Deceived Page 15

  Marcus felt a huge regret, followed by a shock of anger.

  “Died—of what?”

  “Fever, they said. He was left there a few weeks ago.” Townsend cleared his throat. “Fellow who brought him in had found him on the street. He was already sickly, in a very bad way, so I’m told. Never recovered enough to tell them more than his name and his age, and that he was from the country. I think it was the lad you’re looking for, sir. I found his name when I was going through the burial records. The details match.”

  Marcus nodded. He did not doubt it. He thought of John and Mary Channing again. All hope had been extinguished for them now. He thought of Warwick, who would use a child and discard him on the street when he became sick and useless. He felt a cold fury. Townsend was still talking.

  “Might I be so bold as to inquire into your plans now, sir?”

  Marcus drained his tankard. “I go to Salterton. The boy’s parents must be told. And I think it is the only way to find Warwick. No one here will give him away but I have something that he wants. Sooner or later he will come for it.”

  The runner puffed slowly on his pipe. “You might be right at that, sir. Any ideas what it is that you have of his?”

  “I am without a clue,” Marcus said with a rueful smile.

  “Ah, well.” The runner lumbered to his feet. “I’ll tell Sir Walter the latest. He’ll be glad to know you are on the case. We’ll catch the bastard sooner or later.” He gestured to the empty glasses. “Your shout, is it, sir?”

  Marcus laughed. “Of course. Thank you for your help, Townsend. Can I press you to another?”

  The runner shook his head, pulling his waistcoat down over his rotund belly. “Got a home to go to, sir. You, too, most likely. I’ll say good night.”

  He disappeared through the fug of smoke and the crowd closed behind him. Marcus was left alone amid the bustle and noise of the public house. It was an odd feeling to be in so crowded a place and yet to be so alone. He did have a home to go to, of course, though he doubted that it would be as welcoming as Townsend’s. It was more of a house than a home. He had employed only a skeleton staff the week past, knowing that there were Isabella’s servants to be accommodated and also that he might be traveling to Salterton soon as well. Stockhaven House would be dark and quiet and somehow cold. It was not an encouraging thought.

  He paid handsomely for the drinks and went out into the night followed by the grateful landlord’s blessing. The air was thick and humid. He did not like these hot nights. The fresh heat of summer was delightful but in the city the sultry air could press down with stifling power. He thought of the slums where disease flourished and children like Edward Channing died alone and unlamented. His fury and hatred of Warwick simmered unabated.

  Even though it was hot, he chose to walk home rather than take a hack. The journey was without incident, but as he turned into Mayfair he caught a glimpse of a woman hurrying around the corner. She was cloaked, little more than a flying shadow in the dark. And yet there was something about the way she moved that seemed instantly familiar…. He took an impulsive step forward.

  “Isabella!”

  The woman did not turn. Marcus was left in the lamplight with a watchman looking at him curiously. He felt rather foolish. Isabella had told him that she was at home that evening, and even were she not, she would hardly be walking alone in Mayfair. The simple fact was that she was beginning to haunt his thoughts. He fancied he saw her in every woman he met. Even when he was thinking of something else, her presence filled his mind.

  Without realizing what he was doing, he turned into Brunswick Avenue and from there into Brunswick Gardens. The lights were still burning at the house. It was not very late. He told himself that it was a perfectly acceptable hour to make a social call. Especially on his wife.

  He rang the bell.

  Belton did not look impressed to see him. His lugubrious face lengthened.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  “Good evening, Belton.” Marcus stepped inside, glancing around the hall for any sign of Isabella. He was aware of feeling a curious tension. “Is Lady Stockhaven at home?”

  “Her Serene Highness,” Belton said with emphasis, “has retired for the night, my lord.”

  A suspicion was growing in Marcus’s mind; a suspicion that Isabella, far from retiring, was out on the town and that her servants were covering up for her. He had known it could not possibly be true that she had no social engagements. No doubt she was at some risqué dinner with Carew and Lonsdale dancing attendance.

