying. Instead of handing the message directly to him, she put it into Pen's im­periously outstretched hand. Freddie suspected that she could not read the direction on it.

  The crackle of the paper unfolding mingled with the crunching of Pen indulging her hearty appetite on her third piece of toast and honey. Freddie felt vaguely sick.

  "Mmm," Pen said on a vague note of surprise, through the crumbs. "There is a rather odd note here for you, Freddie." Her gaze dropped to the bottom of the page. "From a gentle­man called Warwick."

  The shock galvanized Freddie into action. He dropped his mangled toast, leaped to his feet and grabbed the paper from Pen's hand.

  "Freddie!" Pen exclaimed, as his sleeve overturned her teacup.

  Freddie did not pause to apologize. He took the stairs two at a time, reading as he went.

  "Dear Lord Standish . . . require to see you immed-iately. . . Wigmore Street. . . This morning. . . Brook no delay. . ."

  When he came back downstairs, having dragged on his coat without the aid of his valet, Pen was standing in the hall, a determined expression on her face.

  "Are you in trouble, Freddie?"

  Freddie looked at her. If only she knew. Trouble was too mild a word for it.

  "Devil a bit," he mumbled. "Nothing to worry about. Fellow I owe some money to."

  "Gambling debts?" Pen asked. She sounded resigned.

  "Something of the sort." Freddie gave her a peck on the cheek and dashed past before she could ask him anything more difficult.

  "When will you be back?" Pen called after him. Freddie turned his head slightly but did not reply, picking up his pace toward town. He did not call a hack. He could not afford it.

  The fresh morning air cleared his mind but brought with it a sick dread in the pit of his stomach. Edward Warwick. How had he ever come to this? The whole matter had begun so long ago now that it was difficult to remember. He had been very distressed after his cousin India Southern had refused his marriage proposal. He had been young and unaccustomed to failure, and he had turned to the family vice of drink and debt. From there the downward slide had been imperceptible but in­evitable, until that dreadful moment when he had been obliged to tell his father that he was so deep in hock that he was likely to end up in the Fleet. He could still see the late Lord Stand-ish's face twisted with disgust and disapproval as he berated his only son for the weaknesses that he had instilled in him.

  There had been nothing that his father could do to help him, of course, since by then he was losing all the money that Prince Ernest of Cassilis had so casually bestowed on him. The Fleet incident had been hushed up and then Warwick had appeared like the answer to all their prayers, offering money to father and son in return for a few words here, a favor there. There was no difficulty. It was influence that Warwick wanted—a piece in the papers, a word in the ear of an MP, a decision going his way in court. . . The Standish father and son obliged where they could. It would have been different had Warwick wanted social acceptance, of course. That would have been quite out of the question.

  Freddie crossed Piccadilly, narrowly missing being run down by a dray cart. Lord Standish had not had huge influ­ence himself and had therefore been of limited use to Edward Warwick. Freddie had sensed almost from the start that Warwick was disappointed in them. He kept them short of cash and on tenterhooks. Then Lord Standish had died and Warwick had helped Freddie to find the right sort of work at Asher's Bank, where he was useful to both his employer and to Warwick himself. He was a dunce with money, of course, but neither of them wanted him for his financial acumen. Asher wanted someone with the right social connections and Warwick wanted what he always wanted. Information. Who had what sum of money, who owed whom, who had inher­ited, the rich, the poor, the desperate—into which category Freddie fit very firmly himself.

  He reached Wigmore Street in the end, having lost himself briefly in the maze of roads around James Street. He was out of breath as he entered the high-class gown shop and went up the stairs. He was unsurprised to be kept waiting for almost an hour. Eventually he was ushered up a back stair and into Warwick's office.

  Edward Warwick extended a hand to him in an approxi­mation of courtesy.

  "Standish. How good of you to come so promptly."

