Deceiver

by Nicola Cornick

  He kept his voice neutral.

  "Until we decide what is to be done about. . . what?" he asked.

  Isabella shot him a defiant look from those beautiful blue eyes. "Our marriage of course, Marcus. It is most convenient that you have a house on the estate, since you may live there whilst I reside at the hall—"

  Marcus sighed sharply. "Isabella, I will be plain with you. I will not live at Salterton Cottage whilst you five elsewhere. Apart from anything else, my house is currently uninhabit­able since work has not yet been completed after the fire. So I could not accede to your request to live at Salterton Cottage even if I wished to do so."

  "Well," Isabella said, turning aside, "I hear that the standard of hotels has improved immensely since I was last at the seaside. No doubt you will find something to your taste."

  "Salterton House is to my taste." Marcus put out a hand and pulled her closer to him. She came reluctantly into his arms. He remembered his vow to court her gently and moderated his tone of voice—and stifled the rampant lust that suggested what a good idea it would be to overcome her scruples by making love to her here and now, in the carriage.

  "If it pleases you," he said, "you may have your own bed­room—for now."

  "Thank you," Isabella said dryly. "And you will reside down the drive as soon as your house is ready."

  There was a note of finality in her voice. Marcus shrugged and his lips curved into a wicked smile. He reached inside his jacket and removed a piece of paper.

  "If you are to be my landlady, you had better read this," he said.

  Isabella pulled off her gloves, took the paper, glanced at it carelessly, then stiffened. "What is this?"

  "It is the terms of the tenancy of Salterton Cottage," Marcus said.

  Isabella looked at him incredulously. "Tenancy? But I thought that it was a mere formality?"

  Marcus shook his head. "You were mistaken. Lord John Southern merely loaned the house to his daughter for her use. The previous tenancy agreement had not lapsed. On India's death he very politely but insistently made me agree to sign it. I was happy to do so to keep my link with Salterton."

  Isabella frowned hard as she scanned the lines. Marcus watched with amusement and no little satisfaction as he saw the uncertainty in her eyes.

  "But surely. . . You own Salterton Hall now. You cannot be your own tenant!"

  Marcus laughed. "Oh no, Bella, you cannot have it both ways! I have offered you Salterton—it was your inheritance, after all—and that makes you the landlord. The landlord who owes me certain. . .services." He twitched the sheet from between her fingers. "Allow me to explain the terms in more detail."

  Isabella looked suddenly nervous. "Please do not," she said. "I do not wish to know."

  "But you must know." Marcus's smile was mocking now. "As I said, it is your property."

  "I have no desire to concern myself with estate matters," Isabella stuck her regal nose in the air. "Mr. Churchward may continue to administer the agreement."

  "I am afraid that I must insist."

  Marcus read aloud, giving his wife no chance to object further: '"The landlord agrees to furnish the tenant with a life­time's supply of free brandy.'" He looked up. "Having been in the navy I am partial to the best. May I suggest that you make an arrangement with the local publican to keep me well provided for?"

  "You are pleased to jest," Isabella said. "You know I cannot afford it. And since you promised me the means to keep Sal­terton you would only be funding yourself."

  "No? Perhaps I will ask you to pay in kind instead."

  He saw Isabella's mouth thin with irritation.

  '"The landlord agrees to pay all the tenant's medical fees,'" he continued. "How fortunate that I am so strong and healthy."

  "How did this ridiculous agreement ever come into being?" Isabella demanded. She reached across and tried to snatch the paper from his hand. He held it out of her way. "It is most unorthodox."

  "Your aunt and uncle were unorthodox people," Marcus pointed out. "The agreement was created to secure the future of the previous tenant of the Cottage. Do you remember him? My mother's cousin, Captain Forbes? It was to visit him that I first came to Salterton."

  Isabella turned her face away from him. "Captain Forbes was a delightful old gentleman. I remember him well. A pity—"

  "A pity that I do not take after him?"

  "A pity that my uncle created such an odd tenancy agree­ment," Isabella snapped.

