Deceived

by Nicola Cornick

  “They are very trusting,” Isabella said. “Anyone might have made that claim. Are they to usher them all into my chamber?”

  “I imagine that they did not think I would lie to a man of God,” Marcus said virtuously, pulling his shirt over his head.

  “Pshaw!” Isabella pulled the covers tighter. “The room is scarcely big enough for one, let alone two,” she said. The thought of sharing so enclosed a space with Marcus made her throat close with nervousness. “You will have to sleep in the carriage.”

  Marcus grinned. The candlelight slid over the firm contours of his chest and shoulders turning his skin to bronze. Isabella knew she was staring. She could not seem to help herself.

  “Have a heart, Isabella,” Marcus said. “I am worn out with riding and it would be damned uncomfortable. There is nowhere else to go. All the inns are full since it is the Festival of St. Columba.”

  “I do not care if it is Christmas!” Isabella argued, thoroughly rattled now. “You cannot stay here!”

  Marcus put out a hand and touched her cheek. It was a thoroughly disarming gesture. Isabella blinked, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

  “You look like a shy schoolgirl,” he said. “I had no notion that you would be so nervous of me.” The amusement fled his voice. “I did hear what you said, Isabella. You have no need to be afraid of me.”

  “I am not,” Isabella argued valiantly. “But this bed is tiny.”

  “We may sleep in each other’s arms. That saves space.” Marcus spoke reasonably and without emotion. Isabella gulped. She had never slept in a man’s arms. Last night Marcus had held her close but she had been too upset to relax into his warmth. Now she could feel the temptation curl within her. To be held and comforted and not to be afraid…

  Marcus bent again to pull off his boots as though the decision was made. Isabella watched him disrobe in the candlelight, feeling mightily relieved and equally mightily disappointed that he did not remove his breeches. She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes, tensing as Marcus slid into the narrow space beside her. She tried to move as far away as possible from him, which was not very far given the confines of the bed. Rolling over, she almost fell out and was only saved by Marcus grabbing a fold of her voluminous nightgown.

  “Did you ask one of the monks to lend you a habit in which to sleep?” Marcus inquired. “You need have no fears of ravishment, Isabella. I doubt I could find you in there even if I had not given you my word.”

  Isabella could feel him, even through all the layers of material. It made her feel oddly tense.

  “Relax. You are like a trap about to spring,” Marcus said.

  “I have never—”

  “What?”

  “Never slept in a man’s arms before,” Isabella said in a rush.

  “But what about Ernest?”

  “We had separate palaces, let alone bedrooms.”

  Marcus laughed. “How very extravagant. But surely he must have stayed with you sometimes?”

  “Only if he was too drunk to get out of bed,” Isabella said truthfully, “and then I would be the one to leave with all despatch.”

  The memories of her previous marriage were making her feel anxious again. She had been trapped; forced into a role that had bent her out of shape. She could not permit that to happen again.

  She sat up against the bolster and drew her knees up to her chin.

  “Must you do that?” Marcus inquired. “You have pulled all the covers off me.”

  With a sigh, Isabella slipped beneath the sheets again.

  “Your married life is full of surprises for me,” Marcus said. He slid an arm about her and drew her head down to rest against his shoulder. “There now.” He sounded as though he were talking to a child. “Relax.”

  It was amazingly comfortable. Isabella breathed in the scent of his skin and found herself nuzzling closer. His throat was warm and strong against her lips and she could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. From outside in the street came the sound of voices and the chink of harness, but for a little while, she was wrapped in peace.

  “Bella?” Marcus’s voice was sleepy. “Was it very important for you to claim Salterton Hall?”

  Isabella sighed. “Yes.”

  “Because by rights it belongs to you?”

  It was frightening how well he understood her.

  “Because it did belong to me before I was foolish enough to give it to you through this hasty marriage.” Isabella shifted slightly. She thought again of Ernest, and tried to explain. “I consider myself to be Isabella Standish as well as the Countess of Stockhaven, Marcus. I do not wish all that is me and mine to be subsumed into someone else’s personality.”

