still had to descend to their normal level.
‘No wonder you’ve abandoned the field and surrendered the delicious Mrs Jensen to Armside,’ he added, when the tale was finally told.
‘What? Damn it, I was on the point of settling with her.’
‘I know. The clubs are full of it and Armside is smug beyond bearing. Mind you, having seen the delicious Miss Latham—’ He broke off as Marcus’s fist clenched involuntarily. ‘No?’
‘No,’ Marcus said with emphasis. ‘Miss Latham is gently born but has fallen on hard times since the loss of her family and is now employed as a milliner. She is mixed up in this because, as I told you, our mystery man used her as a messenger.’
‘That’s not all, is it?’ Hal began to strip off the rest of his clothing.
‘No. She knows more than she’s saying, but I can’t believe—Hell’s teeth, that looks sore!’ A raw scar cut a jagged path down Hal’s ribs. In the centre, there was still a dressing and the skin looked heated and slightly swollen.
‘You might say so.’ Hal squinted down at himself. ‘The cut wasn’t deep—more of a slice—but it took all sorts of rubbish in under the skin and by the time I got some medical attention it was a proper mess. Healing now, though.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Marcus splashed warm water into the washbasin for him and propped his shoulder against the bedpost while Hal took the rest of his clothes off and began to wash. ‘Another dashing scar to fascinate the ladies?’
‘Well, not exactly ladies.‘ Hal grinned, comfortable in his nakedness. ‘You were saying about Miss Latham?’
‘That she might be hiding something and she might be a milliner now, but she has enough on her plate without you setting out to break her heart.’
‘Me?’ Hal managed a look of utterly unconvincing innocence as he pulled on his evening breeches. ‘What you mean is, you were enjoying a pleasant flirtation when along I come, with my superior charm and elegant profile, and now you’re getting all protective.’
‘As yet the French have not managed to flatten your elegant profile, little brother, but believe me, if you compromise Miss Latham I will do it for them.’ He managed to smile as though the threat was a joke.
‘Compromise her? Certainly not.’ Hal tucked in his shirt. ‘Pass me a clean neckcloth, will you? But I’ll enjoy cutting you out.’
Marcus contemplated retorting that his brother could try, then saw the trap. The worst thing would be to offer Hal a challenge, it was the equivalent of releasing a mouse in front of a cat. He shrugged negligently. ‘Stop mangling that neckcloth. I need to change too.’
‘I’m ready.’ Hal tugged at his cuffs and followed Marcus out. ‘So what, exactly, are we doing to solve this mystery, or does the family skulk out here for ever?’
‘We can’t do that,’ Marcus said when they were alone in his room. ‘The girls and Mama don’t know what is going on. They expect to be back in London for the Season. If it were you and me and Father we could lure him in, but I daren’t send the women away either, not without me.’
He tossed his shirt on the bed as Hal came and turned him by the shoulders into the light. ‘So this is the famous gunshot wound from the footpad?’ He lifted the edge of the dressing and drew a sharp breath. ‘Nasty. But small calibre. One might almost say a lady’s pistol.’
‘One might, if one did not care about the consequences to the lady.’
‘Ah.’ Hal nodded appreciatively. ‘What was she aiming at? Your head? Or your manhood?’
‘Nothing at all, apparently. According to this hypothetical lady, she had no idea it was loaded.’
Hal adjusted the dressing again. ‘Made a tidy mess of your shoulder. Hurt like hell, I should imagine.’
‘It stung a trifle,’ Marcus admitted with what he felt was commendable understatement. ‘I was bleeding like a stuck pig. Miss Latham was remarkably effective in dealing with that.’
‘Perhaps I can help her improve her aim,’ Hal remarked as Marcus washed. ‘It would be amusing to take her down to the Long Barn, assist her with getting a grip on a pistol.’
Marcus grabbed the soap so hard it shot from his hand into the basin. For a moment, the room vanished behind a red haze.
‘Miss Latham is…fragile as far as men are concerned,’ he said when he could master his voice. ‘She has had much to fear from them and a very recent encounter with one who was not—’ he searched for the word ‘—wise.’
Whether his brother guessed he was in the same room as the unwise man in question, he neither knew nor particularly cared. Hal could rag him all he liked, provided he left Nell’s feelings unruffled and her heart intact.
Dinner passed uneventfully, with everyone focused on Hal. Nell retired into her shell, while the family bombarded Hal with questions and nagged him into eating more. With his own worries over his brother’s health at rest, Marcus was left to watch Nell covertly and to wonder just why he was feeling so strangely unsettled. After all, he had a plan for dealing with her.
Lady Narborough refused to allow her menfolk to linger over their port, insisting that they had plenty of time to swap bloodcurdling tales of the battlefield later. So Hal was ensconced in the place of honour by the fire and fussed over, while Nell went quietly back to ponder the chess game she and his father were playing very slowly over several evenings. The earl, who seemed to enjoy teaching her, did not press her for a move, but sat back in his chair watching his younger son with an occasional smiling glance at Nell.
Marcus got up and sat beside her. ‘That pawn?’ he suggested, pointing. He had no idea whether it was a good move or not; his attention had been entirely on her face, not the board.
‘Really?’ She looked up at him, puzzled. It was obviously a foolish suggestion. ‘But I am playing the red pieces.’
A very foolish suggestion. ‘Of course, I was not thinking. You are not chilled after our drive this morning?’
‘And my walk?’ Nell met his eye with tolerable composure. ‘Yes, I deserve to catch a cold with such foolishness, do I not?’
‘It was my fault entirely,’ he said. ‘I am sorry.’
‘You did not force me to get down from the carriage,’ she pointed out, her voice low. ‘What followed was just as much my responsibility.’
‘I was tactless,’ Marcus persisted, determined to apologise comprehensively while he was at it. ‘Afterwards.’
‘True.’ Nell turned back to her contemplation of the board. ‘And I was provoking.’ She sent him a slanting glance from under her lashes, an utterly feminine trick to gauge his mood. Marcus felt his lips twitch, just a fraction.
‘Very true,’ he agreed, and she smiled, a small, secret smile that did the strangest things to his breathing. What the devil was the matter with him?
Her fingers poised over the chessboard, she hesitated, then moved a bishop. Across the table, Lord Narborough