  There was a hint of mockery behind his words. He knew how long Freddie had been waiting. Freddie felt a hot wave of humiliation and despair sweep over him. He was in too deep now. He could not cut free of this man when he was so deeply in his power. And he sensed that at last Warwick wanted something more dangerous than the provision of a few pieces of information. It was almost as though he had been waiting for this moment for a very long time, dreading it but knowing that it would come.

  "So your sister is now Countess of Stockhaven." Warwick spoke slowly, but there was a tone in his voice that Freddie recognized like an animal scenting danger. He did not reply. The office felt stifling. He could feel the sweat trickling between his shoulder blades and the tension across his back. Warwick's lips thinned.

  "Stockhaven always seems to have the things that I desire," he said. "The house by the sea. . .the fortune. . . the wife. . ."

  Freddie was so startled that he spoke without thinking. "You want Isabella?"

  Warwick flashed him an inimical look from his slate-gray eyes. "Not that wife, Lord Standish, charming though your sister undoubtedly is. Stockhaven was married before, although it seems to please everyone to forget it."

  Freddie's stomach gave a lurch. "You mean India," he said. He wrinkled his brow against the heat and the buzzing in his head. "You knew her?"

  "Intimately," Warwick said with a ghost of a smile. "It was a very long time ago. Twelve years, in fact."

  Freddie rubbed his eyes. His vision seemed to have blurred and the buzzing in his head was growing louder, like a bee trapped in a bottle. It seemed inconceivable to him that India, so mild, so sweet, could have been in any way acquainted with this man from whose pores evil seemed to seep like sweat.

  "I do not understand," he said.

  "You never do," Warwick said, the smile still lingering on his lips. "How do you think that I first heard of you and your father and your dangerously extravagant ways?" He shrugged. "No matter. There is something that I require from you, Standish."

  Freddie straightened automatically at the authoritative tone. "Yes?"

  "I require to know immediately if either the Earl or the Countess of Stockhaven decide to travel to Salterton. And by immediately I mean within the hour, not two days later. Do you understand?"

  Freddie nodded, bewildered. The feeling of sinking dread that had dogged his steps receded slightly. This seemed very innocuous. Information. He could provide that.

  "Is that all?" he asked, a little too eagerly.

  Warwick nodded, a thread of amusement in his voice. "That is all for now, certainly. You may go."

  Freddie needed no second bidding. Downstairs he could smell the perfumed air of the gown shop and hear the voices of the customers. The sun was shining. The air was fresh. Freddie was tolerably certain that he could manage to eat something now. There was nothing to worry about.

  He indulged in a hearty meal and rolled home feeling pos­itively jolly. Pen was out and he was dozing in his armchair when he heard her return.

  Pen's face lit up when she saw him.

  "Freddie! I did not expect you back until tonight! How was your business?"

  "Fine," Freddie mumbled. Seizing the opportunity to pursue his investigations he asked casually, "How is Bella?"
<
br />   Pen unpinned her hat and threw it down on the table beside the door. She frowned slightly.

  "Bella has gone to Salterton," she said. "You may remember that she has been speaking of it over the last few weeks."

  Had she? Freddie racked his brains. He vaguely remem­bered Isabella mentioning that she would like to live quietly at the seaside and his reply that retirement in Dorset was far too dull a fate. He had had no notion her departure was imminent. Pen was still speaking.

  "She left this morning, apparently. She must have gone in the most monstrous hurry." Pen frowned. "We had an engage­ment to go to an exhibition together today but she appears to have forgotten completely."

  Cold fear clutched at Freddie's heart. He set off down the stairs so fast that he almost stumbled and fell. He could hear Pen's startled exclamation:

  "Freddie? Freddie!"

  He paid no attention. The day, which had seemed so prom­ising only a few hours previously, suddenly took on a much bleaker aspect. What was it that Warwick had said?

  I require to know within the hour. . .

  It was already several hours since Isabella had left Town.

  This time Freddie took a hackney carriage to Wigmore Street, regardless of the expense.

