“That is the story we put about,” Marcus said. He shifted slightly. “In fact, the fire was arson, albeit unintentional. A local lad set the house ablaze accidentally when he was searching for something on behalf of Warwick.”
Isabella frowned. “What was he searching for?”
Marcus shook his head. “That I do not know. I am trying to find out. When I entered my house that night I sensed that something was wrong. I found the intruder upstairs in the chamber that had been India’s. It was clear that he was searching for something.” Isabella saw him wince, as though the memory was in some way painful.
“The place was in the most confounded mess, clothes and papers scattered across the room,” Marcus continued. “The lad was so startled to see me that he overturned the candle and set the bed hangings alight. He jumped from the window. He was injured but before he lost consciousness he told me that Warwick had sent him. That was why I was searching for the man himself.”
Isabella’s thoughts were for her aunt.
“But Aunt Jane?” she said. “I did not think that there were any suspicious circumstances surrounding her death. Mr. Churchward told me that she was struck by a seizure in the evening. The servants found her. She had been quite alone—” Her voice was rising. She realized with a jolt that she was both nervous and upset. Marcus had also heard the note of distress in her voice, and he caught her hands in his. When he answered her, his tone was deliberately calm. It soothed her a little.
“I am sorry, Bella,” he said. “A man called upon Lady Jane that night. According to the servants, he gave his name as Warwick. He spent some time in the library with your aunt, though no one knows precisely when he left. The servants were alerted by the violent ringing of the bell and when they arrived they found that your aunt had collapsed. They carried her to bed. She died a short while later.”
Isabella shuddered, thinking of Jane alone and friendless at the end. “I do not understand. Are you suggesting that this man—this Warwick—murdered her?”
Marcus shook his head slightly. “No. There was no suggestion of murder. I called the physician myself. I think whatever it was that they discussed so shocked or disturbed her that she had a seizure and died,” Marcus said. “It is in that sense that he was responsible for her death.”
Isabella wrinkled her brow. “Was there a quarrel? Did the servants hear raised voices?”
“They heard nothing.” Marcus sighed. There was a rueful note in his voice. “They could not even describe the man with any exactitude.”
“And yet you think that this man Warwick holds the key to the arson and to Lady Jane’s death?”
“I do.”
Marcus had relaxed his grip and Isabella let her hands fall to her lap. She stared blindly out the window of the carriage.
“Poor Aunt Jane,” she said softly. “I am so very sorry.”
“It is a nasty business. And that is why I must go back to Salterton.”
Isabella felt cold. So for all Marcus’s avowals, he had quite a different motive for going to Salterton. “I see,” she said bleakly.
There was a glimmer of amusement in Marcus’s eyes. “No, I don’t think that you do, Bella. I was going to say that I had planned for a little while to return to Salterton in the hope of picking up Warwick’s trail there. The fact that you set off for Salterton so precipitately only made it more urgent that I should go there at once.”
Isabella looked at him. “I see,” she said again.
Marcus took her hand again, rubbing his thumb gently over the back of her glove. She could feel the warmth of his touch through the material.
“Bella,” he said. “Please believe me. We will never trust one another again if we doubt every word and every action.”
Isabella nodded. “So why are you telling me this now?” she asked.
Marcus smiled. “Because I did not wish there to be any more secrets between us,” he said, “and because I thought that you might be able to help me.”
“If I knew of this…Warwick?”
“Yes.”
Isabella shook her head. “I am sorry, Marcus. I do not recall ever hearing the name in connection with either Salterton or the family. I would help if I could.”
“No matter,” Marcus said.
A sudden thought struck Isabella. “This man…I assume he is dangerous?”
Marcus looked at her. “Very. I do not wish you to be afraid, though, Bella. I am sure he has no quarrel with you.”
“No,” Isabella said, “but—” She stopped, but Marcus was too quick for her. He leaned closer.
“Bella, is it that you are afraid for me?”