  “Is that what happened before?”

  “Yes.” Isabella thought of Ernest and the pattern-card princess that he had required.

  “I am not sure,” Marcus said slowly, “that I would wish you to be like that.”

  “Most men would,” Isabella said.

  “Then,” Marcus said, “perhaps I am not like most men.”

  That was undoubtedly true. Isabella smiled a little wryly. “Perhaps you are not, Marcus.” She rubbed her cheek softly against his shoulder. She knew she should not but it was there and it was tempting and just for once….

  “Go to sleep.” Marcus kissed her hair.

  Isabella could feel herself already beginning to drift in a warm cocoon of contentment. The real danger, she recognized, came not from any physical intimacy with Marcus but from this seductive closeness. It lulled her into believing that everything could be good between them, as good as it had once been. She closed her mind to the doubts and conflicts and allowed herself to dream. And as she was falling asleep she thought she heard Marcus say again:

  “Go to sleep. I will never let you go.”

  FREDDIE STANDISH WAS PARTAKING of breakfast when the message arrived. He was still rather cast adrift from the previous night’s drinking and so was picking at a piece of toast and trying to disguise from Pen the fact that he felt distinctly liverish. It was this that he later blamed for his inattention when the maid brought in the note. The girl had only been with them two weeks and was quite hopeless, but the woman at the employment agency had indicated that that was all they could expect for the wages they were paying. Instead of handing the message directly to him, she put it into Pen’s imperiously outstretched hand. Freddie suspected that she could not read the direction on it.

  The crackle of the paper unfolding mingled with the crunching of Pen indulging her hearty appetite on her third piece of toast and honey. Freddie felt vaguely sick.

  “Mmm,” Pen said on a vague note of surprise, through the crumbs. “There is a rather odd note here for you, Freddie.” Her gaze dropped to the bottom of the page. “From a gentleman called Warwick.”

  The shock galvanized Freddie into action. He dropped his mangled toast, leaped to his feet and grabbed the paper from Pen’s hand.

  “Freddie!” Pen exclaimed, as his sleeve overturned her teacup.

  Freddie did not pause to apologize. He took the stairs two at a time, reading as he went.

  “Dear Lord Standish…require to see you immediately…Wigmore Street…This morning…Brook no delay…”

  When he came back downstairs, having dragged on his coat without the aid of his valet, Pen was standing in the hall, a determined expression on her face.

  “Are you in trouble, Freddie?”

  Freddie looked at her. If only she knew. Trouble was too mild a word for it.

  “Devil a bit,” he mumbled. “Nothing to worry about. Fellow I owe some money to.”

  “Gambling debts?” Pen asked. She sounded resigned.

  “Something of the sort.” Freddie gave her a peck on the cheek and dashed past before she could ask him anything more difficult.

  “When will you be back?” Pen called after him. Freddie turned his head slightly but did not reply, picking up his pace toward town. He did not call a hack. He could not afford it.
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  The fresh morning air cleared his mind but brought with it a sick dread in the pit of his stomach. Edward Warwick. How had he ever come to this? The whole matter had begun so long ago now that it was difficult to remember. He had been very distressed after his cousin India Southern had refused his marriage proposal. He had been young and unaccustomed to failure, and he had turned to the family vice of drink and debt. From there the downward slide had been imperceptible but inevitable, until that dreadful moment when he had been obliged to tell his father that he was so deep in hock that he was likely to end up in the Fleet. He could still see the late Lord Standish’s face twisted with disgust and disapproval as he berated his only son for the weaknesses that he had instilled in him.

  There had been nothing that his father could do to help him, of course, since by then he was losing all the money that Prince Ernest of Cassilis had so casually bestowed on him. The Fleet incident had been hushed up and then Warwick had appeared like the answer to all their prayers, offering money to father and son in return for a few words here, a favor there. There was no difficulty. It was influence that Warwick wanted—a piece in the papers, a word in the ear of an MP, a decision going his way in court…The Standish father and son obliged where they could. It would have been different had Warwick wanted social acceptance, of course. That would have been quite out of the question.

