father shrugged. ‘Mathematics and codes were never my strength. But arrogant though he might be, and neglectful and inconsiderate of his wife as he most certainly was, he was our colleague, our friend. Wardale had no call to seduce Amanda.’
‘Perhaps she wanted comfort and he gave it to her,’ Marcus mused aloud, thinking of another woman entirely. ‘Was that enough motive for murder? One would have thought Hebden, the wronged man, would have struck the blow.’
‘If Wardale was the traitor, it could have been a motive,’ his father said slowly. ‘We both knew Kit was getting very close to cracking the intercepted coded letters. At least, that was what he would have us believe. And when he had done that, the man’s identity would be revealed.’ He held out the rosemary to the candle flame and it caught with a dry crackle, burning into scented ash. The earl brushed his fingers fastidiously. ‘We never found Kit’s notes or the letters after his death. The trail went cold and the spy ceased his activities.’
‘As you’d expect if he was in prison,’ Marcus commented.
‘Exactly. How could I defend Wardale? How could I not say what I had seen? He was my best friend—but he killed a man in front of me, he was apparently betraying his country. What should I have done?’
It was the old torment that had stolen his father’s peace of mind, his health; and it had never left him.
‘Nothing, in all honour,’ Marcus said, as he had said when he had first heard the story. And he believed it. ‘So. The silken rope a peer is hanged with, a sprig of rosemary from that last desperate fight. There is no doubt now that they refer to Hebden’s death, the search for the traitor and Wardale’s execution.’
‘But who is sending them—and why now?’ The earl ran his hands through his hair as though to force some answers into his head.
‘We’re back to Wardale’s son again, aren’t we? That’s the only way I can make any sense out of the timing—a child grows into a man, a long-held resentment festers into an obsession with revenge.’
‘And your Miss Latham is his accomplice? I find that hard to believe. She’s a delightful young woman.’
‘So was Lucrezia Borgia, by all accounts,’ Marcus remarked darkly. It was important not to let his guard down, not with his body telling him to trust her and his mind half inclined to follow it. ‘She’s hiding something, more than one thing, if I’m any judge.’
‘This wasn’t franked.’ The earl flipped over the folded sheet. ‘No postal marks on it at all.’
‘Hand delivered. It could have been her; we have rosemary growing all over the garden here. I’ll ask Watson about it.’
‘Marcus.’ He stopped, halfway to the door. ‘There is no need to let your mother know about this.’
‘Of course not, sir. Are you…all right?’
‘Yes, thank you. Better than I’ve felt for a long time, strangely.’ His father shook his head, a rare smile on his lips. ‘It’s like the old days, having someone to confide in, think with. I’m glad you’re here.’
Something twisted inside Marcus. ‘I’ve always been here, Father.’
‘I know, and I’ve leaned on you harder than I should have done. But this isn’t estate business, this is a mystery, danger. And, damn it, it is painful remembering, but do you know—I’m enjoying it.’
‘Good.’ Marcus swallowed, suddenly fearful that the sensation behind his eyes was tears. ‘Good,’ he said again, gruffly, and left while he was still in command of himself.
Nell closed the door into the flower room quietly behind her. She had managed to shake off her persistent footman escort by dint of joining Lady Narborough in her sitting room and had just completed an errand for her to the gardener to ensure there were more evergreens included with the hothouse flowers.
Now, there was nothing to stop her thinking about the sprig of rosemary that had so shaken Lord Narborough. What on earth had that been about? It made no sense. At least she understood the silken rope, for that was what a peer of the realm was hanged with. Although why someone was trying to terrorize the Carlows now with that reminder of her father’s death was a total mystery.
And what had possessed her to quote that foolish old saying when it should have been apparent from the men’s faces that something was very wrong? Something else that Marcus would blame her for, no doubt.
‘Watson?’
There he was. Nell drew back into the cover provided by a massive suit of armour as Marcus stopped the butler in the middle of the Great Hall.
‘My lord?’
‘This letter that came for his lordship this morning. Delivered by hand, I assume?’
‘Indeed, my lord. It was handed in at the kitchen door by young Francis, Potter’s son.’
‘The under gamekeeper? Find out who gave it to him, will you, Watson.’
‘I have already ascertained that, my lord. I do not appreciate post for the family arriving in such a manner. According to Andrewes, who took it from the lad, it was handed to young Potter with a small coin by a man early this morning.’
‘A stranger.’
‘Just so, my lord. Do you wish me to make further enquiries?’
‘If you would. A fuller description would be helpful.’ Nell took a cautious step backwards and then froze as Marcus continued. ‘Was Miss Latham about early on? Perhaps taking the air before breakfast?’
‘You think she may have seen the transaction, my lord?’ Being well trained, Nell thought bitterly, Watson did not ask the obvious question: why did Marcus not speak directly to her? ‘To the best of my knowledge Miss Latham did not leave her room between retiring last night and breakfast this morning, but I will enquire.’
She waited until the butler left, then, not giving herself time to think, stalked out from her hiding place. ‘Marcus!’
He turned on his heel to face her, a frown on his face as she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Do you never stop scowling?’
To her surprise, he laughed, transforming himself from a handsome, hard figure of authority into a charming, and much younger, man. ‘I have much to scowl about, Nell.’
‘Is your father ill again? That rosemary was another threat, was it not?’
‘It was. And, curiously, I believe he is invigorated by the puzzle.’
‘My lord.’ They turned as Watson advanced down the length of the hall. ‘I have spoken to young Potter myself; he was loitering in the kitchen. The man was unknown to him, but he assumed from his dress, speech and general demeanour that he was a groom. A short, wiry individual with brown hair, so the lad says.’
‘Thank you, Watson.’ Marcus put one hand under Nell’s elbow and steered her through the nearest door into a small panelled chamber. ‘Not your dark man, then.’
‘His agent perhaps?’ Nell perched on the edge of a great oak chest, her feet
