“I went back to the army.” Warwick shrugged his shoulders. “It was not long before I was court-martialed for insubordination and thrown out. I went to Ireland for a while, then returned to London and fell in with bad company.” He bared his teeth in a smile. “I have been in such company ever since. I run such company.”
“Yet still the most important thing to you was to find your son,” Isabella said. Her body was strung tight, screaming with tension. She could not keep him talking forever and she could not guess where this would end.
“It was,” Warwick said. “I made inquiries in Salterton and in Scotland and in London, but drew a blank on all occasions.” He was speaking conversationally now, as though the subject was of little import. “In the end, I came to Salterton myself and set a lad to search Stockhaven’s house here whilst I came up to the Hall to see Lady Jane. She was the only person left who could help me.”
“And once again you were refused.”
The harsh lines about Warwick’s mouth deepened. “Lady Jane would not compromise her daughter’s memory by even acknowledging the truth.”
Isabella felt no surprise. For Lady Jane, like her husband before her, protecting what she saw as India’s and the family’s interests was still of paramount importance, even beyond the grave.
“Lady Jane died that night,” Isabella said.
Warwick’s head snapped around sharply. “That was none of my doing.”
“You quarreled.”
“So?”
“She was a frail elderly lady. She could not stand the shock of it.”
Warwick shrugged again. “As I said, that is none of my affair.”
Isabella was chilled by his cold lack of concern. There was something faulty here. Where his son was concerned, he was vulnerable, but there was no chink in his armor elsewhere. The man had no pity and no emotion in him.
“So what are you to do now, Lady Stockhaven?” Warwick said softly. He moved slightly and Isabella tensed once again. “What am I to do now that you have seen me?”
“I think you should go,” Isabella said steadily. “There is nothing here for you, Mr. Warwick. Both India and her mother buried their secrets too deep to be found.”
Warwick gave her a mocking smile. “You will not tell me to forget my quest?”
“What is the point?” Isabella said. She sighed. “I know you can never forget it.”
Warwick straightened up. He nodded slowly. “Against all the odds, I believe that you really do understand.”
“I do.”
Their eyes met. Again Isabella felt that strange tug of affinity. It repelled her and yet she could not shake it off.
“Go,” she said again.
Warwick straightened. His hand went to his pocket. “I will,” he said. “But you are coming with me, Lady Stockhaven.”
FREDDIE STANDISH WAS RUNNING again. Dimly he was aware that he simply had to stop doing this. Besides, running up things was a very poor idea. It winded him twice as quickly.
He had crept up the first three flights of stairs but when he realized that neither Marcus nor Alistair were anywhere near the attics and, therefore, unaccountably, unable to do anything to help Isabella, he was filled with panic. Perhaps Marcus had not understood what he was trying to say. He did not have the time to stop and find out now. He rushed up the final flight of steps, surged along the landing and threw open the attic door.
“Bella!”
Both his sister and Edward Warwick jumped at the loud intrusion. Freddie saw Warwick tense like a snake about to strike. Suddenly he had an arm about Isabella and a knife at her throat as he held her in front of him like a shield. Freddie saw the glint of steel and felt faint again, a condition not assisted by his terminal shortage of breath.
“What the devil are you up to, Standish?” Warwick snapped.
Freddie looked from Warwick’s face to Isabella’s and licked his lips like a hunted fox. A bead of sweat ran down his brow. He fished out his silk handkerchief and mopped his face.
“Freddie,” Isabella said. She looked sick at the knowledge of his betrayal. “I believe you already know Mr. Warwick,” she said.
“Yes,” Freddie said, his gaze darting to Warwick’s face once again. This was no time for explanations. He spread his hands wide. “Let her go, old man. It’s only me. No threat.”
“You never were,” Warwick sneered. He did not lower the knife. He looked around at the empty room. “Though I do wonder why you are here.” His gaze snapped back to Freddie. “You saw no one enter?”
“Not a soul,” Freddie said steadily. “Let her go and walk away, Warwick.”
Warwick’s face convulsed with fury. “You are double-crossing me, Standish.”
“No idea what you mean, old chap,” Freddie said. His felt gray with fear. He could feel himself shaking. He was almost wishing that he had never started this. Isabella had always been able to take care of herself. True, she did not look as though she knew what to do, but he was sure she would think of something. Whereas he had no idea what to do. “Don’t have the stomach to cheat you, let alone the brains.”
Isabella shifted slightly and the knife wavered at her throat, leaving a thin red line on her skin. Freddie shuddered. As a child he had always cried at the sight of blood and he was not much better these days.
“Lady Stockhaven comes with me,” Warwick said.
“No,” Freddie said. He took a step nearer. “No need to make a drama out of this, old man. I came to tell you that Stockhaven and Cantrell are on their way back from the dower house. Need to get away now, before any harm is done.”