  Freddie crossed Piccadilly, narrowly missing being run down by a dray cart. Lord Standish had not had huge influence himself and had therefore been of limited use to Edward Warwick. Freddie had sensed almost from the start that Warwick was disappointed in them. He kept them short of cash and on tenterhooks. Then Lord Standish had died and Warwick had helped Freddie to find the right sort of work at Asher’s Bank, where he was useful to both his employer and to Warwick himself. He was a dunce with money, of course, but neither of them wanted him for his financial acumen. Asher wanted someone with the right social connections and Warwick wanted what he always wanted. Information. Who had what sum of money, who owed whom, who had inherited, the rich, the poor, the desperate—into which category Freddie fit very firmly himself.

  He reached Wigmore Street in the end, having lost himself briefly in the maze of roads around James Street. He was out of breath as he entered the high-class gown shop and went up the stairs. He was unsurprised to be kept waiting for almost an hour. Eventually he was ushered up a back stair and into Warwick’s office.

  Edward Warwick extended a hand to him in an approximation of courtesy.

  “Standish. How good of you to come so promptly.”

  There was a hint of mockery behind his words. He knew how long Freddie had been waiting. Freddie felt a hot wave of humiliation and despair sweep over him. He was in too deep now. He could not cut free of this man when he was so deeply in his power. And he sensed that at last Warwick wanted something more dangerous than the provision of a few pieces of information. It was almost as though he had been waiting for this moment for a very long time, dreading it but knowing that it would come.

  “So your sister is now Countess of Stockhaven.” Warwick spoke slowly, but there was a tone in his voice that Freddie recognized like an animal scenting danger. He did not reply. The office felt stifling. He could feel the sweat trickling between his shoulder blades and the tension across his back. Warwick’s lips thinned.

  “Stockhaven always seems to have the things that I desire,” he said. “The house by the sea…the fortune…the wife…”

  Freddie was so startled that he spoke without thinking. “You want Isabella?”

  Warwick flashed him an inimical look from his slate-gray eyes. “Not that wife, Lord Standish, charming though your sister undoubtedly is. Stockhaven was married before, although it seems to please everyone to forget it.”

  Freddie’s stomach gave a lurch. “You mean India,” he said. He wrinkled his brow against the heat and the buzzing in his head. “You knew her?”

  “Intimately,” Warwick said with a ghost of a smile. “It was a very long time ago. Twelve years, in fact.”

  Freddie rubbed his eyes. His vision seemed to have blurred and the buzzing in his head was growing louder, like a bee trapped in a bottle. It seemed inconceivable to him that India, so mild, so sweet, could have been in any way acquainted with this man from whose pores evil seemed to seep like sweat.

  “I do not understand,” he said.

  “You never do,” Warwick said, the smile still lingering on his lips. “How do you think that I first heard of you and your father and your dangerously extravagant ways?” He shrugged. “No matter. There is something that I require from you, Standish.”

  Freddie straightened automatically at the authoritative tone. “Yes?”

  “I require to know immediately if either the Earl or the Countess of Stockhaven decide to travel to Salterton. And by immediately I mean within the hour, not two days later. Do you understand?”

  Freddie nodded, bewildered. The feeling of sinking dread that had dogged his steps receded slightly. This seemed very innocuous. Information. He could provide that.

  “Is that all?” he asked, a little too eagerly.

  Warwick nodded, a thread of amusement in his voice. “That is all for now, certainly. You may go.”

  Freddie needed no second bidding. Downstairs he could smell the perfumed air of the gown shop and hear the voices of the customers. The sun was shining. The air was fresh. Freddie was tolerably certain that he could manage to eat something now. There was nothing to worry about.

  He indulged in a hearty meal and rolled home feeling positively jolly. Pen was out and he was dozing in his armchair when he heard her return.

