by Louise Allen
Marcus schooled his face into studious neutrality; she did not need him appearing to laugh at her. ‘Oh, dear, indeed.’
‘I should not be here.’
‘Quite,’ he said, with some emphasis, controlling a quite inappropriate urge to grin. She coloured up. ‘Do you think you can walk or shall I carry you?’
‘I am certain I can walk, thank you,’ she said, her voice suddenly cool. ‘I had better put my own robe on.’
He handed it to her, turning away while she got out of bed. There was a soft sound as his own robe landed on the covers. Marcus turned round to find her pulling on her slippers. ‘Ready?’
‘I can go by myself, thank you.’
‘But your head—’
‘Aches. Probably as much as yours does.’
‘Mine?’
‘I assume you were drinking last night or I would not have ended up in your bed, my lord,’ she said crisply.
‘You asked to stay, Miss Latham.’
‘I had just been hit over the head,’ she retorted. ‘I think I was hardly responsible for my own actions at that point. You, on the other hand, had not been hit on the head. Who are you going to tell about this?’
‘That you spent the night in my bed?’ This was not how he imagined the conversation this morning would go. This was certainly not the clinging, fragile young woman he had been braced to deal with.
‘No.’ The look she sent him was scornful. ‘About the intruder.’
‘No one except my father. Allsop is highly discreet.’
‘Excellent. I shall tell Miriam that I slipped last night and hit my head on the dresser.’
‘And bandaged it yourself without calling her?’ This degree of independent thought was beginning to rile him. Marcus reminded himself that he did not want a fluttering female throwing herself embarrassingly upon his chest and expecting goodness knows what from him. But for some reason cool rationality was decidedly galling. She had spent the night in his arms, for Heaven’s sake! Women usually expressed some appreciation after that experience.
Nell unwound the bandage and lifted the pad cautiously, wincing as it pulled on her hair. ‘I will sponge my head with one of my handkerchiefs; that will be quite gory enough to satisfy her that I doctored myself. And as for managing by myself—why, my lord, I am unused to living in such style and hesitated to disturb the maid at a late hour.’
‘You will rest in bed today.’ Marcus reined in his rising temper and the urge to throw Nell over one shoulder and take her back to her own room before she came out with any more cool, calm, sensible remarks.
‘That sounds more like an order than a suggestion, my lord.’ Nell smiled, obviously fully intending to set his teeth on edge. ‘I have no intention of causing Lady Narborough any concern. I will see you at breakfast.’ She paused at the door. And this time the smile held no touch of acid. ‘Thank you, Marcus, for looking after me last night. You were very gentle.’
And then she was gone, leaving him feeling as if he’d been slapped and then had the weal tenderly kissed better. He looked at the clock. Half past four. The youngest scullery maid would be creeping about soon, riddling the grate in the kitchen range and laying the table for the staff breakfasts. He would go down and have her make him a pot of coffee; somehow he did not think he would get any more sleep this morning.
Lord Narborough looked quite revoltingly alert to his heavy-eyed son when he followed Felling and the laden breakfast tray into his lordship’s room.
‘That will be all, thank you, Felling.’ The earl waited until the valet was out of the room before raising one eyebrow at Marcus. ‘And why have I woken up to find my window broken and your valet in my dressing room?’ He peered more closely. ‘And why are you looking as though you’ve been up most of the night?’
Marcus walked over to the dresser and picked up the length of silken rope. Nell’s nightcap, as plain an object as a Quaker maiden might wear, was lying in the corner. He retrieved it and pushed it into his pocket.
‘You had a visitor last night by way of the wisteria.’ He tossed the rope onto the bed.
‘And there I was, sound asleep after one of your mother’s famous soporific cordials and missing the excitement. I could sleep through a thunderstorm after a dose of that.’ Lord Narborough peered across the room at the small pane of glass. ‘That wouldn’t have made much noise. I might well have slept through it in any case. Who raised the alarm?’
‘Miss Latham happened to be passing, on her way for a midnight ramble in the Long Gallery. Apparently your tales of the house made her restless to explore.’
His father put down his coffee cup with a rattle. ‘Miss Latham confronted the rogue?’