Warwick started to move toward the door, dragging Isabella with him like a shield.
Freddie hesitated, castigated himself for a fool—and dived for the other man’s legs. Warwick let go of Isabella, joining with Freddie with a grunt and a sickening thud as their bodies connected. Freddie, who had only just regained his breath, felt as though he had been burst like a balloon.
Three things happened at once. Out of the corner of his eye, Freddie saw Isabella’s arm come down and something landed with a sturdy smack against the side of Edward Warwick’s head. There was the hum and a crack as a bullet winged Warwick in the shoulder and ricocheted away to take a large chip out of the plaster of the wall.
And Freddie felt the knife slice into his side. He pressed his hand to his ribs and saw the blood seeping through his fingers. Warwick was out cold but he was scarcely in better shape. What a damnable mess. He simply was not cut out to be a hero.
“Freddie!” Isabella was beside him and her tone was anguished. Freddie saw Marcus Stockhaven swing in through the window and jump down to the attic floor. The roof. Of course. If only he had thought…
Isabella was pressing an improvised bandage to his side. Freddie thought it was probably her petticoat. He wanted to tell her to stop because good linen was too expensive to waste and also because it was so damned painful.
Freddie slid down slowly against the wall and gave a groan. Isabella cushioned his head on her lap. “Help is coming, Freddie,” she said. “Mr. Cantrell has gone for the doctor. You will feel better directly.”
Freddie appreciated her words, though he did not for a moment believe her.
“Always wanted to help you, Bella,” he said. The words seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort. “Couldn’t do it when we were younger. Glad to have been of service now.” He moved with a wince as Marcus pressed the bandage tighter.
“I didn’t realize for years that he was the one,” Freddie whispered. “We never met. If I had known he was India’s lover…” His face contorted. Isabella squeezed his hand.
“Freddie—”
“Ruined my favorite coat as well,” Freddie said. And then the darkness closed in, for which he was profoundly grateful.
“HE’LL LIVE,” MARCUS SAID later. He had spent the previous half hour at Freddie Standish’s bedside while the unfortunate lord poured out the sorry tale of his dealings with Edward Warwick. Finally Fredd
ie had slept, exhausted by confession and lack of blood, and Marcus had made his way to Isabella’s bedroom. He had persuaded her to rest, for she had been chalk-white with strain. But he knew she was worried. Although her brother’s injuries were minor—no more than a glancing scratch from Warwick’s knife—he had bled profusely and the whole matter had seemed a deal worse than it actually was.
He went across to the bedside. Isabella was sitting propped up against her pillows, a dish of tea at her elbow and a book in hand. It was evident that her mind was not on the written word, since she was holding the book upside down.
Marcus took her hands reassuringly in his. “Freddie will be in a weakened state for a while yet, but he should recover quickly enough if he does not exert himself.”
“I doubt we shall see much change from normal, then,” Isabella said, with a flash of her old spirit. “Still, I am glad. I have lost too many people to want to lose my brother too.” Her brow creased. “But what are you going to do about him, Marcus? If he was working for Warwick, that places you in a difficult situation.”
Marcus smiled. “Poor Freddie. He tells me that Warwick has had him in his pocket for years, and your father before him. But he was always the smallest of cogs in Warwick’s wheel. He provided information, nothing more.”
He saw a mixture of relief and misery on Isabella’s face. “I had no notion,” she said. “Oh, Pen said he had debts…” She rubbed her forehead tiredly.
“Do not blame him,” Marcus said. “He was in desperate straits.”
Isabella smiled tiredly. “I could not blame him when I know how that feels.” She looked at Marcus. “Remember all the things that I have done when I was desperate and alone. My crimes were greater, I think.”
Marcus took her hand and held it tightly. “They were not crimes, Bella.” If he had his way, she would never blame herself for anything ever again. She was indomitable and courageous and he loved her.
He frowned to think of all that she had gone through.
“What did Freddie mean when he said that he could not help you when you were younger?” he asked.
Isabella was quiet for a moment, her face still. “I think that Freddie has always felt very keenly that he should have done something to help me when…when I was obliged to marry Ernest,” she said at last. “He has never spoken of it to me directly but sometimes he has referred to it obliquely and I think he has always felt guilty.”
Marcus nodded slowly. “He can have been little older than you at the time, however.”
“He was eighteen,” Isabella said. “He thinks that he could have stood up to our father, yet he did not.”
Marcus was silent for a moment. “I suppose that he felt he had compromised his integrity by failing to stand against your father’s summary decision to marry you off. Today, at least, he has regained his self-respect.”
Isabella looked at him thoughtfully. “I have always had the feeling, Marcus, that you did not like Freddie. Why is that?”
Marcus hesitated. “I admit that I thought him a lightweight. But the animosity was never on my side. I always sensed that Freddie disliked me for some reason.”
