A shadow fell across her. She looked up.
"Good afternoon, Lady Stockhaven," a voice said from behind her. "I see that you are ahead of me."
Mr. Owen was there, leaning on a gold-headed cane. He looked as sickly as he had done in the Assembly Rooms, but there was some other quality about him now. The slate-gray eyes were colder and harder than she remembered. She shivered.
"I do believe," Owen added gently, "that you have been ahead of me almost every step."
"I think I must have been," Isabella said, "Mr. Warwick?"
He inclined his head. "The very same. You know of me?"
"I have. . .heard of you."
"Stockhaven has been searching for me, I think," Warwick said. "I wondered if he would mention his business to you."
Isabella got to her feet a little stiffly. Warwick made no attempt to stop her. Even so, she was afraid. She could feel tension and something more in the air, something cold. And she had no means of defending herself.
"Why did you come?" she said.
Warwick smiled. He leaned against the edge of the second trunk and watched her. "I came because of the past," he said. "I came for my son."
"We have met before, just the once," Isabella said carefully. He had mentioned the past and she followed his lead. "It was in 1803, I think, at the Salterton Assembly. You danced with my cousin."
A faint smile touched Warwick's mouth. "Everyone always wanted to dance with you," he said. "You were the pretty one. But I wanted Miss Southern from the start."
He tilted his head thoughtfully. "You did not recognize me when we met two weeks ago, did you?" he said. "It is scarce surprising. I think I have changed."
Isabella thought so, too. Gone was the dashing lieutenant with the impudent tilt of the head and the devil-may-care tight in his eyes. There was nothing here of the rebellious spirit that had drawn India like a moth to the fatal flame. Everything had been doused by sickness. Isabella recognized it and felt her heart contract in surprise and pity. She had not expected to feel sympathy for Edward Warwick. She opened the book and showed him the drawing.
"There is a picture here, Mr. Warwick," she said. "I think it must be your son. He is named for you."
The pallor in Warwick's face seemed to become more pronounced. She saw his hand clench on the cane.
"There was nothing else?" He might have been discussing the weather, there was so little emotion in his voice.
"I regret not," Isabella said. She remembered the locket. She had left that on Marcus's desk. It seemed appropriate for Warwick to have it. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Warwick sighed. "Of course there would be no documents. I have looked everywhere, you understand, Lady Stockhaven. There is no trace." He took the locket from his jacket pocket and held it gently in the palm of his hand. Isabella caught her breath.
"You recognize it?" he said softly. Isabella nodded silently.
"I knew it was a trap," Warwick said. "Your brother was supposed to have found it and sent it to me." He swung the locket gently by its silver chain. "Lord Standish has worked for me for six years," he added smoothly, "and during that time I have learned that he could not find a tankard in an alehouse. The likelihood of him finding a cache of Miss Southern's treasured possessions in the attic here strained credulity." He smiled at her. It chilled Isabella bone deep. "Nevertheless," he added, "I was desperate, so I came. The one thing that I did not expect to find, Lady Stockhaven, was you."
Isabella inclined her head politely. "You find me as surprised as you are yourself, Mr. Warwick."
Warwick laughed. The sound echoed around the empty spaces of the attic. "Perhaps I misjudged your brother then, Lady Stockhaven."
Isabella doubted it. She had a strong feeling that this was nothing to do with Freddie at all and that she had unwittingly stumbled into a trap herself. She wished that Marcus had told her what he planned. But he had been preoccupied that morning and she had been sick and once she had felt better again she had been so intent on banishing India's ghost forever. . .
"At the least, your presence is a comfort to me, Lady Stockhaven," Warwick said, "for it provides me with a way out." He looked at her. "You do not frighten easily. Not like your little cousin. Maybe that was why I always wanted to protect her."
"A pity you were not permitted to do so," Isabella said, and she meant it. Had Lord John Southern not barred this man from seeing his daughter and contemptuously dismissed his suit, how different matters might have been. But Warwick was drawing closer now, his thirst for knowledge unquenchable in the search for his son. Isabella could see it in his eyes. He would take any risk, no matter how foolhardy, dare all if he thought it would help him find the boy.