  "I do apologize for sending for you, Mr. Cantrell," Penelope Standish said, "but I fear I did not know who else to call on for assistance." She pressed a hand to her temples. "This is so very unorthodox! I hope you will forgive me—"

  "Miss Standish," Alistair said, drawing her down to sit beside him on the sofa, "I assure you that nothing could alter the high esteem in which I hold you. In what manner may I be of assistance?"

  Pen's expression lightened. She had sent for Alistair pre­cisely because she knew he would deal efficiently with any matter placed before him. She could rely on him. She looked down at their clasped hands and felt an uncharacteristic desire to be cared for, protected and, preferably, swept off her feet in the process. Instead, Alistair patted her hand encourag­ingly before releasing her. Pen sighed.

  "The most extraordinary things appear to be happening to my relatives!" she said. "I was supposed to be attending an exhibition at the Royal Academy with Bella this morning."

  She waited a moment for him to comment but when he did not, she continued, "When I arrived in Brunswick Gardens, I found that Bella had left me a note telling me that she had left for Salterton yesterday. I know she has been speaking of removing to the seaside recently, but to go so abruptly! I cannot help but worry what has prompted her. . . ." She looked at Alistair and felt her cheeks warm. "Do you know whether Lord Stock­haven has accompanied her? She implied that she was alone but I wondered. . ." She broke off, a small frown furrowing her brow.

  "I know that Marcus intended to follow your sister to Sal­terton with all despatch," Alistair said tactfully. "Perhaps he may even have caught up with her on the road. You should not worry, Miss Standish. She will be perfectly fine."

  Pen frowned harder. "So she went without Marcus? How strange! I do not understand those two at all, Mr. Cantrell."

  She saw Alistair's lips twitch. "They certainly appear to have a most. . .ah. . .complicated relationship."

  Pen looked at him, half exasperated, half resigned at this diplomatic reply. Mr. Alistair Cantrell was the perfect model of the proper gentleman and where she had conceived this idea from that she wished him to be improper, she had no notion. It was best to put it out of her head and concentrate on the problem in hand. She knitted her fingers together.

  "If that was my only concern, however, I might rest easy," she continued, "but when I returned from Brunswick Gardens and acquainted my brother with the facts of Isabella's journey, he immediately disappeared and now I have received the most cock-and-bull message from him telling me that he is also gone to Salterton!" She ran a hand through her hair, scattering several pins on the carpet. "He never returned to collect any belongings and believe me, Mr. Cantrell, Freddie is not the man to travel without his valet, let alone a change of clothes. Why, I do not think he could remove his own boots unaided!"

  Alistair could well believe that Lord Standish would have difficulty reaching the end of the road, let alone Dorset. He looked at the exquisite creature before him, all troubled blue eyes and tumbled fair hair, and wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. He felt it was richly unfair that Freddie Standish, who ought to take responsibility for protecting his sister, should in fact be the one in need of constant supervi­sion. He crossed his arms in order to prevent himself from touching Pen.

  "I simply must go to Salterton myself," Pen finished.

  She jumped up. "I cannot sit here waiting to find out what is happening!"

  "And all impatient of dry land, agree with one consent, to rush into the sea," Alistair murmured.

  Pen stared at him. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Cantrell?"

  Alistair blushed. "Poetry, Miss Standish. I was quoting Cowper."

  Pen's brows rose. "This is not the time to be quoting poetry, Mr. Cantrell. What am I to do?"

  Alistair abandoned his flight of fancy. "It seems clear to me, Miss Standish, that you must go to Salterton and that I must escort you."

  Despite this being the outcome that Pen had been angling for, she felt unaccountably disappointed. All had been accom­plished without the slightest hint of romance, if one left aside Mr. Cantrell's dubious quotation, which could scarce have been considered romantic anyway.

  "Thank you," she said. "I should be most grateful for your escort."

