I can hardly believe that. Yet others believe it of me. If it is true, if George is behind this tangle of lies, you must beware. Trust no one, least of all him. He will try and tell you his conscience and his honour dictated his actions, his treachery to his oldest friend. Honour? I hope he has enough to keep away tomorrow. I do not want to go to my Maker with the sight of his face before me.
Your money they cannot touch. They have taken my title, my lands, my wealth, my name—my life is the least of it. Your dowry is safe. Even at my most profligate, I never touched that. You know where to go, where to hide to start your new life.
I beg you not to come tomorrow. I want to know you are with the children, that you, at least, are safe. Kiss them for me. Tell them their father loves them as I love their mother. I have not always shown that love as I should, but I give it now, with all my heart. Your devoted husband, to death and beyond, William.
Her father had hanged for something so awful that they had stripped him of his title. Hanged. That was what the silken rope was about. She remembered now, a nobleman was hanged with that, not with coarse hemp.
The letter fluttered to the embroidered bedcover and this time she did not pick it up. Papa had gone to his death believing that George Carlow—the Earl of Narborough, that nice man who was so ill—could have saved him, and suspecting that he had the worst of reasons for not doing so.
Her father had betrayed her mother with another woman and had been forgiven for it.
Nell stared blindly at the wall. So much made sense now: her mother’s reticence; her aloofness from their neighbours; their quiet, retired life. The money from a fixed income ebbing away inexorably as three children grew up and prices rose. Her bitterness and sadness.
Had Nathan and Rosalind known the truth? Nathan should have inherited a title, lands. She scrabbled through the pile of letters until she found an earlier one with the address wrapper still intact. The Countess of Leybourne. That made sense now, the memory of someone talking about the Earl of Leybourne when she had been small and of being hushed.
An earl. Hanged. She had known there had been scandal and tragedy surrounding her father’s death, but not this, never this. A dry sob rose in her throat, but there were no tears. Perhaps it was the shock, but her mind was clear and her hands, as she folded the letter away and turned the key, were steady.
Courage, she told herself. Somehow her own tragic history had resurfaced; it was too much of a coincidence that she had become accidentally entangled with the Carlows just when someone decided to attack them with the memories of that old scandal. Someone was pulling strings, and she had no idea who or why.
Now she had to go downstairs, make conversation, sit and break bread with the man who had stood by and let her father hang. If her father’s suspicions were correct, Lord Narborough might even have been guilty of something far worse than abandoning his friend. She had to keep her knowledge secret. If Marcus Carlow found out who she was, he would believe she had every motive in the world for seeing his father dead, for wreaking vengeance on the entire Carlow family.
There would be a time to let her emotions sweep her away with grief for the past, for her parents. But not now, not while that man watched her, alert for the slightest weakness.
Chapter Seven
It was as though the good clothes wrought their own magic, Marcus thought, studying Nell as she pecked at her dinner. With her hair dressed by the maid and in one of Honoria’s evening gowns—its amber silk making her eyes greener and her hair more richly honey-brown—she looked every bit as much the well-bred young lady as did his sisters. But then, he realized, he had paid little attention to her clear speech and obvious education. She might be a milliner now, but she had not always been one. Miss Latham had been born and brought up a lady. More secrets. More lies.
She was very pale and avoided looking at him, which was an achievement, considering that he sat opposite her. With five women and only two men, the table was, of necessity, unbalanced. He was flanked by Verity and Diana Price, with Nell and Honoria opposite. His father had felt well enough to take the head of the table; his mother, elegant as always, was at the foot.
But Nell, while she did not look at him, could not seem able to keep her eyes off his father, her expression serious, questioning, as it kept flickering towards the earl. Was she watching him for signs of weakness, anxious about the effect her delivery of the parcel had had on his health?
She caught the fullness of her underlip in her teeth and the unconscious gesture drew his attention to her mouth and sent a lance of heat straight to his loins. He must have made some movement, for her eyes finally met his, colour touching her cheeks at whatever she saw there. She looked away again and listened to Verity’s chatter about the plans for her come-out ball, but Marcus sensed her wary attention was still on him.
She had hardly spoken a word all through the meal. That might simply be the shyness of a young woman propelled into a world far above her own. But it was obvious Nell Latham knew the rules of polite Society. Faced with a table laid for a formal dinner, she had not made a single wrong move and her behaviour with the servants showed the polite self-confidence of someone used to domestic staff. And yet she lived in that garret. Yes, gently bred indeed—and what had brought about her fall?
He watched her now as she thanked the footman for refilling her water glass, her smile vanishing as she darted another glance towards his father.
‘Mrs Poulson tells me that Lady Wyveton has returned to the Hall,’ his mother remarked. ‘Her housekeeper told Mrs Poulson that she is very low in spirits, poor lady. I mention it,’ she added with a glance at her daughters, ‘because I do not believe in whispering behind her back. Better that what has happened is known and a kindly discretion observed rather than gossip and speculation.’
‘Wyveton deserves to be horsewhipped,’ the earl said darkly. ‘Carrying on like that with a married woman, right under his own wife’s nose. And her own cousin at that. Outrageous.’
Nell was making no bones about staring at his father now. She was looking at him directly, a frown between her rather strong brown brows, her expression, if it was not too fanciful to think so, one of scarce-controlled anger.
‘Will there be a divorce, Papa?’ Honoria asked, eyes wide with the horror of it.
‘One hopes not. Let this be a warning to both of you to consider most carefully the company you keep. It was an imprudent marriage, come to ruin.’
‘Is the man beyond forgiveness, then, my lord?’ It was the first remark that Nell had made, other than requests to pass the butter or the salt, or murmured thanks. Everyone stared at her. ‘Might there not be some extenuating circumstance, or perhaps he has repented?’ she persisted.
‘It is unforgivable, whatever the circumstances,’ the earl said, colour high in his cheeks. ‘It always leads to degradation and disaster. I knew a case once—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘You will call upon Lady Wyveton, my dear?’
The conversation moved into safer waters, but Marcus kept his eye on Nell. How bizarre, that she should defend the adulterer. Most women would champion the wife—except in cases such as Lady Caroline Lamb’s—and castigate the husband. Had Nell once been involved with a married man?
Warned earlier by his mother that keeping his father sitting over the decanters after dinner would earn her severe displeasure, Marcus lured him into the salon after one moderate glass with promises of backgammon. As it happened,