"What else do you know?" he asked.
"I know that my cousin and Lady Jane visited Scotland in the early spring of 1804," Isabella said steadily. "It was a long journey to an inhospitable place. I realize now that they had an urgent reason for doing so, though I was unaware of it at the time."
There was a silence. A beam of sunlight fell across Ned Warwick's lean cheek, emphasizing the deep lines engraved in the flesh.
"I have been to Scotland," he said quietly. "I have been everywhere and spoken to everyone I could find, and yet I cannot trace my son."
Isabella swallowed hard. She was not sure how they had come to such an implicit understanding in so short a space of time and yet she knew that for all his fearful reputation, she had compassion for Edward Warwick. She had an insight into how he felt.
"The gardener and his wife who adopted him," she said, "they lived in London."
"They are dead."
The stark words fell into the peace of the room and made the air shiver.
Isabella said, "Surely someone in Salterton must know—"
Warwick moved sharply. Again he forestalled her. "Your uncle did his business too well." There was such a wealth of bitterness in his voice that Isabella felt cold. "He was as secret as the grave. He destroyed any evidence that might sully the reputation of his daughter."
Isabella made a slight, helpless gesture. "He was doing what he thought was right."
Warwick's mouth turned down at the corners. "He was doing what would keep his fair name in the eyes of the world. He cared nothing for her feelings. He was responsible for her unhappiness."
"How so?"
"You said it yourself. By refusing me permission to pay my addresses to her." He turned toward her so suddenly that Isabella instinctively drew back before she realized that his violence was not directed toward her but toward his memories. "He would not allow his daughter—his pregnant daughter— to marry the hell-raising illegitimate son of an Irish wastrel." There was bleak amusement in his eyes. "I quote."
"Yet you came back and tried again."
"I did." His eyes touched hers briefly but Isabella knew he was not seeing her. "I came to that damned Assembly the following summer and put my fate to the touch again, and Lord John threatened to have me thrown out into the street. I lost my temper and swore I would tell everyone of his daughter's disgrace."
"But you would never have done so," Isabella said.
For a moment Warwick's gray eyes were amused as they dwelled on her. "Why not?" he asked.
"Because you loved India," Isabella said. "I'll warrant you still do. It was her father you wished to punish, not India herself."
Warwick seemed to shrink slightly. "How do you know?"
"Because whilst India lived, you made no move to cause scandal," Isabella said. "You did not seek her out or look for the child. It was only after she died that you tried to find your son."
"I tried to get her to run away with me but she would not." Warwick smiled mirthlessly. "Strange that she would give herself to me in love but would not entrust herself to me for life."
"It is not so strange," Isabella said, thinking of the cousin with whom she had more in common than she had ever guessed. "One may overcome one's scruples in the heat of the moment, but when one is co
nfronted with the decision of a lifetime, it is easy to make the wrong choice." She looked at him. "What did you do—afterward?"
"I went back to the army." Warwick shrugged his shoulders. "It was not long before I was court-martialed for insubordination and thrown out. I went to Ireland for a while, then returned to London and fell in with bad company." He bared his teeth in a smile. "I have been in such company ever since. I run such company."
"Yet still the most important thing to you was to find your son," Isabella said. Her body was strung tight, screaming with tension. She could not keep him talking forever and she could not guess where this would end.
"It was," Warwick said. "I made inquiries in Salterton and in Scotland and in London, but drew a blank on all occasions." He was speaking conversationally now, as though the subject was of little import. "In the end, I came to Salterton myself and set a lad to search Stockhaven's house here whilst I came up to the Hall to see Lady Jane. She was the only person left who could help me."
"And once again you were refused."
The harsh lines about Warwick's mouth deepened. "Lady Jane would not compromise her daughter's memory by even acknowledging the truth."