  Pen’s face lit up when she saw him.

  “Freddie! I did not expect you back until tonight! How was your business?”

  “Fine,” Freddie mumbled. Seizing the opportunity to pursue his investigations he asked casually, “How is Bella?”

  Pen unpinned her hat and threw it down on the table beside the door. She frowned slightly.

  “Bella has gone to Salterton,” she said. “You may remember that she has been speaking of it over the last few weeks.”

  Had she? Freddie racked his brains. He vaguely remembered Isabella mentioning that she would like to live quietly at the seaside and his reply that retirement in Dorset was far too dull a fate. He had had no notion her departure was imminent. Pen was still speaking.

  “She left this morning, apparently. She must have gone in the most monstrous hurry.” Pen frowned. “We had an engagement to go to an exhibition together today but she appears to have forgotten completely.”

  Cold fear clutched at Freddie’s heart. He set off down the stairs so fast that he almost stumbled and fell. He could hear Pen’s startled exclamation:

  “Freddie? Freddie!”

  He paid no attention. The day, which had seemed so promising only a few hours previously, suddenly took on a much bleaker aspect. What was it that Warwick had said?

  I require to know within the hour…

  It was already several hours since Isabella had left Town.

  This time Freddie took a hackney carriage to Wigmore Street, regardless of the expense.

  “I DO APOLOGIZE FOR SENDING for you, Mr. Cantrell,” Penelope Standish said, “but I fear I did not know who else to call on for assistance.” She pressed a hand to her temples. “This is so very unorthodox! I hope you will forgive me—”

  “Miss Standish,” Alistair said, drawing her down to sit beside him on the sofa, “I assure you that nothing could alter the high esteem in which I hold you. In what manner may I be of assistance?”

  Pen’s expression lightened. She had sent for Alistair precisely because she knew he would deal efficiently with any matter placed before him. She could rely on him. She looked down at their clasped hands and felt an uncharacteristic desire to be cared for, protected and, preferably, swept off her feet in the process. Instead, Alistair patted her hand encouragingly before releasing her. Pen sighed.

  “The most extraord
inary things appear to be happening to my relatives!” she said. “I was supposed to be attending an exhibition at the Royal Academy with Bella this morning.”

  She waited a moment for him to comment but when he did not, she continued, “When I arrived in Brunswick Gardens, I found that Bella had left me a note telling me that she had left for Salterton yesterday. I know she has been speaking of removing to the seaside recently, but to go so abruptly! I cannot help but worry what has prompted her….” She looked at Alistair and felt her cheeks warm. “Do you know whether Lord Stockhaven has accompanied her? She implied that she was alone but I wondered…” She broke off, a small frown furrowing her brow.

  “I know that Marcus intended to follow your sister to Salterton with all despatch,” Alistair said tactfully. “Perhaps he may even have caught up with her on the road. You should not worry, Miss Standish. She will be perfectly fine.”

  Pen frowned harder. “So she went without Marcus? How strange! I do not understand those two at all, Mr. Cantrell.”

  She saw Alistair’s lips twitch. “They certainly appear to have a most…ah…complicated relationship.”

  Pen looked at him, half exasperated, half resigned at this diplomatic reply. Mr. Alistair Cantrell was the perfect model of the proper gentleman and where she had conceived this idea from that she wished him to be improper, she had no notion. It was best to put it out of her head and concentrate on the problem in hand. She knitted her fingers together.

  “If that was my only concern, however, I might rest easy,” she continued, “but when I returned from Brunswick Gardens and acquainted my brother with the facts of Isabella’s journey, he immediately disappeared and now I have received the most cock-and-bull message from him telling me that he is also gone to Salterton!” She ran a hand through her hair, scattering several pins on the carpet. “He never returned to collect any belongings and believe me, Mr. Cantrell, Freddie is not the man to travel without his valet, let alone a change of clothes. Why, I do not think he could remove his own boots unaided!”