Isabella avoided his gaze. “Well, I…If he is dangerous…”
“You are afraid for me!” Marcus said. He started to smile.
“There is no need to be so pleased with yourself,” Isabella grumbled. “I am a compassionate person. It is nothing to do with you.”
Marcus’s smile broadened. He touched her cheek. “Of course not, sweetheart.”
He drew her to him and gradually Isabella felt herself leaning closer until her head rested against his shoulder and the movement of the carriage lulled her into a doze. But her dreams were not pleasant ones. She dreamed of Jane Southern, calling for help and no one hearing her, and she dreamed of Marcus saying I did not wish there to be any more secrets between us. And she awoke to the thought that she was still keeping the biggest secret of all.
IT WAS AS THEY WERE approaching Salterton, in the fresh summer evening, that a problem arose. Isabella had slept for much of the journey and Marcus had found himself deriving a remarkable degree of contentment just from watching her. As they drew nearer to their destination, Isabella awoke and Marcus noted the tiny abstracted frown between her brows and the slight tension in her manner.
“I have been thinking,” Isabella said, smoothing the skirts of her elegant traveling dress and avoiding his eyes, “that it would be better to put a little distance between ourselves until we can be sure what is to be done.” She looked at him, then swiftly away. “I mean, until we know—” She broke off. Marcus understood all too well what she meant.
Until I know if I am expecting a child…Until I decide if I can leave you…
Every possessive instinct in his body rose up in protest. There was precious little distance between us last night, he thought. Nor on the previous occasion when I held you naked in my arms.
He knew it would avail him little to point this out. He could sense Isabella slipping out of reach once again. It was frustrating but he found that he was prepared for it. Generally he was not a patient man; this time he had to learn patience in order to gain what he wanted, which was Isabella permanently in his life and in his bed.
He kept his voice neutral.
“Until we decide what is to be done about…what?” he asked.
Isabella shot him a defiant look from those beautiful blue eyes. “Our marriage of course, Marcus. It is most convenient that you have a house on the estate, since you may live there whilst I reside at the hall—”
Marcus sighed sharply. “Isabella, I will be plain with you. I will not live at Salterton Cottage whilst you live elsewhere. Apart from anything else, my house is currently uninhabitable since work has not yet been completed after the fire. So I could not accede to your request to live at Salterton Cottage even if I wished to do so.”
“Well,” Isabella said, turning aside, “I hear that the standard of hotels has improved immensely since I was last at the seaside. No doubt you will find something to your taste.”
“Salterton House is to my taste.” Marcus put out a hand and pulled her closer to him. She came reluctantly into his arms. He remembered his vow to court her gently and moderated his tone of voice—and stifled the rampant lust that suggested what a good idea it would be to overcome her scruples by making love to her here and now, in the carriage.
“If it pleases you,” he said, “you may have your own bedroom—for now.”
“Thank you,�
� Isabella said dryly. “And you will reside down the drive as soon as your house is ready.”
There was a note of finality in her voice. Marcus shrugged and his lips curved into a wicked smile. He reached inside his jacket and removed a piece of paper.
“If you are to be my landlady, you had better read this,” he said.
Isabella pulled off her gloves, took the paper, glanced at it carelessly, then stiffened.
“What is this?”
“It is the terms of the tenancy of Salterton Cottage,” Marcus said.
Isabella looked at him incredulously. “Tenancy? But I thought that it was a mere formality?”
Marcus shook his head. “You were mistaken. Lord John Southern merely loaned the house to his daughter for her use. The previous tenancy agreement had not lapsed. On India’s death he very politely but insistently made me agree to sign it. I was happy to do so to keep my link with Salterton.”
Isabella frowned hard as she scanned the lines. Marcus watched with amusement and no little satisfaction as he saw the uncertainty in her eyes.
“But surely…You own Salterton Hall now. You cannot be your own tenant!”
