He wanted to discuss it with his father, but the earl was sleeping. That it had something to do with that old business years ago, when his father had been hardly older than he was himself now, was beyond doubt.
Marcus looked up at the portrait that hung over the fire. Lord Narborough stared back: a virile man at the height of his powers, shoulders square, grey eyes blazing out at the watcher, wig elegant, fingers curled around the hilt of a rapier he could use as readily as he did his fine mind and quick wits.
George Carlow and his friends had faced the Revolution in France, the risk of uprising here, the justified fear of year upon year of bloody war. Close to the inner circles of government, they had existed in a hotbed of intrigue and spying, fighting not on the battlefield but amidst the familiar clubs and balls where the enemy did not wear a scarlet uniform but hid behind the facade of fashion and respectability. His father had plunged into that world of secrets and had lost his health, his peace of mind and his closest friends in the process.
Marcus folded his letter, tossed it to one side, got up and began to pace. That young woman. Miss Smith indeed. Was she an innocent tool of someone—her dark man—or was she involved in whatever mischief this man intended?
Instinct told him she was lying. Smith was not her name, and that was not the only falsehood. He could sense the tension in her as she answered him. And yet, he wanted to believe she was innocent of harm. That was presumably his masculine reaction to a remarkably fine pair of greenish hazel eyes, a glimpse of golden-brown hair and a voice that did provocative things at the base of his spine. Marcus frowned. He needed to listen to his brain for this, not other parts of his body.
She was too thin, he told himself. Even bundled up in that drab gown and shapeless pelisse he could tell that. He was not attracted to thin women. Marcus contemplated Mrs Jensen for a pleasurable moment. She was most definitely not thin, not where it mattered. And she would be waiting for their meeting; she had made that quite clear.
Dressmakers were not fair game for a gentleman, in any case. Miss Smith was a respectable young woman so far as chastity went, he would wager. The flare of anger and alarm in her eyes when he had stood toe to toe with her, that was surely not the reaction of a woman who would try to buy her way out of trouble with her body.
He got up and walked to the spot where they had stood so close, wondering if the faint scent of plain soap truly lingered in the air or if it was his imagination. Imagination, obviously. It was too long since he had given his last mistress her congé, tired of her petulance and constant demands. If the household was more settled, he could still go out tonight, conclude matters with the lovely Perdita. That would stop him thinking about Miss Smith.
Something pale clung to the folds of the sofa skirts. Marcus hunkered down to pick it up and found it was an inch of fine straw plait, a long thread dangling from it.
He pulled the bell rope. ‘Peters, ask Miss Price if it would be convenient for her to spare me a moment.’
His sisters’ companion came in promptly, bandbox neat, calm and collected as always. ‘Marcus?’ She smiled and took a seat as he resumed his. In private they had long since used first names, allies in maintaining order and decorum in the Carlow household.
‘What do you make of this, Diana?’ He passed her the fragment of plait and watched as she studied it.
‘It is a straw plait of course. Hat straw—it is too fine for anything else.’ She rubbed and flexed it between her fingers. ‘English, I would say. Very good quality and an unusual plait. I have never seen anything quite like it.’ She tugged the thread dangling from it and looked at him with intelligent eyes. ‘Our visitor of this morning is a milliner?’
‘She said she was a dressmaker, but it would not surprise me to know that was untrue.’
‘If she is working with expensive materials such as this, then she will be with one of the better establishments. Not necessarily of the very highest rank, but good.’
‘Could one narrow them down using that piece of plait?’
‘I should think so.’ Miss Price picked at it with her fingernail. ‘It is unusual enough to be the work of one plaiter, or perhaps from a village where this is a traditional pattern. I can give you a list of establishments to try.’
‘Thank you, I would be obliged. I would like to get my hands on that young woman.’ Diana’s fine eyebrows rose. ‘And drag her off to the magistrates,’ he added smoothly.
Within an hour Miss Price produced the promised list, by which time Peters had returned with Hawkins, the ex-Bow Street Runner that Marcus had found useful to employ in the past. He handed the man the piece of plait and the list. ‘I want to know which of these establishments uses this plait—without arousing suspicion.’
‘Aye, my lord. I’ll send in my daughters, they can say they are ladies’ maids, trying to track down an exclusive pattern for their mistress.’ He glanced down the list and bowed himself out. ‘I’ll be back by this time tomorrow.’
‘Who on earth is that man, Marcus?’ He looked up, startled to realize that he had been so deep in thought that he had not heard his mother come in.
‘Mama.’ He got to his feet as she settled on the sofa in a flurry of silk skirts and held out one immaculately manicured hand to the blaze. Despite the prospect of an evening at home and frequent visits to the sick room, Lady Narborough was exquisitely attired in teal-green silk and adorned with the Carlow opals. ‘An investigator. I wanted to track down the young woman who so upset Father this morning.’
‘I do not understand it.’ His mother turned her large dark eyes on him and he noticed with a pang the fine lines radiating from the corners. She was still a beauty, but no longer a young one, no longer so resilient. ‘What on earth was in that parcel that disturbed your father so much?’
‘A foolish practical joke. A cord. It appeared to be a snake. I assume Papa got up too suddenly and then, on top of that, was startled by what he thought was a reptile.’ Marcus shrugged negligently. If his mother knew the true nature of the rope, she would make the connection with the past, and he had no intention of worrying her with that if he could avoid it. ‘I imagine it will turn out to be one of Hal’s madcap friends playing a trick on me that misfired.’
As he intended, that was enough to turn his mother’s attention from the parcel to thoughts of her sons. ‘Your father is fretting,’ she said. ‘You know how he does when he is unwell. He wants to hold his grandchildren on his knee—and soon! It is too much to hope that Hal will oblige us. Every respectable young lady has been warned against him Seasons ago. You are the heir, Marcus. It is time you found yourself a wife and settled down, set up your nursery.’
It was a subject she returned to with increasing frequency these days. Perhaps it was natural, with an ailing husband, to seek comfort in thoughts of descendants, but he saw no possibility of satisfying her in the immediate future.
There were attractive women aplenty out there and many who caught his eye, but none of them were the kind a gentleman married. What he wanted, he knew, was maturity, intelligence and wit. Breeding went without saying, for he had his name to consider. Wealth was of lesser importance; he was in the fortunate position of not having to marry for money. As for looks—well, character was more desirable, although he did not imagine his chosen bride would be exactly muffin-faced.
But where to find her? ‘The Season is about to start, Mama. I’ll give it serious thought, I promise.’ Some young lady, fresh-faced, innocent, schooled by her mama to perfect deportment and without
