Deceiver

Deceiver Page 14

by Nicola Cornick

  "You went to cousin Marcus and he offered to marry you." The flawed logic of Isabella's partial explanation was not lost on her sister. She frowned. "Most people would ask for a loan, not matrimony, Bella. There was surely no need to go this far."

  "I suppose not." Isabella hesitated, unwilling to divulge the full story of the Fleet wedding. "I was intending to sue for an annulment as soon as I could repay Marcus." She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling out all the pins. She could feel a headache starting. "I was not thinking, Pen. I was des­perate to settle Ernest's debt."

  "I comprehend that," Pen said, patting her hand, "but even so it seems a harebrained plan."

  "It was. I acknowledge it." Isabella sighed. "And now it seems that annulments are extremely difficult to arrange. I had no notion I was getting myself into such a coil."

  "Annulments are fiendishly difficult to achieve," Pen agreed.

  "You see!" Isabella cast out a despairing hand. "Even you know it! Why did I not know?"

  "I have no notion. If I had realized that you were interested, I would have told you." Pen sighed. "What of Marcus? Does he wish for an annulment?"

  "No," Isabella said, blushing. "And without his agreement it is impossible."

  "Yes," Pen said, "I did think that he seemed set on con­summation rather than annulment when you met at the Duchess's ball."

  "Pen!"

  "Well?" Pen looked impatient. "It does not require the finest mind to see that he wants you in his bed. Did you not discuss this before you were married?"

  "We did not talk a great deal," Isabella admitted.

  "You should try it. It clarifies matters wonderfully."

  "Thank you for the advice. I shall bear it in mind."

  Pen smiled. "So where is Marcus? I must offer my congrat­ulations."

  "As I said, I have no notion." Isabella's shrug belied the coldness inside. No doubt Marcus would have read the piece in the paper by now and would be beating a path to her door. As would everyone else in the Ton. They would be anxious to get the scandalous news firsthand.

  "I do not suppose that he will be pleased to read that you married him for his money," Pen said. . .

  Isabella sighed. "Pen, you have a genius for stating the ob­vious."

  "There is no need to be sarcastic," Pen said virtuously. "Did you do it on purpose to annoy him?"

  "I fear so. He insisted on an announcement of the marriage so I decided to announce rather more than he was expecting."

  "What do you think that he will say?"

  "You may ask him yourself," Isabella said, with more com­posure than she was feeling. "I do believe I hear his voice now."

  There was a quick step in the hall outside and then Belton was sailing in.

  "The Earl of Stockhaven, Your Serene Highness." His tone was dark with disapproval for those members of society who had such bad Ton as to live apart and require introduction to their own spouse.

  "Good morning, my lord," Isabella said. "We were just speaking of you."

  Marcus looked at her through narrowed eyes. He had a copy of the Times in his hand, folded at the appropriate page, and he was tapping it impatiently against his palm. Isabella knew he was waiting for her to ask Pen to leave them. Instead v she deliberately picked up the piece of half-finished needle­work that lay on the sofa beside her and stitched delicately. She was no embroiderer and she never had been, but she found it useful to have a piece of work to hand. It reassured elderly ladies of the respectable nature of her household and it gave her something on which to concentrate when she wanted to avoid difficult situations. This was a prime example.

  Pen jumped up to kiss Marcus.

  "First a cousin and now a brother-in-law!" she said. "I am so pleased! I can borrow money from you now, Marcus!"

  Marcus's grim expression eased slightly as he smiled at her, but it hardened once more as he turned back to Isabella.

  "If I might have a word with you, my lady?"

  "Of course," Isabella said, head bent, stitching assiduously. "Pray proceed, my lord."

  Marcus again waited for her to ask Pen to leave them. Isabella was silent. After a few moments she said, "You seem strangely hesitant to speak, my lord."

  Marcus looked at Pen. Pen looked back at him, eyes a limpid blue. Marcus sighed. He crossed to the door and held it open with exaggerated courtesy.

  "If you would excuse us, cousin Penelope. . ."

  "Oh, of course!" Pen turned to Isabella. "I shall be in the library perusing Plato should you need me, Bella."