  “I would like to see her,” he said.

  Belton’s mouth turned down at the corners. He was standing foursquare in front of the staircase, as though he was physically forbidding Marcus to proceed.

  “I regret that Her Serene Highness gave no instructions for you to be admitted, my lord,” he said.

  “I am her husband,” Marcus pointed out.

  “That is so, sir,” Belton agreed with unruffled calm. Still he did not move.

  Marcus looked at Belton and Belton looked back at him, unflinching.

  “Belton? Who is calling at this ungodly hour? I am trying to sleep!”

  Marcus looked up abruptly.

  Isabella was standing at the head of the stairs. She had a pale blue robe on and her hair was loose, tumbling about her face and down her back. Her feet were bare. It was quite obvious that she had been in bed. Marcus’s heart lurched. He realized that he had not seen her like that since she was seventeen.

  Isabella did not come down. She stood on the top step, one hand resting on the banister, and looked down at him. The height of the stair, its curving elegance, seemed to give her an air of untouchable authority.

  Marcus looked pointedly at Belton, who in turn gazed blankly into the middle distance.

  “Excuse me, Belton. I would like to talk to my wife.” Marcus could barely keep the impatience from his voice.

  Belton turned. “The Earl of Stockhaven would like to speak with you, Your Serene Highness.”

  There was a pause. “Then let him come up, Belton,” Isabella said.

  Marcus took the stairs two at a time and reached Isabella’s side in mere seconds.

  “You were in bed,” he said slowly. He reached out and touched her cheek. Her skin was warm and soft beneath his fingers. Because he touched her so seldom, and wanted to touch her all the time, it felt like an intolerable temptation. He wanted to tangle his hands in her unbound hair and feel its silkiness between his fingers; that autumn hair, vivid with red and brown and gold. He saw her lashes flicker. She swallowed. Although she was unmoving beneath his touch, he sensed the same ache of longing in her blood that was in him. Her eyes were a deep blue, slumberous with a desire she could not conceal.

  “It is past eleven,” she said, and her tone was even although he could see the pulse beating frantically in her throat. “What did you wish to talk about, my lord?”

  Marcus’s mind was blank. Talking was not at the top of his priorities.

  “I—” He could not begin to remember why he had come here in the first place. His hand slipped to the smooth skin of her neck, stroking down to the hollow at the base of her throat. Her fingers clenched on the robe, holding it closer to her chest.

  “I wanted to see you,” he said.

  She looked at him briefly and then away. “I thought that you were engaged tonight?” Her tone was a little husky.

  “I was. My business is concluded.”

  His hand was on the nape of her neck now. It’s curve felt so warm and vulnerable beneath his fingers. Her hair, loose about her shoulders, brushed his sleeve. He continued to stroke her skin softly, almost absentmindedly, his gentle touch a fierce contradiction to the desire raging within him. Her mouth was so close to his. It would take very little to kiss her—as he had wanted to do since that last, incendiary embrace in the Fleet.

  “I thought I saw you,” he said. “Whilst I was out this evening…”

  It was barely intelligible but
Isabella understood enough. The light faded from her eyes and she stepped back from his touch.

  “I see.” Her tone was dull. “You thought you saw me, despite the fact that I had told you I should be at home. So you came to check if I had lied to you.”

  “No!” Marcus’s objection was instinctive, even as he realized that she was in fact correct. He felt suddenly cold, as though something were slipping from him before he had truly grasped it. He fell silent, a silence that condemned him aloud.

  “Well,” Isabella said after a moment, “you can see that I was at home in bed. Alone. Which is where I should like to return now that you have satisfied your doubts. Belton will show you out.”

  Marcus hesitated. He wanted to explain that it had not simply been that he had doubted her. He had wanted to see her. He thought about her all the time. He was beginning to see that he needed her. But she had turned from him now without another word. Belton was already holding the door for him. And nothing but the hot night beckoned.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “WHAT THEDEVIL…”

  “Your conversation lacks variety these days, old fellow,” Alistair Cantrell complained, putting down the papers he had been reading. “Whatever can be the matter now?”