Marcus laughed. “Oh no, Bella, you cannot have it both ways! I have offered you Salterton—it was your inheritance, after all—and that makes you the landlord. The landlord who owes me certain…services.” He twitched the sheet from between her fingers. “Allow me to explain the terms in more detail.”
Isabella looked suddenly nervous. “Please do not,” she said. “I do not wish to know.”
“But you must know.” Marcus’s smile was mocking now. “As I said, it is your property.”
“I have no desire to concern myself with estate matters,” Isabella stuck her regal nose in the air. “Mr. Churchward may continue to administer the agreement.”
“I am afraid that I must insist.”
Marcus read aloud, giving his wife no chance to object further: “‘The landlord agrees to furnish the tenant with a lifetime’s supply of free brandy.’” He looked up. “Having been in the navy I am partial to the best. May I suggest that you make an arrangement with the local publican to keep me well provided for?”
“You are pleased to jest,” Isabella said. “You know I cannot afford it. And since you promised me the means to keep Salterton you would only be funding yourself.”
“No? Perhaps I will ask you to pay in kind instead.”
He saw Isabella’s mouth thin with irritation.
“‘The landlord agrees to pay all the tenant’s medical fees,’” he continued. “How fortunate that I am so strong and healthy.”
“How did this ridiculous agreement ever come into being?” Isabella demanded. She reached across and tried to snatch the paper from his hand. He held it out of her way. “It is most unorthodox.”
“Your aunt and uncle were unorthodox people,” Marcus pointed out. “The agreement was created to secure the future of the previous tenant of the Cottage. Do you remember him? My mother’s cousin, Captain Forbes? It was to visit him that I first came to Salterton.”
Isabella turned her face away from him. “Captain Forbes was a delightful old gentleman. I remember him well. A pity—”
“A pity that I do not take after him?”
“A pity that my uncle created such an odd tenancy agreement,” Isabella snapped.
“It was an act of charity on Lord John’s part,” Marcus said. “Uncle Forbes had no money. No one in the family did at that time. Your aunt and uncle took a liking to him and sought to take care of him by creating a rather unusual agreement.”
Isabella sighed. “But why did it not lapse when your uncle died?”
“Because no one canceled it. The agreement was on the house and not specific to any person.”
“So now you are the recipient of all this largesse.”
“I would be,” Marcus said, “if you were in a position to give it to me.”
Isabella’s chin tilted up at an even more acutely regal angle. Marcus could see only her profile, which was pink and flustered. He liked that. He loved being able to cut past that society calm and ruffle her royal feathers.
“Then you are most unfortunate since I have nothing to give,” she said.
Marcus smiled. “I would have to dispute that. Wait until you have heard the rest of the agreement, Isabella, and then see what you think,” he said softly.
“‘The landlord agrees to provide the tenant with warm blankets, firewood and food in the winter,’” he continued. “‘He or she will also take the tenant sea-bathing once a week.’”
“Sea-bathing!” The words burst from Isabella in a tone of utter disbelief.
Marcus nodded. “Uncle Forbes was an invalid. The sea water cure did him good but he required to be accompanied to the beach as he was not very steady on his feet.”
Isabella looked pointedly at Marcus’s booted feet as they rested with deplorable informality on the opposite seat.
“There is nothing wrong with your mobility,” she said.
“Nor indeed with the rest of me either.”
There was a flash of triumph in Isabella’s expression. “So you require no such mollycoddling.”
“I still require you to take me sea-bathing,” Marcus said, “and—” he referred to the paper “—on any other outings or activities of my choice that will be beneficial to my welfare, both physical and spiritual.”
Isabella gave an unladylike snort. “What nonsense!”
Marcus drew closer. “On the contrary, my love. It is in the legal agreement.”
This time Isabella did snatch the paper from his hands. “Outings beneficial to your spiritual and physical welfare,” she repeated. “It seems to me that you might profitably concentrate on the spiritual side of your welfare, Marcus. I believe there must be improvement to be made there, whereas you seem much too preoccupied with the physical.”