‘In the dark. He knocked her across the room, fortunately just as I was passing on way to my bed. She has a sore head, but nothing more serious, thank God—she is telling Mama that she fell and hit herself. Near enough to the truth, and we don’t want to worry the others.’ Marcus shot his father an assessing glance. He was taking these revelations very well. ‘He had a knife, she thinks.’
‘Had he indeed? For my ribs, do you suppose?’ The earl sounded quite cheerful about the idea.
‘I doubt it. He seemed easily routed for a man on a lethal mission. No, I think his intention was to alarm us, to leave the rope.’ Marcus got up to look out of the window. Through the ancient panes, the garden seemed strangely distorted, just like his thoughts. ‘I thought by moving out of London we would wrong-foot him, but he seems as at home here as on the streets.’
‘If it were just us, we could make it easy for him, lure him in.’ The earl put his tray aside and got out of bed, walking barefoot in his nightshirt to join Marcus at the casement. He studied the broken window. ‘But not with a houseful of women.’
‘I agree. Defence it is then. I’ll speak to the keepers and the gardeners, arrange patrols around the grounds at night.’
‘Doesn’t solve the problem of who and why though.’ His father pulled thoughtfully at his ear lobe.
‘True. We are certain it is connected with the Wardale matter,’ Marcus thought out loud as he went to sit in the armchair, leaving his father to get back into bed with his cup of coffee. ‘We need to think who it might possibly be.’
‘A relative of Wardale is the most obvious,’ the earl said, spooning sugar into the cup. ‘The son, of course. The other two children were girls—I suppose they could have married. The Hebden’s baby son died soon after the murder. His wife, Amanda, married again, some country gentleman. There are stepsons I fancy—but why would any of that family bear a grudge in any case?’
‘I suppose,’ Marcus ventured cautiously, ‘that there is no possibility that Wardale was working with someone else?’
‘No sign of it at the time.’ Lord Narborough frowned. ‘There will have been a file, of course. We were reporting directly to John Reeves, who was heading the Alien Office at that time, and John King, who was under secretary at the Home Office. Veryan was King’s junior confidential secretary in those days; he’ll know how to lay hands on things.’
‘I’ll write to him.’ Marcus got to his feet, restless, glad of something positive to do. He wanted action. If truth be told, he wanted violence. ‘And I will speak to the keepers.’
‘Leave the letter to me,’ his father said as he tugged at the bell pull.
‘Then I’ll take it to the receiving office.’ A ride was what he needed. A flat-out gallop. Something physical. His shoulder gave a protesting twinge as he closed the door. He ignored it.
Nell sat in the deep window seat in Honoria’s bedchamber, her eyes on the park sweeping away towards the river, less than half her attention on the Carlow sisters and Diana Price. Her headache had settled to a dull background thud and she had managed to persuade Lady Narborough that the lump did not require dressing.
Verity was bent over the desk, sucking the end of her pen, writing, so she informed her sister, to Rhys Morgan. ‘I haven’t heard from him for at least two months,’ she complained.
‘I hope he is all right.’
Honoria turned from her excavations in the clothes press. ‘Are you still in love with him, Verity? He won’t do, you know.’
‘No, I am not,’ Verity responded with dignity, somewhat spoiled by her indignant blush. ‘I grew out of that years ago. He’s another of Lord Keddinton’s godchildren,’ she explained to Nell. ‘I used to think I’d like to marry him—when I was little—because I thought he looked so handsome in his uniform, but now we’re just friends. I write to him.’
‘Verity writes to everyone,’ Honoria teased, emerging from the folds of a riding habit she had pulled over her head. She made a futile attempt to button it. ‘I simply cannot get into this habit any more. My bosom has grown.’
‘We could have it taken out,’ Diana remarked, turning back the bodice to study the seams.
‘I never liked the amber colour much.’ Honoria wriggled out of it and went in her petticoats to Nell’s side. ‘It would suit Nell though. Do you ride, Nell?’
‘Yes,’ she said, then realized that riding was hardly a common accomplishment for a milliner. ‘But not for more than ten years.’
