unmis-takeable signs of a willingness to accept his carte blanche.
Yes, if one disregarded a father whose poor health was wearing down his mother’s spirits, one sister whose aim in life appeared to bring him to an early grave with worry, another whose sweet innocence was equally conducive to anxiety, and a brother who, when he was not putting life and limb at risk on the battlefield, was set on becoming the wildest rake in town, then one might, indeed, believe that nothing on earth could go wrong.
Marcus contemplated the day ahead. Luncheon with the family, a meeting with Brocket, the estate manager, up from Hertfordshire with a bulging portfolio of estate business, dinner at his club and then a visit to Mrs Jensen’s discreet apartments to agree terms. Calm, ordered, satisfactory and predictable, just for once.
‘Take the curricle round to the mews, Dan. I won’t be—’ The door of the double-fronted town house burst open as a footman emerged at the run. ‘Peters?’
‘My lord.’ The man pulled himself up at the foot of the steps. ‘Lord Narborough—it looks like another heart stroke, my lord. Mr Wellow said I was to take a hack and fetch the doctor, urgently.’
‘Dan, take the reins.’ Marcus thrust them into the tiger’s hands as the young man scrambled round and into the seat. Marcus vaulted down and pushed the footman up beside Dan. ‘If Dr Rowlands isn’t at home, find where he has gone and bring him.’
He took the steps two at a time and caught the closing front door. The hall was in turmoil. Richards, the youngest footman, was wringing his hands and declaring that it wasn’t his fault, the young lady looked respectable enough and how was he to know she was a murdering hussy? Wellow, the butler, was demanding of Felling, the earl’s elderly valet, where his lordship’s drops were, and at the foot of the stairs three young women were engaged in a noisy argument.
Or, at least, Honoria, his elder sister, was arguing. Verity, the younger, was in tears. Marcus shrugged off his caped driving coat and strode across the black-and-white chequered floor to the one person who appeared to be calm. ‘Miss Price, what has occurred?’
His sisters’ companion turned, relief at the sight of him clear on her face. ‘Lord Stanegate, thank Heavens you are returned. No, Honoria! If your mama says the young woman is to remain in the library until Lord Stanegate says what is to be done, then that is where she stays and you are not to speak to her.’ She put an arm around Verity and gave her a little shake. ‘Now stop crying, Verity. What good is that going to do your papa?’
‘None.’ Verity threw herself onto Marcus’s chest. ‘Marc! Papa is dying!’
‘Nonsense,’ he retorted with more assurance than he felt, disentangling his sister and setting her firmly on her feet. ‘Verity, Honoria, go and help Felling find Papa’s drops. Miss Price, where is Lord Narborough?’
‘In his study, with her ladyship,’ she said. ‘Mrs Hoby should be up at any moment with some sweet tea.’
‘Thank you.’ Marcus opened the door to the study and went quietly inside. His father was stretched out on the big leather chaise, his wife seated by his side, patting his hand. Marcus stopped dead, shaken despite knowing what to expect. The earl, always in poor health, was only fifty-four, but with grey hair and stooped shoulders he looked twenty years older. Marcus could barely recall his father as well and active. But now, with blue lips and his eyes closed and sunken, he looked a dying man.
‘Mama?’
Lady Narborough looked up and smiled.
‘Marc, I knew you would not be long. George, here is Marc.’
The hooded lids fluttered open and Marcus let out the breath he was holding. No, his father was not going to die, not this time. The dark grey eyes, so like his own, were focused and alive.
‘Father, what happened?’
‘Some girl…brought it. Don’t know why.’ His right hand moved restlessly. Marcus knelt by the chaise, taking his father’s hand in his as his mother got up and moved aside to give him room.
His father gripped his fingers. ‘There.’ He turned his head towards the desk where a brown-paper parcel lay undone, something heaped in its midst. ‘My boy.’ His voice dropped to a whisper and Marcus leaned close to hear. ‘That old business. Hebden and Wardale. Dead and buried…I thought.’ He closed his eyes again. ‘Don’t fuss. Shock, that’s all…Damn this heart.’
Lady Narborough met Marcus’s eyes across the room, her own wide and questioning as he curled his fingers around his father’s wrist and felt for the pulse. ‘He’ll do,’ he murmured as the housekeeper came in with the tea, the valet at her heels with the belladonna drops.
Between them, they got the earl propped up and sipping his tea. Certain his mother was occupied, Marcus moved to the desk and examined the parcel that had caused all the trouble. Ordinary stout brown paper tied with string and sealed with a blob of red wax. The Earl of Narborough and the address in a firm black hand, probably masculine. Marcus bent and sniffed: no perfume.
And lying in the centre, beside the knife his father had used to slash the string, a length of coiled rope. It was perhaps an inch thick and a strange colour, a mix of fine soft threads—blues, reds, yellows, white, brown and black.
Frowning, Marcus lifted it and it slithered, snakelike, in his grip. The feel as it moved was somehow alive. Silk? Then he saw the loop and the knot in the end, and recognised it. A silken rope, a luxurious halter to hang a man. The privilege, if such it could be called, accorded to a peer of the realm who was sentenced to death.
Hebden and Wardale, his father had said. One a victim, the other his murderer. Two dead men. And now, after almost twenty years, this rope delivered to their closest friend. Coincidence? He did not think so and neither, it was obvious, did his father.
With a glance to reassure himself that the earl seemed stable enough, Marcus slipped from the room. Raised female voices could be heard from the White Salon, but the hall was empty save for Wellow, on the watch for the doctor.
‘Wellow, what the devil has been going on here?’
The butler tightened his lips, his face once more impassive beneath the imposing dome of his bald head. ‘A young woman called—at the front door, my lord. Richards answered it. He says she appeared a lady, despite carrying a parcel, which is why he did not send her to the tradesmen’s entrance. She asked to speak to his lordship, insisted that she must deliver the package into his hands.
‘Richards showed her through to the study.’ The butler’s expression boded ill for the junior footman. ‘I regret to say he has now forgotten the name he was given to announce. He left her alone with his lordship. A few moments later the young woman came out of the room, calling for help. His lordship was in a collapsed condition. I told Richards to shut her in the library and lock the door until your return, my lord, considering that the entire affair had a most irregular appearance.’
‘Very wise, thank you, Wellow. I will speak to her now. Call me when the doctor arrives.’
The key was in the lock. Marcus turned it and went into the library, braced for almost anything.
The woman who turned from her contemplation of the street was tall, slender to the point of thinness and clad in a plain, dark pelisse and gown. Her bonnet was neither fashionable nor dowdy; the impression she gave was of neatness and frugality. As he came closer and noticed the tightness