Isabella felt no surprise. For Lady Jane, like her husband before her, protecting what she saw as India's and the family's interests was still of paramount importance, even beyond the grave.
"Lady Jane died that night," Isabella said.
Warwick's head snapped around sharply. "That was none of my doing."
"You quarreled."
"So?"
"She was a frail elderly lady. She could not stand the shock of it."
Warwick shrugged again. "As I said, that is none of my affair."
Isabella was chilled by his cold lack of concern. There was something faulty here. Where his son was concerned, he was vulnerable, but there was no chink in his armor elsewhere. The man had no pity and no emotion in him.
"So what are you to do now, Lady Stockhaven?" Warwick said softly. He moved slightly and Isabella tensed once again. "What am I to do now that you have seen me?"
"I think you should go," Isabella said steadily. "There is nothing here for you, Mr. Warwick. Both India and her mother buried their secrets too deep to be found."
Warwick gave her a mocking smile. "You will not tell me to forget my quest?"
"What is the point?" Isabella said. She sighed. "I know you can never forget it."
Warwick straightened up. He nodded slowly. "Against all the odds, I believe that you really do understand."
"I do."
Their eyes met. Again Isabella felt that strange tug of affinity. It repelled her and yet she could not shake it off.
"Go," she said again.
Warwick straightened. His hand went to his pocket. "I will," he said. "But you are coming with me, Lady Stockhaven."
Freddie Standish was running again. Dimly he was aware that he simply had to stop doing this. Besides, running up things was a very poor idea. It winded him twice as quickly.
He had crept up the first three flights of stairs but when he realized that neither Marcus nor Alistair were anywhere near the attics and, therefore, unaccountably, unable to do anything to help Isabella, he was filled with panic. Perhaps Marcus had not understood what he was trying to say. He did not have the time to stop and find out now. He rushed up the final flight of steps, surged along the landing and threw open the attic door.
"Bella!"
Both his sister and Edward Warwick jumped at the loud intrusion. Freddie saw Warwick tense like a snake about to strike. Suddenly he had an arm about Isabella and a knife at her throat as he held her in front of him like a shield. Freddie saw the glint of steel and felt faint again, a condition not assisted by his terminal shortage of breath.
"What the devil are you up to, Standish?" Warwick snapped.
Freddie looked from Warwick's face to Isabella's and licked his lips like a hunted fox. A bead of sweat ran down his brow. He fished out his silk handkerchief and mopped his face.
"Freddie," Isabella said. She looked sick at the knowledge of his betrayal. "I believe you already know Mr. Warwick," she said.
"Yes," Freddie said, his gaze darting to Warwick's face once again. This was no time for explanations. He spread his hands wide. "Let her go, old man. It's only me. No threat."
"You never were," Warwick sneered. He did not lower the knife. He looked around at the empty room. "Though I do wonder why you are here." His gaze snapped back to Freddie. "You saw no one enter?"
"Not a soul," Freddie said steadily. "Let her go and walk away, Warwick."
Warwick's face convulsed with fury. "You are double-crossing me, Standish."
"No idea what you mean, old chap," Freddie said. His felt gray with fear. He could feel himself shaking. He was almost wishing that he had never started this. Isabella had always been able to take care of herself. True, she did not look as though she knew what to do, but he was sure she would think of something. Whereas he had no idea what to do. "Don't have the stomach to cheat you, let alone the brains."
Isabella shifted slightly and the knife wavered at her throat, leaving a thin red line on her skin. Freddie shuddered. As a child he had always cried at the sight of blood and he was not much better these days.
"Lady Stockhaven comes with me," Warwick said.
"No," Freddie said. He took a step nearer. "No need to make a drama out of this, old man. I came to tell you that Stockhaven and Cantrell are on their way back from the dower house. Need to get away now, before any harm is done."
Warwick started to move toward the door, dragging Isabella with him like a shield.