  Marcus looked up from the morning copy of the Times. Once again they were in the reading room at White’s, Alistair working on the column he wrote for the papers and Marcus reading the early-morning copies of the news. There had been a peaceful silence between them until Marcus’s explosion of wrath. Now he read aloud:

  “‘The Princess Isabella Di Cassilis would like it made clear that she did not marry the Earl of Stockhaven for his money. Indeed, the princess would like to point out that it is the earl who is the fortune hunter, since through the match he has gained possession of Salterton Hall in Dorset, a property that he has long desired. First the earl married Miss India Southern, who at the time was heiress to the Salterton estate. Now he has married her cousin to make certain of the property—’” Marcus slapped the paper down in an explosive gesture. “Damnation! I cannot believe she has done this!”

  He looked up to see Alistair trying to smother a smile. “What is the matter with you?” he demanded ungraciously. “It is not amusing!”

  “Yes it is, old chap,” Alistair said amiably. “Did you not ask the princess to send in a retraction?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And has she not done what you asked of her?”

  “Technically, but she knew that this was not what I meant!” Marcus crumpled the paper furiously in his hand. “Devil take it, I am starting to believe that she married me just to plague me!”

  “Whereas she,” Alistair said pointedly, “knows that that is the reason you married her. Revenge can work two ways, Marcus, and I hesitate to mention that you were the one who started this.”

  Marcus grunted. He knew Alistair was right, although he did not wish to admit it. He had provoked Isabella with his high-handed behavior and she had responded by challenging him every step of the way. There were plenty who would say that he had only himself to blame.

  “You should see the Gentlemen’s Athenian Mercury,” Alistair said, picking up his work again. “They have printed a far more scurrilous story.”

  Marcus grabbed the other paper. “What? Where?” He rummaged through the pages, almost tearing them in his haste.

  “The Society column,” Alistair said.

  Marcus finally found the right page.

  “‘Hot on the heels of the startling news of a certain princess’s less than flattering opinion of English lovers comes the even more extraordinary news that she has taken one of these gentlemen to her heart. We are assured on the highest authority, that of the august newspaper, the Times, that a marriage has been contracted between Her Serene Highness and the Earl of S. We await with bated breath the new countess’s opinion on the amatory capabilities of her husband. Given the lady’s outspokenness we feel it will not be long before the whole of London is aware of her judgment on the subject….’”

  Marcus gritted his teeth. “Hell and the devil! Do you think that Isabella wrote that, too?”

  “I doubt it,” Alistair said calmly. “Have you not noticed that someone is selling stories about your wife to the papers, Marcus? The Mercury has been printing them for ten days or more.”

  “I never read this rag,” Marcus said, tossing the Mercury aside. “It is full of nothing but scandal and slander.”

  “Steady on.” Alistair looked offended. “I write for the Mercury myself. What about my advice column for young gentlemen?”

  In reply, Marcus twitched the paper from his friend’s hand.

  “‘Gentlemen, I pray that you will help me,’” he read aloud. “‘My father is determined that I should marry a very old widow woman of thirty with a fortune of two hundred pounds a year and an inclination for young men and gambling. I cannot bear to make such a match. Pray assist me with your advice.’”

  Alistair looked at him. “What would you tell the young gentleman to do, Marcus?”

  “I would tell him to obey his father and cease writing ridiculous letters to newspaper columnists,” Marcus said, putting his feet up on the table and passing the letter back to his friend.

  “Hmm.” Alistair bit the end of his pencil. “I do not believe you have the sympathetic nature required to advise the young, Marcus.”

  “Of course not,” Marcus said. “I do not have the patience. Why does the father not marry the woman himself, if he is so anxious to attach her fortune?”

  “I expect that the lady is more enthusiastic for a young bed-fellow than an older one,” Alistair said with a grin. “And who could blame her?”