Marcus pulled her along the seat until his mouth was about an inch away from hers. He saw her eyes darken as her gaze went irresistibly to his lips. Her tongue came out and nervously touched her bottom lip. He crushed down the urge to kiss her long and hard. Not now. Not yet. He wanted her to be as eager for his embrace as he was for hers.
“You concentrate on my spiritual welfare, sweetheart,” he said softly, “and I will think about that closed bedroom door that will lie between us.” His voice roughened. “Be sure to keep it locked,” he added, “for I shall come knocking on it until it is open to me.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The strange tale of the princess and the ardent Earl of S continues to astound. Readers of this newspaper will recall their hasty nuptials. Now it seems that the new countess has been no less hasty in leaving her husband of one week. We understand that the countess has set off alone on her seaside honeymoon, with the earl in hot pursuit. Perhaps the countess has once again been disappointed in the amorous capabilities of Englishmen and has decided to find herself a foreign lover instead. Let us hope that the bracing sea breezes will encourage the earl’s prowess and satisfy his lady….
—The Gentlemen’s Athenian Mercury, July 6, 1816
“SCANDALOUS NONSENSE,” Alistair Cantrell said crossly, discarding the newspaper with an angry sigh and looking with disfavor at his plate of congealed eggs. He was feeling decidedly out of sorts that morning. Across the breakfast table was the cause of his bad temper, Miss Penelope Standish, glowing with good health, as fresh as a daisy and eating as heartily as a horse in a hayfield. Evidently she had slept well. She had not been lying awake thinking of him.
They had reached Alresford very late, only to discover that the fair in nearby Winchester had led to an influx of visitors occupying all the best rooms at the inns. Eventually they had found a place in the smallest and pokiest of taverns. Pen and her maid had taken the last chamber, of course—Alistair had insisted—and then he had spent the night on the settle in the parlor. Naturally he had not slept a wink, tortured by the stale smell of smoke and ashes from the grate and the thought of Pe
n dreaming sweetly directly over his head.
“I swear it was not me this time,” Pen said, munching through her third piece of toast. She looked at Alistair and frowned slightly. “Are you quite well this morning, Mr. Cantrell? You seem not quite in plump currant.”
Alistair looked at her and his expression softened a little. It was not Miss Standish’s fault that she had a delinquent brother, nor a sister who had the lack of consideration to inherit property in Dorset rather than in the more accessible regions of Kent or Essex.
“Do you think we shall reach Salterton today?” Pen asked hopefully.
Alistair shook his head. “I doubt it, Miss Standish. The roads are busy and we shall have to travel relatively slowly. I am hoping that we may stay in Three Legged Cross tonight and complete our journey to Salterton in the morning.”
“I wonder where Freddie is,” Pen said. Evidently her concern for her brother had not affected her appetite. “I hope he has not got lost upon the road. He has a very poor sense of direction.”
“I am sure that he will have been able to find his way to an inn of some sort,” Alistair said.
Pen’s perfect pink bow of a mouth puckered. “Oh dear, Mr. Cantrell, you sound quite sharp! I would not have believed it of you. I thought you extremely good natured.”
Alistair reddened. “I beg your pardon, Miss Standish.”
“Not at all,” Pen said, smiling deliciously. “There is nothing wrong with strong passions in a man. I have quite a passionate nature myself.”
Alistair almost choked. He had to stop this. Thinking of Miss Standish’s passionate nature would drive him mad within the confines of a closed carriage.
“My main passions in life are reading and a little light gardening,” he said repressively.
Pen shot him a limpid look from her very blue eyes. “Dear me, Mr. Cantrell, that sounds rather sedentary. I am surprised that you retain so fine a figure. One’s anatomy can suffer badly from such lack of exercise.”
A certain part of Alistair’s anatomy stirred at the thought of the exercise he would like to indulge in with Miss Standish. He shifted and repositioned his linen napkin on his lap.
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