  "It was an act of charity on Lord John's part," Marcus said. "Uncle Forbes had no money. No one in the family did at that time. Your aunt and uncle took a liking to him and sought to take care of him by creating a rather unusual agreement."

  Isabella sighed. "But why did it not lapse when your uncle died?"

  "Because no one canceled it. The agreement was on the house and not specific to any person."

  "So now you are the recipient of all this largesse."

  "I would be," Marcus said, "if you were in a position to give it to me."

  Isabella's chin tilted up at an even more acutely regal angle. Marcus could see only her profile, which was pink and flus­tered. He liked that. He loved being able to cut past that society calm and ruffle her royal feathers.

  "Then you are most unfortunate since I have nothing to give," she said.

  Marcus smiled. "I would have to dispute that. Wait until you have heard the rest of the agreement, Isabella, and then see what you think," he said softly.

  '"The landlord agrees to provide the tenant with warm blankets, firewood and food in the winter,'" he continued, '"He or she will also take the tenant sea-bathing once a week..'"

  "Sea-bathing!" The words burst from Isabella in a tone of utter disbelief.

  Marcus nodded. "Uncle Forbes was an invalid. The sea water cure did him good but he required to be accompanied to the beach as he was not very steady on his feet."

  Isabella looked pointedly at Marcus's booted feet as they rested with deplorable informality on the opposite seat.

  "There is nothing wrong with your mobility," she said.

  "Nor indeed with the rest of me either."

  There was a flash of triumph in Isabella's expression. "So you require no such mollycoddling."

  "I still require you to take me sea-bathing," Marcus said, "and—" he referred to the paper "—on any other outings or activities of my choice that will be beneficial to my welfare, both physical and spiritual."

  Isabella gave an unladylike snort. "What nonsense!"

  Marcus drew closer. "On the contrary, my love. It is in the legal agreement."

  This time Isabella did snatch the paper from his hands. "Outings beneficial to your spiritual and physical welfare," she repeated. "It seems to me that you might profitably con­centrate on the spiritual side of your welfare, Marcus. I believe there must be improvement to be made there, whereas you seem much too preoccupied with the physical."

  Marcus pulled her along the seat until his mouth was about an inch away from hers. He saw her eyes darken as her gaze went irresistibly to his lips. Her tongue came out and ner­vously touched her bottom lip. He crushed down the urge to kiss her long and hard. Not now. Not yet. He wanted her to be as eager for his embrace as he was for hers.

  "You concentrate on my spiritual welfare, sweetheart," he said softly, "and I will think about that closed bedroom door that will lie between us." His voice roughened. "Be sure to keep it locked," he added, "for I shall come knocking on it until it is open to me."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The strange tale of the princess and the ardent Earl of S continues to astound. Readers of this newspaper will recall their hasty nuptials. Now it seems that the new countess has been no less hasty in leaving her husband of one week. We understand that the countess has set off alone on her seaside honeymoon, with the earl in hot pursuit. Perhaps the countess has once again been disappointed in the amorous capabilities of Eng­lishmen and has decided to find herself a foreign lover instead. Let us hope that the bracing sea
breezes will en­courage the earl's prowess and satisfy his lady. . . .

  —The Gentlemen's Athenian Mercury, July 6, 1816

  "Scandalous nonsense," Alistair Cantrell said crossly, dis­carding the newspaper with an angry sigh and looking with disfavor at his plate of congealed eggs. He was feeling decid­edly out of sorts that morning. Across the breakfast table was the cause of his bad temper, Miss Penelope Standish, glowing with good health, as fresh as a daisy and eating as heartily as a horse in a hayfield. Evidently she had slept well. She had not been lying awake thinking of him.

  They had reached Alresford very late, only to discover that the fair in nearby Winchester had led to an influx of visitors occupying all the best rooms at the inns. Eventually they had found a place in the smallest and pokiest of taverns. Pen and her maid had taken the last chamber, of course— Alistair had insisted—and then he had spent the night on the settle in the parlor. Naturally he had not slept a wink, tortured by the stale smell of smoke and ashes from the grate and the thought of Pen dreaming sweetly directly over his head.

