or ten. Blond child, big watchful eyes. Solemn little soul.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t suppose—’
‘Miss Latham is most definitely female.’ That earned an old-fashioned look from his father. ‘Blond, you say? Nathan Wardale’s not Nell’s dark man, then,’ Marcus added before the earl could pursue the question of why he was so certain of Nell’s gender.
‘Unless she’s trying to deceive you with a description that is the opposite of the truth,’ his father said, sitting up straighter. ‘Could she be his mistress, do you suppose?’
‘No!’ Marcus startled himself with the vehemence of his response, then tried to justify it. ‘She lives in cheap lodgings near Spitalfields church. Decent enough, but not the sort of situation to keep one’s mistress.’
‘And you would know,’ the older man said with an unexpected crack of laughter. ‘Come to an arrangement with Mrs Jensen yet? You’ve got good taste, I’ll give you that. Expensive ware, that one.’
‘Not yet, no, sir,’ Marcus responded, refusing to rise to the bait. How the devil his father knew about Perdita, let alone any details about her, escaped him. It never did to underestimate the earl.
‘So, what are you going to do about her?’
‘Mrs Jensen?’ he asked, playing for time.
‘No, this Miss Latham. ‘The earl turned his gaze on his son, wicked amusement lurking behind the intelligence. It was not often these days that Marcus was reminded where Honoria and Hal got their wildness from, but it was evident tonight. The strain might be bad for his father’s heart, but the puzzle and the excitement were good for his spirits and his brain. ‘Do you think she’ll try and kill off any of the rest of us?’
‘I doubt it. She is not that foolish,’ he said dryly. ‘She’ll stay here—if whoever is behind this sees we have his agent in our hands, that might provoke a reaction.’
‘And how do you intend to keep her here short of force? Your mother might have something to say about that.’
‘I have threatened Miss Latham with Bow Street and a charge of assault by shooting,’ Marcus explained, grinning back as his father’s face was transformed by an appreciative smile.
‘Very good. And what was her response?’
‘She said it was nonsense, but as she was ripping up her petticoats to bandage my wound, she was unable to develop the argument.’
‘Stopping you bleeding to death certainly weakens the case against her,’ the earl observed. ‘She could have fainted conveniently and left you to bleed.’ There was a tap at the door.
‘Dr Rowlands for Lord Stanegate, my lord.’
‘I’ll be with him directly.’ Marcus got to his feet and rested one hand on his father’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry yourself about this, sir. We’ll get to the bottom of it soon.’
‘Aye, and what are we going to find there?’ he heard the older man mutter as the door closed behind him.
Nell was beginning to feel as if she was involved in a fencing match against two opponents. Miss Price, impeccably polite, appeared to be analysing every word she said and finding it sadly wanting. Her half smile expressed more doubt than if she had been on her feet accusing Nell of shooting Lord Stanegate deliberately.
Beside her, Lady Honoria worried away at the certainty that she had seen Nell before.
‘A delightful bonnet, if I may say so,’ Miss Price observed.
‘Bonnet?’ Nell put up her hand, surprised to find it was still in place after the evening’s events. Lord Stanegate had pushed it off her head when he was kissing her and she vaguely recalled jamming it back as she gathered up his clothing before getting out of the carriage.
‘Yes. An interesting pattern of plait; I noticed it at once. Perhaps you are a milliner?’
‘I am, as it happens.’ Plait? So that was how he had located her. She was always finding small bits clinging to her skirts when she got home after work, however carefully she brushed. And from the smile that curved the companion’s mouth, she assumed she knew all about how Marcus had found her.
‘Oh, I remember!’ Lady Honoria announced triumphantly. ‘You are the person who delivered that parcel the other morning. The one that made Papa ill…’ Her voice trailed away as she realized the import of what she was saying. ‘And now Marc’s been shot and you—’
‘Miss Latham was merely the messenger. She is assisting me in finding out what is going on,’ a deep voice said from the doorway, silencing the young woman.
Nell turned sideways to stare. Marcus Carlow was, thank Heavens, dressed again—or at least, decently covered. His open shirt collar was visible between the wide lapels of a silk robe that was distorted on the left shoulder where he was bandaged, his arm in a sling. She felt the tension ebb out of her, then stiffened. What was she thinking of, to feel relief that he was here? Did he really mean he believed her about the parcel? Nell intercepted a satirical glance and decided that no, he was not convinced. ‘She will be staying here for a while,’ he added.
‘I do not think so, my lord. I have told you all I know.’
‘But, Miss Latham,’ he said, smiling as he came in and sat down in the wing chair at right angles to her, ‘someone shot me. You may well be in danger as a result. As we have already discussed.’
He meant his threat to accuse her of deliberate assault. ‘I think I will take my chances on that,’ she said, making herself hold his eyes directly for the first time since that kiss. It was a mistake.
Heat seemed to fill her; she could feel the blush colouring her cheeks. That broad chest under her palms, the sleek planes of his pectoral muscles, the utter assurance of his kiss, the taste of him still on her lips…Nell got a grip on herself before she licked her lips. Did he even recall that embrace? Or had he been in some sort of near-unconscious state?
The dark eyes looked back, bland and polite, and she realised she could not tell. ‘I found where you live with very little effort, Miss Latham,’ the viscount said. ‘Others could too.’ He waited, giving her time to think that over, but he had no need. The shivery image of knives that the thought of the dark man always conjured up was enough.
‘Perhaps a night or two, if Lady Narborough permits,’ she agreed, wondering why she felt she had surrendered far more than a few days of her life.
Chapter Five
‘My dear Carlow, Marcus!’ Marcus stood up as Lord Keddinton strolled into the library, the picture of dry, slender elegance from his raised eyebrows to the slim hand holding his cane. ‘What is this I hear about illness and injury?’ His sweeping gesture encompassed the earl’s footstool and stick and Marcus’s sling, his pale eyes bright with interest.
‘A practical joke gone awry and an encounter with a footpad,’ Marcus said easily. ‘This is a mere scratch.’ A night’s rest allowed him to carry off the painfully throbbing wound with tolerable ease this morning. ‘You will take a glass of wine, sir?’
‘Thank you. If you still have that admirable claret I may stay all morning. A footpad, you say?
