who was heading the Alien Office at that time, and John King, who was under secretary at the Home Office. Veryan was King’s junior confidential secretary in those days; he’ll know how to lay hands on things.’
‘I’ll write to him.’ Marcus got to his feet, restless, glad of something positive to do. He wanted action. If truth be told, he wanted violence. ‘And I will speak to the keepers.’
‘Leave the letter to me,’ his father said as he tugged at the bell pull.
‘Then I’ll take it to the receiving office.’ A ride was what he needed. A flat-out gallop. Something physical. His shoulder gave a protesting twinge as he closed the door. He ignored it.
Nell sat in the deep window seat in Honoria’s bedchamber, her eyes on the park sweeping away towards the river, less than half her attention on the Carlow sisters and Diana Price. Her headache had settled to a dull background thud and she had managed to persuade Lady Narborough that the lump did not require dressing.
Verity was bent over the desk, sucking the end of her pen, writing, so she informed her sister, to Rhys Morgan. ‘I haven’t heard from him for at least two months,’ she complained. ‘I hope he is all right.’
Honoria turned from her excavations in the clothes press. ‘Are you still in love with him, Verity? He won’t do, you know.’
‘No, I am not,’ Verity responded with dignity, somewhat spoiled by her indignant blush. ‘I grew out of that years ago. He’s another of Lord Keddinton’s godchildren,’ she explained to Nell. ‘I used to think I’d like to marry him—when I was little—because I thought he looked so handsome in his uniform, but now we’re just friends. I write to him.’
‘Verity writes to everyone,’ Honoria teased, emerging from the folds of a riding habit she had pulled over her head. She made a futile attempt to button it. ‘I simply cannot get into this habit any more. My bosom has grown.’
‘We could have it taken out,’ Diana remarked, turning back the bodice to study the seams.
‘I never liked the amber colour much.’ Honoria wriggled out of it and went in her petticoats to Nell’s side. ‘It would suit Nell though. Do you ride, Nell?’
‘Yes,’ she said, then realized that riding was hardly a common accomplishment for a milliner. ‘But not for more than ten years.’
‘Oh, one never forgets,’ Honoria said airily. ‘Do try this on and if it fits we can go riding later.’
It seemed easiest to do as she was asked. At least no one could expect her to make conversation while struggling into voluminous skirts and complicated bodices. ‘You need a habit shirt underneath,’ Diana said, extracting one from the pile.
What would Marcus say, seeing her masquerading as a lady on horseback? He would be less than happy, Nell decided sadly, if his cool demeanour that morning was anything to go by. She had woken to the lovely warm glow of being cared for, the tingle of excitement of his closeness, only to have that dashed by the wariness in his eyes, the chill in his voice. Indeed. Quite. The clipped syllables were like tiny slaps as she recalled them.
No doubt, in the cold light of day, he regretted the kindly impulse to take her in his arms and help her through the night. He probably expected her to make demands, have expectations. Or perhaps his suspicions had come back in the night; her explanation of what she was doing at Lord Narborough’s door must seem highly circumspect.
‘…if they fit you.’ Honoria was holding up a pair of boots. ‘I’ve just remembered them. I’ve had them years and I am sure your feet are smaller than mine are now.’
‘I’m sorry. I was wool-gathering.’ Nell pulled on the boots and stood there trying to smile at the image in the mirror. Even in the days when they were living in a modest rented villa, Mama had encouraged her children to ride, although the hired mounts became more and more elderly and sluggish as the money diminished. Now, seeing a Nell who had vanished more than ten years ago, she half expected Mama to appear and tweak her skirts into order, tut-tut over a split in her glove, warn her against jumping fences. ‘Thank you.’
She bent to pull the boots off again, when Miss Price remarked from the window, ‘It looks as though Lord Narborough and Lord Stanegate are riding. See, the groom is leading Corinth out.’
‘Wonderful, we can all go. I’ve finished my letters.’ Verity scrambled out of her chair and joined the companion to peer down at the drive below. She tugged the bell pull.
‘Lady Verity?’ The footman averted his gaze from the heap of feminine underthings on the bed.
‘Send to the stables and have Firefly and Sapphire and one of the hacks saddled up please, Trevor. We will be riding with Lord Narborough.’
‘His lordship is not riding, Lady Verity. I believe Lord Stanegate is going to the receiving office.’
‘Verity,’ Diana Price reminded her, ‘you and Honoria promised to help Lady Narborough with her sick-visiting in half an hour.’
‘Oh.’ Verity’s face fell. ‘So we did. Never mind, Nell, you can still go. You have Firefly, my mare. She’s very sweet. Tell the stables please, Trevor.’
‘I—’ Nell bit back her instinctive protest. A ride to the receiving office sounded mild enough. She could manage that, surely? And it would give her an opportunity to put Marcus right about any misconceptions he might be harbouring, even if it took a plain and embarrassing declaration that she might have been foolish enough to ask him to spend the night with her, but that did not mean she expected anything further as a consequence.
There had been that lovely glow last night when he had looked at her, treated her with such tenderness. She dreaded his response destroying that memory if he was hurtful today.
‘Hat!’ Honoria pursued her to the door, a rakish low-crowned hat in one hand, hat pin in the other. ‘And gloves and a whip.’
Nell made her way down to the stables, wondering if this was such a good idea. What if she could not remember how to ride after all? What if Marcus snubbed her completely?
‘Here we are, Miss Latham.’ It was Marcus’s groom, Havers, holding the head of a pretty bay mare. ‘His lordship left before Lady Verity’s message arrived, but he’s still in sight.’ And sure enough, walking sedately away down the long carriageway was Marcus on the raking grey hunter with a dark tail so long it brushed its fetlocks.
The groom made a cup with his hands for her foot and tossed her up into the saddle. ‘She’s got nice manners, miss, never you fear.’ Somehow Nell’s limbs seemed to remember what to do, her balance came back instinctively. ‘Just you trot along and you’ll soon catch him up,’ the man said, giving the mare a slap on the rump. ‘She’s a bit fresh,’ he called after her as Firefly trotted out of the stable yard under the clock tower arch. ‘But you won’t mind that.’
A bit fresh? She was certainly that. The mare had seen the gelding ahead of her and broke into a canter. Nell gripped the pommel firmly, resisted the temptation to hold onto the mane and told herself that a smooth canter was much more comfortable than a bouncy trot. I can do this, we’ve almost caught him…
Then the horse ahead of her reached the gates and instead of turning and trotting off down the lane, Marcus put him straight at a low hurdle in a gap in the hedge on the other side. The