  Marcus shifted in his chair. He had little sympathy for the sexual frustrations of others that morning, being too preoccupied with his own.

  “I cannot conceive why you bother dishing out advice to importunate young men,” he said.

  “Because, my friend,” Alistair said, without rancor, “I am not as rich as you. I can make a tolerable if not excessive living from my writing and occasionally the letters from youths are interspersed with something more interesting.”

  “Since you write for the same paper,” Marcus said, struck by an idea, “you may be able to identify the mysterious gossip who writes about Isabella.”

  “I might,” Alistair said. He smiled slightly. “I already have my suspicions.”

  “You do?” Marcus stared at him.

  “Leave it with me,” Alistair said.

  “Very well.” Marcus stood up and stretched. “In the meantime I shall deal with my errant wife.”

  “Are you going to attempt to persuade her to print yet another retraction?”

  “No,” Marcus said. “Clearly that did not work.”

  “Clearly.”

  “So I shall have to do something else.”

  “Any ideas?” Alistair inquired.

  “Something will come to me,” Marcus said.

  Alistair looked at him over the top of his reading glasses. “You do realize, Marcus, that if you push Princess Isabella hard enough, she may well tell everyone that she married you in the Fleet—where you were masquerading as a debtor? If that story came out, you would have even less chance of finding Warwick.”

  Marcus’s expression hardened. “Isabella and I have an agreement that if she speaks on that, I will tell everyone that she married a debtor to save her own skin.”

  “I have said before that your marriage is outrageously romantic,” Alistair said. “I did not know the half of it!” He sighed. “Take heed of one who makes a living from giving advice, and do not try to tell Princess Isabella what to do. I have noticed that it has a detrimental effect on the feminine sex.”

  Marcus scowled. “India was always very biddable.”

  Alistair swiftly turned a snort into a cough. “Well, you know best, old man. I have never had the pleasure of being married, of course, so what do I know? I wish you the best of luck.”

  But as M
arcus stalked out of the room, Alistair was shaking his head ruefully and mentally placing a very large bet on Princess Isabella emerging the victor in this particular contest.

  I require you to accompany me to a dinner this evening with Mr. and Mrs. Henry Belsyre. I regret the short notice. Please dress appropriately. Stockhaven.

  ISABELLA WAS DRUMMING her fingers on the black-and-white checkered top of the games table. Ernest had used it for cards but at one time it had had matching black and white marble chess pieces as well. Ernest had sold the set years before because chess was not a game he could gamble on.

  Isabella, on the other hand, had always enjoyed chess. It was a game of skill and strategy. An old Austrian general she once played against had told her that she would have made a brilliant soldier, for she had a tactician’s mind. And now her strategy was working out rather well.

  Her eye fell on Marcus’s note again. That was all there was. He had made no mention of the piece in the Times but no doubt this was his peremptory response, to curb the rein and remind her that she was his to command. Tonight he was demanding her presence at his side. She was expected to jump when he called.

  The one thing Marcus had not banked upon, of course, was that she already knew Mr. and Mrs. Belsyre rather well. During the course of a long career in the diplomatic service, the American ambassador and his wife had been posted to Sweden while Isabella was also living there. They had become the greatest of friends. So much so, in fact, that when Isabella had written hastily the previous day to welcome them back to London and invite herself and Marcus to dinner, they had not minded expanding their impressive guest list to include the Earl and Countess of Stockhaven.

  Marcus was not to know that, of course. Isabella had asked Mrs. Belsyre to address the invitation to her husband and to make no mention of the fact that they were previously acquainted.

  She smiled. This was one order Marcus had issued that would be her pleasure to comply with. And with any luck, it would also be the last.

  MATTERS WENT AWRY FOR MARCUS at a very early stage that evening. When he arrived in Brunswick Gardens to collect his wife, he found her swathed from head to foot in a black cloak and so was quite unable to tell whether she had dressed appropriately for the dinner or not. He was not in the mood to take any risks, however. He did not trust her not to have chosen some outrageous outfit simply to embarrass him.