‘Oh, one never forgets,’ Honoria said airily. ‘Do try this on and if it fits we can go riding later.’
It seemed easiest to do as she was asked. At least no one could expect her to make conversation while struggling into voluminous skirts and complicated bodices. ‘You need a habit shirt underneath,’ Diana said, extracting one from the pile.
What would Marcus say, seeing her masquerading as a lady on horseback? He would be less than happy, Nell decided sadly, if his cool demeanour that morning was anything to go by. She had woken to the lovely warm glow of being cared for, the tingle of excitement of his closeness, only to have that dashed by the wariness in his eyes, the chill in his voice. Indeed. Quite. The clipped syllables were like tiny slaps as she recalled them.
No doubt, in the cold light of day, he regretted the kindly impulse to take her in his arms and help her through the night. He probably expected her to make demands, have expectations. Or perhaps his suspicions had come back in the night; her explanation of what she was doing at Lord Narborough’s door must seem highly circumspect.
‘…if they fit you.’ Honoria was holding up a pair of boots. ‘I’ve just remembered them. I’ve had them years and I am sure your feet are smaller than mine are now.’
‘I’m sorry. I was wool-gathering.’ Nell pulled on the boots and stood there trying to smile at the image in the mirror. Even in the days when they were living in a modest rented villa, Mama had encouraged her children to ride, although the hired mounts became more and more elderly and sluggish as the money diminished. Now, seeing a Nell who had vanished more than ten years ago, she half expected Mama to appear and tweak her skirts into order, tut-tut over a split in her glove, warn her against jumping fences. ‘Thank you.’
She bent to pull the boots off again, when Miss Price remarked from the window, ‘It looks as though Lord Narborough and Lord Stanegate are riding. See, the groom is leading Corinth out.’
‘Wonderful, we can all go. I’ve finished my letters.’ Verity scrambled out of her chair and joined the companion to peer down at the drive below. She tugged the bell pull.
‘Lady Verity?’ The footman averted his gaze from the heap of feminine underthings on the bed.
‘Send to the stables and have Firefly and Sapphire and one of the hacks saddled up please, Trevor. We will be riding with Lord Narborough.’
‘His lordship is not riding, Lady Verity. I believe Lord Stanegate is going to the receiving office.’
‘Verity,’ Diana Price reminded her, ‘you and Honoria promised to help Lady Narborough with her sick-visiting in half an hour.’
‘Oh.’ Verity’s face fell. ‘So we did. Never mind, Nell, you can still go. You have Firefly, my mare. She’s very sweet. Tell the stables please, Trevor.’
‘I—’ Nell bit back her instinctive protest. A ride to the receiving office sounded mild enough. She could manage that, surely? And it would give her an opportunity to put Marcus right about any misconceptions he might be harbouring, even if it took a plain and embarrassing declaration that she might have been foolish enough to ask him to spend the night with her, but that did not mean she expected anything further as a consequence.
There had been that lovely glow last night when he had looked at her, treated her with such tenderness. She dreaded his response destroying that memory if he was hurtful today.
‘Hat!’ Honoria pursued her to the door, a rakish low-crowned hat in one hand, hat pin in the other. ‘And gloves and a whip.’
Nell made her way down to the stables, wondering if this was such a good idea. What if she could not remember how to ride after all? What if Marcus snubbed her completely?
‘Here we are, Miss Latham.’ It was Marcus’s groom, Havers, holding the head of a pretty bay mare. ‘His lordship left before Lady Verity’s message arrived, but he’s still in sight.’ And sure enough, walking sedately away down the long carriageway was Marcus on the raking grey hunter with a dark tail so long it brushed its fetlocks.
The groom made a cup with his hands for her foot and tossed her up into the saddle. ‘She’s got nice manners, miss, never you fear.’ Somehow Nell’s limbs seemed to remember what to do, her balance came back instinctively. ‘Just you trot along and you’ll soon catch him up,’ the man said, giving the mare a slap on the rump. ‘She’s a bit fresh,’ he called after her as Firefly trotted out of the stable yard under the clock tower arch. ‘But you won’t mind that.’