  "I swear it was not me this time," Pen said, munching through her third piece of toast. She looked at Alistair and frowned slightly. "Are you quite well this morning, Mr. Cantrell? You seem not quite in plump currant."

  Alistair looked at her and his expression softened a little. It was not Miss Standish's fault that she had a delinquent brother, nor a sister who had the lack of consideration to inherit property in Dorset rather than in the more accessible regions of Kent or Essex.

  "Do you think we shall reach Salterton today?" Pen asked hopefully.

  Alistair shook his head. "I doubt it, Miss Standish. The roads are busy and we shall have to travel relatively slowly. I am hoping that we may stay in Three Legged Cross tonight and complete our journey to Salterton in the morning."

  "I wonder where Freddie is," Pen said. Evidently her concern for her brother had not affected her appetite. "I hope he has not got lost upon the road. He has a very poor sense of direction."

  "I am sure that he will have been able to find his way to an inn of some sort," Alistair said.

  Pen's perfect pink bow of a mouth puckered. "Oh dear, Mr. Cantrell, you sound quite sharp! I would not have believed it of you. I thought you extremely good natured."

  Alistair reddened. "I beg your pardon, Miss Standish."

  "Not at all," Pen said, smiling deliciously. "There is nothing wrong with strong passions in a man. I have quite a passionate nature myself."

  Alistair almost choked. He had to stop this. Thinking of Miss Standish's passionate nature would drive him mad within the confines of a closed carriage.

  "My main passions in life are reading and a little light gar­dening," he said repressively.

  Pen shot him a limpid look from her very blue eyes. "Dear me, Mr. Cantrell, that sounds rather sedentary. I am surprised that you retain so fine a figure. One's anatomy can suffer badly from such lack of exercise."

  A certain part of Alistair's anatomy stirred at the thought of the exercise he would like to indulge in with Miss Standish. He shifted and repositioned his linen napkin on his lap.

  "Miss Standish. . ." He cleared his throat. Surely the minx was not teasing him? "If you could be ready to depart shortly, then I would appreciate it."

  "Of course, Mr. Cantrell," Pen said. She got to her feet. "I shall be ready directly and then we may discuss our mutual passions all the way to Salterton. What a delightful means of passing the journey."

  And with that she whisked from the parlor, leaving Alistair fidgeting with his napkin once again as he contemplated just where their mutual passions could take them.

  Had Pen and Alistair but known, Freddie Standish was a mere five miles away, wrapped up asleep in his coat on the floor of the taproom of the Maiden's Arms. He had traveled by stage to Winchester where he too had been confronted with the problem of no accommodation in the inn. He had solved it by getting so blind drunk that he could have slept in a hedge and not noticed. And since someone had lifted his wallet from him while he'd been in a drunken stupor, it would now be a considerable time until he reached Salterton.

  Isabella woke early on the second morning in her new home. On the previous day she had been too tired from trav­eling to stir, but now she was rested and eager to explore.

  The room, which had been Lady Jane's, faced southward toward the sea and it was starting to fill with sunshine and the bright light from the water. Isabella slipped from the bed and went across to the window, opening wide the casement and letting in the fresh, salty air. It brought the memories flooding in with it. She could see the cluster of white painted cottages of the old fishing village down the hill to her left and the more elegant new buildings along the esplanade. In her stomach was the same pit-a-pat of anticipation that she had felt on visiting the seaside as a child.

  But there were other memories too: the bend in the wide stair where she and Pen would peer through the banisters to watch the visitors arrive in the hall below, the old nursery with its smell of dust and wax, the tumbledown summerhouse at the bottom of the gardens where she had met Marcus. . .

  And everywhere the paintings of India, or the little glass animals she'd collected, or a book upon a shelf with her name written inside in a childish hand. . . Salterton Hall was haunted for Isabella and as she stood by the window and watched the dawn creep across the bay, she knew how very difficult it was going to be to shake those ghosts. Even if she had not known how much Marcus had loved India, coming back to Salterton would have been difficult. Now it felt like a quicksand.