  Alistair smiled. "Splendid. I shall return in one hour having arranged transport and packed a bag." He got to his feet. "Will that give you sufficient time to prepare, Miss Standish?"

  "Perfectly, thank you," Pen said. "I am not one of those ladies who takes an age merely to choose a gown."

  Alistair's smile deepened. Pen's pulse quickened in response. "No," he said. "I do not suppose you are." He sketched a bow and made to leave the room, but Pen put out a hand.

  "Mr. Cantrell, one moment, please. . ."

  Alistair paused.

  "I do not have a chaperone," Pen said in a rush. "It is most improper for me to be alone with you in a closed carriage, Mr. Cantrell."

  "I will hire a maid to accompany us, Miss Standish,"

  Alistair said promptly. "There is no difficulty. I am sure you will be more comfortable with some female company."

  "Yes," Pen said glumly, "I am sure I shall. I hesitate to admit it but I cannot afford to pay a maidservant."

  "Neither can I," Alistair said. "We shall engage one in advance and then apply to Stockhaven once we arrive in Sal­terton. Have no concern, Miss Standish. You may rely on me to behave as a gentleman should."

  "Yes," Pen said, sighing with annoyance and thwarted desire. "I am sure that I may."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Marcus sat in the carriage and admired his wife's profile beneath the brim of her black straw bonnet. He had had plenty of opportunity to admire it—her face had been turned away from him for the best part of the journey so far. Her fingers drummed an impatient tattoo on the clasp of her reticule.

  Marcus had woken that morning to a deep contentment. Isabella was still clasped in his arms—there was nowhere else for her to go—and she was asleep in a warm, soft tumble against his side. He had looked at her and felt a complex mixture of hope and loss. Yesterday, when she had run from him, he had known nothing other than he had to reclaim her. It had been an instinct that had kept him going, searching from inn to inn along the road, stopping, inquiring, hurrying on until he had caught up with her at last. He had been fearful that when he found her she would turn from him absolutely and irrevocably and that he would never have a second chance. She had not done so, but he did not make the mistake of thinking that matters would be simple from now on. She had not wanted a husband from the first Now, with the possibility that she might have con­ceived his child, he had to persuade her to change her mind.

  She had woken a few seconds after him and had smiled up at him
for one perfect moment before reality had forced its way into her consciousness and she had struggled to put space between them. He was astounded at how modest and shy she was; not because she had given herself to him so freely the previous night—that had been a moment out of time—but because he had assumed she must be experienced with men. But then, he had assumed many things about Isabella that were not standing up to the test of reason. He was acutely aware that he had given her no reason to trust him and plenty of reasons to hate him.

  They had breakfasted in silence, the monastery refectory scarcely being the appropriate place for a discussion of their marriage. It had been unfortunate though, because by the time the carriage was ready and Marcus had made it clear that he was coming to Salterton, Isabella had withdrawn behind a for­midably cool facade.

  "We need to talk," Marcus said abruptly.

  Isabella looked at him, a quick distrustful glance from her blue eyes. "I agree. Yet—" She hesitated. "I am not quite sure that I know what I want to say."

  "How about that I am a perfidious bastard who has twice made you a promise and then broken it?"

  A tiny smile flickered across her lips. He was heart-ened to see it. It meant that he might have a chance.

  "Is that what you would say if you were in my place?" she asked.

  "Undoubtedly. And you would have a fair point, too." Isabella's smile deepened irresistibly. "So?" She raised her brows.

  "I fear it is true." Marcus saw her frown again. "However. . ."

  She looked at him with a politely regal tilt to the head, and once again he was reminded of how well she must have had to school her emotions during the years of her marriage to Prince Ernest. He felt a sharp pang of loss for the spontane­ous girl she had once been.

  "I am prepared to concede certain things," he said.

  "You are all generosity, my lord." Isabella smoothed the elegant green frogging on her traveling dress and waited.

  Marcus took a deep breath. Apologizing did not come easily to him. He did not do it often.