A bit fresh? She was certainly that. The mare had seen the gelding ahead of her and broke into a canter. Nell gripped the pommel firmly, resisted the temptation to hold onto the mane and told herself that a smooth canter was much more comfortable than a bouncy trot. I can do this, we’ve almost caught him…
Then the horse ahead of her reached the gates and instead of turning and trotting off down the lane, Marcus put him straight at a low hurdle in a gap in the hedge on the other side. The big grey sailed over and she caught a glimpse of the crown of Marcus’s hat vanishing beyond the hedge line.
The hurdle was perhaps three feet high. I can’t do this! Nell told herself, taking a firm grip on the reins and pulling. Nothing happened. Firefly, nice manners or no, had obviously decided that her rider did not know what she was about and was taking over. Her ears pricked up, she adjusted her stride. Nell had a sidelong glimpse of a startled gatekeeper and then they were in the air.
‘Ough!’ The landing was neat on the mare’s part, totally inelegant on Nell’s. She grabbed the pommel, lurched violently, her hat slid down to her nose and for several stomach-lurching seconds she was convinced she was going to fall off.
It was a surprise to find she was still in place when she shoved her hat painfully back on her head and collected the reins together in some sort of order. Firefly was cantering steadily, and ahead the elegant figure of Marcus was still visible, although receding down the meadow towards what Nell had a horrid suspicion was a river. There was no sign of the decorous trot now, the hunter was galloping flat out.
Firefly lengthened her pace while Nell considered her options. Hauling on the reins was not working, falling off was highly dangerous. That left staying in the saddle and enjoying herself. Ahead, the hunter rose in a long, low jump over what must be water, his rider apparently welded to his back, and took the slight rise on the other side in ground-eating strides.
‘You are not going to jump that!’ Nell ordered, reining in as hard as she could. The mare’s ears flicked back, she fought the bit and did not slow, but at least she could not jump either. They went through the wide, shallow stream at the gallop, muddy ice-slush, water and watercress flying everywhere.
‘Now, go and catch him up.’ Nell dropped her hands, tightened her grip and gave the mare her head. She would never match the big hunter, seventeen hands if he was an inch, to her fourteen, but the little mare threw her heart into it with Nell, thrilled and te
rrified in equal measure, staying put by a miracle of balance, luck and desperation.
They swung out of a gap in the hedge and on to what Nell recognised as a well-made-up toll road. Far ahead, Marcus had the grey galloping along the wide grass verge, and the mare had no objection to following Nell’s tug on the rein—or maybe, she decided, risking one hand to pull back the hat from over her ear, Firefly preferred the grass anyway.
And then she saw buildings and the hunter was slowing, turning under a swinging inn sign, and she realized this must be the receiving office and the nearest stop for the mail coach.
Firefly seemed to know where she was, or perhaps without the horse ahead to chase she was prepared to slow down. Whichever it was, she dropped to a trot as they turned into the yard and allowed Nell to rein her in at last.
Nell slumped in the saddle, breathless, and shoved the wretched hat back on her head. Her hair was coming down. The occupants of the yard turned and regarded her in silence as she got her skirts into some kind of order. An ostler paused in mid-stride, bucket in hand, mouth open, the straw he had been chewing dangling. A pair of small boys stopped chasing the chickens and gawped. Marcus turned in the saddle to see what was entertaining them, took a long, hard look and closed his eyes as though in pain.
‘I came for a ride,’ Nell said, a strange, unfamiliar feeling building painfully in her chest, threatening to bubble up, overcome her. Then she realized, as the hat finally won over the hat pin and slid off, bouncing from her mud-spattered skirts to the cobbles, what it was. Laughter.
She wanted to laugh. How long had it been since she had felt like doing that? Giving way to unrestrained, joyous laughter? Not a polite smile, not a social gesture, but real laughter?
Too long, Nell thought, her lips twitching as she watched Marcus open his eyes. He sat there on the raking hunter, immaculate, elegant even in country buckskins and plain coat, and there she was, panting, dishevelled, muddy and unrepentant—and the masterful Lord Stanegate had not a clue what to do with her.
