my lord. I am endeavouring to find some to count myself,’ she retorted. ‘If I could be shown to my room; I have no doubt I will see you at dinner.’
‘Or just as soon as you choose to tell me all the truth,’ he flung back.
Watching Nell sweep off across the stone flags with as much outraged dignity as a duchess in a temper, Marcus bit back an oath and found himself admiring the delectable rear view of his reluctant houseguest. Her gown might be old and shabby, but her deportment was that of a lady and the sway of her hips, downright alluring.
He unclenched his teeth and snapped his fingers at a footman. ‘Help me out of this coat.’ Damn it, she was right, he should not have ridden, he thought, wincing as the man eased off the heavy garment. He was behaving in a way that he criticized in his own brother, recalling sending Hal frequent lectures about failing to allow wounds time to heal.
It was time to remind himself that he was, perforce, the sensible brother, the one with the responsibilities, the one who held the family together. He was not the brother who made love to young women in carriages, got himself shot—or lost his temper, come to that. That was Hal, who managed with Janus-like dexterity to be an exemplary officer on one hand and a hellion on the other.
‘Send my valet to me,’ he said curtly, making for the stairs. A bath, a fresh bandage, a change of linen and some reflection in tranquillity were called for. ‘And Andrewes,’ he added as a further thought struck him. ‘We must look after Miss Latham while she is with us. Ask Wilkins and Trevor to ensure she does not get…lost. If she goes anywhere, they are to keep an eye on her. This is an easy house to lose one’s way in,’ he added blandly as the footman struggled to keep the speculation off his face.
He opened his chamber door to find his mother sitting beside the fire. ‘Mama?’
‘Your father is resting with a book.’ She fiddled with the pleats of her skirt. ‘The journey gave me time to think. Why, exactly, have you brought Miss Latham with us?’
‘Because I have concerns for her welfare.’ Marcus kept his voice even as he strolled to the fire and held out a hand to the warmth. His mother watched him, her face troubled. Oh, to hell with it! He was not beating around the bush. ‘Are you concerned that I have installed my mistress under your roof?’ he asked bluntly.
‘I, well…Of course not, you would never do such a thing. Only it is more than a little odd, my dear. She appears to be a very well-mannered, well-spoken young woman, but she is, after all, a milliner.’
‘Who may be in danger from a violent man in her locality. Mama, this is not a subject I would normally speak of to you, but as you allude to it, I am discussing terms with a certain Mrs Jensen.’
‘Excellent.’ The countess stood up, colour bright in her cheeks as she brushed her skirts into order with some emphasis. ‘Forgive me, my dear. I should remember before speaking that you are my levelheaded son!’
‘Indeed, Mama.’ Usually undemonstrative, he surprised both of them by leaning over and kissing her cheek. ‘Be kind to Miss Latham for me. I would wish her to feel at ease. Perhaps the girls could lend her a gown or two?’
A relaxed Nell would be easier to break down, he thought as his valet slipped back into the room. He was aware that his grim expression had Allsop tiptoeing around, but was disinclined to put on a false front for the man. Let Nell relax, enjoy a little luxury. He would be, if not charming, at least civil, and in time her guard would slip. And then he would strike.
Nell perched on the edge of the big damask-hung bed and tried not to appear impossibly gauche as she stared round the room. Miriam, the maid who had been sent to her, was unpacking her meagre possessions and conferring with another woman who bobbed a curtsy and left. Doubtless to inform the rest of the servants’ hall just how humble the new guest was, Nell thought with a sigh.
The rich draperies that hung at the windows set off a dusk-darkened view of sweeping parkland, gilded frames surrounded landscapes and portraits. The furniture was frivolous, French and entirely feminine, and Miriam’s footsteps were swallowed up in the deep pile of the carpet.
There was a dressing room with its own closet and a tub and room for a hundred more gowns than she possessed and it all seemed achingly familiar. Once she had known a room like this, when she had been very, very small. Mama had been there, young and pretty and laughing with a man she knew must be Papa, and she and Nathan and Rosalind had come in to say goodnight and Nell knew, with a deep certainty, that it was always like that when Papa had been with them. Warmth and luxury and laughter.
The scent had been the same too. Potpourri, sandalwood drawer linings, the aroma of burning apple wood; familiar and long-lost, just as the library smell had been. Which meant that once they really had been wealthy. Not just comfortably off—she could remember those days clearly: the little house in Rye, the modest respectability that had proved so fragile—but wealthy like this. And looking back she realized that Mama’s style of manner and her insistence on deportment reflected the needs of a life quite different from the one they had been living.
Miriam had set the battered old writing slope on a table with as much care as if it was a costly dressing case. The feel of the tiny key around her neck had Nell pulling it out, turning it between her fingers. Should she open the box, read the diary and the letters? Which was worse? Knowing the truth or imagining it?
The other maid came back, garments draped over her arms. ‘Lady Honoria and Lady Verity thought you might wish to borrow some gowns, Miss Latham, seeing as how your luggage got lost. And there’s some indoor shoes, miss, just come from the cobblers, that Lady Verity thought would fit.’
The key on its ribbon slid back under her bodice as Nell got up. So, her face was saved in front of the servants at least. She smiled and tried not to show her emotions at the thought of those pretty gowns, the light fabrics, the big Paisley shawl, the brand-new silk stockings that lay on top.
‘Dinner will be in an hour and a half, miss. Would you like to take your bath and to change now?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Time to get used to her new clothes. Time to practise walking and smiling and chattering of polite nothings so she could survive the first formal meal in this fairy-tale world into which Marcus Carlow had propelled her.
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.
March 16, 1195
My darling, tomorrow is my last day on earth. I have stopped hoping now that George Carlow will relent, will make any effort to save me. He could, if he wished, I know it. He has the ear of those high enough, if only he will tell the truth about what happened. Why he will not, I do not know. Is it because of that sin I committed that you, my love, have forgiven me for? Could his priggish disapproval of adultery be enough to see me hang when he knows me innocent of the greater crimes for which I am condemned? Or