  "Thank you, Pen," Isabella said. She did not look up from her embroidery. There was no need to make matters easy for Marcus. Rather the contrary. .

  There was silence after Pen left. Isabella stitched quickly and unevenly. She hoped that Marcus could not see that her hands were trembling slightly.

  She jumped when he slapped the newspaper down on the arm of the chair beside her.

  "What is the meaning of this, madam?"

  Isabella set her jaw. "I do not understand, my lord."

  "Of course you do!" Marcus rested his hand on the arm of the sofa and leaned over her, wholly intimidating. "Married me for my money indeed! Was it necessary to tell the entire Ton?"

  Isabella stitched a little more quickly. If he leaned any closer, she would stick her needle in him.

  "It avoids misunderstanding, my lord," she said. "I always try to be truthful."

  Marcus gave her an angry glare. "I wish you to send a re­traction to the paper immediately. It is to be printed tomorrow."

  "If you wish, my lord."

  Isabella risked a quick look at his face. He looked furious, baffled and frustrated. How gratifying.

  "You will do it?" he said. There was a faint note of disbe­lief in his voice.

  "I have agreed," Isabella said composedly.

  There was a moment of stillness and then Marcus straight­ened up. "Very well. I also wish to know when you will be removing from here to Stockhaven House."

  Isabella snipped her thread carefully with her little silver embroidery scissors. "I will move to Stockhaven House when it is ready for me, my lord."

  Marcus looked puzzled. "Ready? Ready in what way?"

  Isabella raised her eyebrows. "Why, the house must be cleaned from top to bottom. All the chimneys must be swept. A staff must be engaged—"

  Marcus snorted. "You already have a staff, madam."

  "They may not wish to work for you," Isabella pointed out sweetly. "And of course the house must be provisioned—"

  "Balderdash!"

  "And finally there is my carriage—"

  "A carriage!"

  Isabella looked at him. "Of course, my lord. What will people say when they see your wife traveling by hack?"

  Marcus opened his mouth and closed it again.

  "You wished for a list of all my social engagements, my lord," Isabella continued. She rang the bell. "Belton, kindly pass Lord Stockhaven the list on the bureau."

  Marcus glanced at the piece of paper Belton handed him. He turned it over. His brows snapped down.

  "This is blank."

  Isabella smiled. "Alas, I have no appointments, but if I am fortunate enough to be invited anywhere, my lord, I shall be sure to consult you."

  Marcus was now looking frankly disbelieving. "This is ridiculous."

  "I do so agree, my lord," Isabella said. "However, it was your wish that we should do things like this."

  "I mean it is ridiculous that you tell me you do not have any social engagements, madam. Do you expect me to believe that? You must think me simple."

  There was a loaded silence while Isabella looked at Marcus with brows raised slightly. "Simple is not the word I would use," she said.

  Marcus frowned blackly. "So tell me—"

  "What?"

  Marcus flung himself down into a chair. "Tell me what you will be doing today."

  Isabella sighed. "Well, after you have gone, I may go to Bond Street with Penelope." She saw his look of accusation and add
ed smoothly, "I shall not be buying anything, of course, for that would necessitate asking you for money. But one may window-shop. It is not a social engagement, however, since Pen may well be immersed in Plato for the rest of the day. She is very unpredictable in that sense."

  "And tonight?" Marcus pressed. "The theater? A dinner?"

  Isabella shook her head. "A quiet evening at home."

  "Guests? Visitors?"

  "I prefer not," Isabella said. "A good book is all I require."

  "Good God, madam," Marcus exclaimed, "you lead the life of a nun!"

  "I have been trying to tell you so," Isabella agreed. "Un­fortunately you do not believe it." She paused. "You may join me if you wish, but I cannot promise it will be very exciting."

  "I have an appointment tonight," Marcus said.

  Isabella felt a chill. Of course he did. Just because she was sitting blamelessly at home there was no reason to suppose he would be, too.

  The satisfaction she had gained from thwarting him over the newspaper announcement vanished abruptly. She realized with a little jerk of the heart that, wrapped up in their mutual animosity and equally mutual painful attraction, she had given no thought to where Marcus spent his nights. She was too ex­perienced to think that just because he wanted her, he would not take his pleasure elsewhere. Perhaps he already had a mistress. She felt as though there were a crack in her heart.