  Suddenly impatient with herself, Isabella dressed care­lessly and ran down the empty staircase. She needed a swim to clear her mind and wash those memories away.

  The house was already astir, running with the smooth pre­cision that characterized all well-organized households. They had sent a message on ahead from Winchester to announce their imminent arrival, but Isabella had been interested to find Salterton Hall in perfect order when the coach had rolled up the drive. Such calm efficiency argued a very well-run staff. It seemed that Marcus had been taking his custodial duties very seriously since Lady Jane's death. More telling still was the fact that the servants had greeted her with warmth and courtesy, but they had greeted Marcus with affection. It had impressed Isabella—not that she was prepared to tell Marcus that. Not yet.

  She took the path that cut through the gardens down to the sandy lane that connected Salterton Hall to the village. The morning was quiet but for the call of the seabirds in the bay, and the air was scented with the soapy smell of gorse. Down in the harbor, a couple of fishing boats crossed the bay, leaving an arrowing wake in the still water. A white-painted bathing machine was standing at the edge of the sand, a sturdy pony standing patiently between the shafts. In front of the caravan sat an enormous woman, patiently untangling a fishing net.

  Isabella stopped and smiled. Suddenly she felt twelve again, a small child running down to the beach to greet her favorite dipper.

  "Martha! Martha Otter!"

  The enormous woman looked up and a broad grin split her brown face, "Good morning, my lamb. We heard you were back."

  "How are you, Martha?" Isabella inquired.

  "The same," Martha Otter said comfortably, making Isabella wonder how one could possibly be the same after twelve years.

  "You've grown," Mrs. Otter added.

  "Outwards, I expect," Isabella said, with a small sigh. "I would tike to bathe, Martha. I wonder if you would take me out, if you please?"

  Martha lumbered creakily to her feet. "My pleasure, pet. You must be mad as a broom to go out so early, but then the sea cure never hurt anyone. Never cured anyone, neither," she added thoughtfully, "no matter what those quack doctors say."

  Isabella climbed up onto the bathing machine as Martha kilted up her skirts and led the pony out into the water. The sand sloped gently here, which made the beach so perfect for swimming.

  "I hope the sea cure can banish my blue devils," Isabella said.
"I feel quite out of sorts this morning, which is no way to be on such a beautiful day."

  Martha threw her a look over her brawny shoulder. "Ah, Salterton will do you good, my pet. What's troubling you? Not that new husband of yours, is it? No cause for concern, my pet. We heard he's sweet on you. Always was, always will be. We all know that," she added, using the word we in what Isabella suspected was the royal plural.

  Isabella trailed her bare feet in the water as the bathing machine creaked deeper into the sea.

  "I wish it were true," she said despondently.

  Martha gave the pony an encouraging pat. "Nothing but a couple of children, you and milord were, but we reckoned it was forever." She turned her head to give Isabella a look over her shoulder. "What went wrong, Miss Bella?"

  "All sorts of things," Isabella said with a sigh.

  "All right again now," Mrs. Otter said comfortably.

  Isabella sighed again. "My cousin India—"

  "Ah," Martha Otter said again. "Little Miss India, God rest her soul."

  Isabella felt irritated that India had Martha Otter's sympathy, and then felt churlish for being so intolerant. Somehow it did not seem fair. How could she compete with a ghost? The dead were untouchable and she would have to live in India's shadow, making her mistakes and comparing unfavorably with her cousin. It irked her and she disliked herself for the capricious feeling.

  "India and I were never close," she said. "I did not know her well."

  "You had plenty in common," Mrs. Otter opined. "Only you did not know it."

  Isabella wondered whether Martha meant that they had both married Marcus, a thought that she did not want to dwell on, but then the dipper added, "They turned away her suitor."

  Isabella frowned. It was the first that she had heard of India having a suitor. Her cousin had always seemed too shy to attract the gentlemen and Isabella could not remember a time when anyone had paid her particular attention.