Freddie hesitated, castigated himself for a fool—and dived for the other man's legs. Warwick let go of Isabella, joining with Freddie with a grunt and a sickening thud as their bodies connected. Freddie, who had only just regained his breath, felt as though he had been burst like a balloon.
Three things happened at once. Out of the corner of his eye, Freddie saw Isabella's arm come down and something landed with a sturdy smack against the side of Edward Warwick's head. There was the hum and a crack as a bullet winged Warwick in the shoulder and ricocheted away to take a large chip out of the plaster of the wall.
And Freddie felt the knife slice into his side. He pressed his hand to his ribs and saw the blood seeping through his fingers. Warwick was out cold but he was scarcely in better shape. What a damnable mess. He simply was not cut out to be a hero.
"Freddie!" Isabella was beside him and her tone was anguished. Freddie saw Marcus Stockhaven swing in through the window and jump down to the attic floor. The roof. Of course. If only he had thought. . .
Isabella was pressing an improvised bandage to his side. Freddie thought it was probably her petticoat He wanted to tell her to stop because good linen was too expensive to waste and also because it was so damned painful.
Freddie slid down slowly against the wall and gave a groan. Isabella cushioned his head on her lap. "Help is corning, Freddie," she said. "Mr. Cantrell has gone for the doctor. You will feel better directly."
Freddie appreciated her words, though he did not for a moment believe her.
"Always wanted to help you, Bella," he said. The words seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort "Couldn't do it when we were younger. Glad to have been of service now." He moved with a wince as Marcus pressed the bandage tighter.
I didn't realize for years that he was the one," Freddie whispered. "We never met. If I had known he was India's lover. . ." His face contorted. Isabella squeezed his hand. "Freddie—"
"Ruined my favorite coat as well," Freddie said. And then the darkness closed in, for which he was profoundly grateful.
"He'll live," Marcus said later. He had spent the previous half hour at Freddie Standish's bedside while the unfortunate lord poured out the sorry tale of his dealings with Edward Warwick. Finally Freddie had slept, exhausted by confession and lack of blood, and Marcus had made his way to Isabella's bedroom. He had persuaded her t
o rest, for she had been chalk-white with strain. But he knew she was worried. Although her brother's injuries were minor—no more than a glancing scratch from Warwick's knife—he had bled profusely and the whole matter had seemed a deal worse than it actually was.
He went across to the bedside. Isabella was sitting propped up against her pillows, a dish of tea at her elbow and a book in hand. It was evident that her mind was not on the written word, since she was holding the book upside down.
Marcus took her hands reassuringly in his. "Freddie will be in a weakened state for a while yet, but he should recover quickly enough if he does not exert himself."
"I doubt we shall see much change from normal, then," Isabella said, with a flash of her old spirit. "Still, I am glad. I have lost too many people to want to lose my brother too." Her brow creased. "But what are you going to do about him, Marcus? If he was working for Warwick, that places you in a difficult situation."
Marcus smiled. "Poor Freddie. He tells me that Warwick has had him in his pocket for years, and your father before him. But he was always the smallest of cogs in Warwick's wheel. He provided information, nothing more."
He saw a mixture of relief and misery on Isabella's face.
"I had no notion," she said. "Oh, Pen said he had debts. . ." She rubbed her forehead tiredly.
"Do not blame him," Marcus said. "He was in desperate straits."
Isabella smiled tiredly. "I could not blame him when I know how that feels." She looked at Marcus. "Remember all the things that I have done when I was desperate and alone. My crimes were greater, I think."
Marcus took her hand and held it tightly. "They were not crimes, Bella." If he had his way, she would never blame herself for anything ever again. She was indomitable and courageous and he loved her.
He frowned to think of all that she had gone through.
"What did Freddie mean when he said that he could not help you when you were younger?" he asked.
Isabella was quiet for a moment, her face still. "I think that Freddie has always felt very keenly that he should have done something to help me when. . . when I was obliged to marry Ernest," she said at last. "He has never spoken of it to me directly but sometimes he has referred to it obliquely and I think he has always felt guilty."
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