  "Of course," she said, clearing her throat to cover the vul­nerable quiver in her voice. "Then I wish you a pleasant day."

  Marcus stood up. "When I wish you to accompany me to social events I shall give you a day's notice."

  "I see." Isabella did see. Tonight, whatever the event was, he did not require her presence at his side.

  "You will write the retraction for the Times?" Marcus added, as though he still did not quite believe her.

  "Of course," Isabella said politely.

  Marcus hesitated. "Very well, then. Good day, my lady."

  Isabella did not move for a moment. She listened as he went out and heard him calling a cheerful word of thanks to Belton. She felt cold and stiff despite the warmth of the day. And she felt oddly empty. What she had planned—what she had wanted—was to be preparing to move to Salterton by now. The social whirl of London held no attractions for her. She had spent twelve years living in a royal fishbowl and now she wanted some peace.

  But that was not how matters had turned out. She was trapped in Town because her husband required it, but her days were empty. She was supposed to seek his permission for any activity she wished to indulge in and, since he held the purse strings, her options were severely curtailed. She was begin­ning to see that this might be how Marcus intended to punish her for what he saw as her past misdemeanors.

  She stood up abruptly, spilling the needlework on the floor and leaving it there. She crossed to her escritoire. First there was the newspaper retraction to write. Then she needed to take some time to think. She had to plan very carefully, for she had no intention of letting Marcus dictate her life.

  She sat down and selected a quill. Drawing the paper toward her, she started to write: The Princess Isabella Di Cassilis would like it made clear that she did not marry the Earl of Stockhaven for his money. There. That was a retrac­tion. She paused, chewing the tip of the quill. 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. . . .

  She finished the paragraph, dusted it down, and reread it with a certain satisfaction. If that did not make Marcus incan­descent with rage she would be extremely surprised. Well, he had asked for a retraction. . .but he had not said that she should not mention anything else in her statement.

  "Check," she said aloud. "And you had best beware, my lord, for next time it will be mate."

  The copy of the Times was still lying on the sofa where Marcus had discarded it. Isabella picked it up absentmindedly, then her gaze sharpened on an article on the front page.

  Return to London of the American ambassador and his wife. . .

  She sat down slowly, still reading. When she reached the end of the article, a smile spread across her face. She had not looked for such good fortune. Since returning to England and discovering Ernest's debts, all the breaks had appeared to be against her. But now her luck had turned. She crossed once again to the escritoire, chose her best writing paper and dipped her quill in the ink.

  Marcus's companion that night was tall, dark and had a re­markably bushy beard. When Marcus arrived at the Golden Key Inn, Townsend, the Bow Street runner, was already seated in a quiet corner, puffing on a clay pipe that added to the general fug of the room. When he saw Marcus, he made to stand, but Marcus put a hand on his shoulder again to hold him in his seat. He did not want to be conspicuous.

  "Good evening, sir," Townsend said. "Pint of ale?"

  Marcus acquiesced. He had drunk far worse things when he was in the navy. He looked around. The bar, with its low ceiling and black beams was noisy and hot but no one was paying them particular attention.

  "You have some news for me?"

  "Aye, sir, I do." The runner drew thoughtfully on his clay pipe.

  Marcus sat forward. "About Warwick?"

  Townsend viewed him with his mild blue eyes. "No, sir. There's not a criminal in London would talk about Warwick. My news is about the lad you were looking for—Channing, wasn't it?"

  Marcus nodded. Throughout his search for Warwick, Edward Channing had seldom been far from his mind. He re­membered the boy's delirium and the mixture of fear and respect in his tone when he had spoken of Warwick. He re­membered the grief-stricken silence of Edward's parents. He had hoped against hope that one day he would be able to give them good news.

  He realized that Townsend was watching him and there was a shade of pity in his eyes. "A relative of yours was he, sir?' the runner asked now.

  "The son of one of my tenants," Marcus said. He focused abruptly. "You said was?"

  Townsend nodded slowly. "Died in the poorhouse," he said simply. "In Shoreditch."

  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.

 

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