Isabella frowned. “He has not spoken of it to you?”
“No.”
“And you do not know why?”
Marcus shook his head. “I have no notion.”
There was a brief silence. Marcus could see a faint, withdrawn expression creep into Isabella’s eyes as though she was thinking of something else, but when she spoke it was to change the subject.
“And what about Edward Warwick?” she asked.
Marcus sighed. “Unfortunately, he will live, too. It would have been easier had he died and saved us the difficulty of deciding what to do with him.”
He saw a flicker of what looked like pain in Isabella’s eyes. “You could always let him go,” she said.
Marcus looked at her in astonishment. “Bella, the man tried to kill you!”
“Well, no,” Isabella corrected him. “He was merely using me as a hostage to try to buy his freedom.”
Marcus’s lips thinned. He would never forget the way he had felt when Warwick had held the knife to Isabella’s throat. He had been within an inch of shooting the man down and only Alistair, urgently grasping at his jacket, had recalled him to sanity with the whispered words that he would kill Isabella if he did not take care and wait his chance. A blinding fury had possessed him when he had seen the thin red line on Isabella’s neck where the knife had grazed her. But the fury was tempered with fear; a fear greater than anything he had felt before. She might have been hurt. She might have been killed. His Isabella…
His hands tightened on hers at the thought and she winced. He let her go reluctantly. He did not want to. He wanted to clasp her to him forever through sheer terror that she might otherwise be taken from him. He did not want to lose her.
“The man is a dangerous criminal,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “He would never have let you go, Bella. He is a murderer and a felon. He has to hang.”
Isabella’s eyelashes flickered. He looked at her candid blue gaze and her sweet mouth, and wanted to crush her to him.
“I do understand,” she said. She shivered. He felt the tremor go through her. “Did you hear what we talked about, Marcus?”
“No,” Marcus said. “We could hear nothing. I was hoping that you might tell me. And,” he added, “tell me what you were doing in the attic in the first place.”
He saw her shift then and set her lips as though she faced a difficult task.
“I went up into the attics to choose a memento of India,” she said. Marcus realized that he must have looked astonished, for she added, “I feel for her, Marcus. We were never close and I doubt we ever could have been but still I feel for her.” She was quiet for a moment. “I think we might have understood one another.”
Marcus nodded. “And Warwick?”
Isabella sighed. “We talked of his son.” She pressed her hands together. “I know you cannot let him go, Marcus, but the man has suffered every day. He will continue to suffer, never being able to find his child, not knowing if he is dead or alive. I understand a little of how that must feel.” She broke off, head bent.
Marcus’s face set hard. There was a painful compassion in her voice and it struck a chord of sympathy in him, no matter that he did not want it to do so.
“I understand some part of how you feel about that,” he said slowly.
Her eyes flew to his face.
“Do you?”
“Yes. That is to say, when you told me about India’s child, I had some sympathy for Warwick’s plight. But for the man himself…” He shook his head.
In the candlelight, Isabella’s eyes seemed very bright and blue. “Do you think we shall ever be able to find the child?”
Marcus hesitated. He did not wish her to suffer further, but he could imagine that if she did not hear the truth, she might make a crusade of trying to find and help India’s lost son.
“He is already found,” he said.
He saw the light leap into Isabella’s eyes, then die just as swiftly as she read his expression.
“Is he…” She paused. “Is he dead, Marcus?”
Marcus nodded. His face was set. “He was never far from home at all. He was Edward Channing, the lad Warwick sent to search my house for evidence right at the beginning.”
Isabella gasped. “But Warwick had looked everywhere for the boy! How was it that he did not know?”
Marcus made a slight, negative gesture. “I cannot be sure. We know that the boy was born in Scotland and subsequently adopted by the Southerns’ gardener and his wife. They moved to London but on the death of his adoptive parents, Edward returned to Salterton and lived with the Channings. Channing’s wife was a distant connection of Edward’s parents and also worked for Lord John Southern for many years. Perhaps Lord John wished the child to be somewhere where he could watch over him.”
Isabella’s brow furrowed. “Yet Warwick c
ould not discover the truth.”
Marcus shook his head. “Lord John chose well with Channing. He is a taciturn man. But the boy was wild—no doubt like Edward Warwick had been wild in his youth. He fell into bad company.”
“He fell in with Warwick,” Isabella said slowly. “Oh, the irony of Warwick not knowing that this was the very boy he sought!”
Marcus’s face was hard. “The irony is harsher than that, Bella. Edward Channing ran away to join Warwick in London but he fell sick and Warwick abandoned him. He died in the poorhouse. The reason I discovered the truth about Edward’s parentage was that it came out when I went to tell the Channings the news of Edward’s death.”
Isabella pressed her hand to her mouth. “Warwick killed his own son?”
“He abandoned him to die, certainly.”
Isabella made a pitiful noise of distress. “Marcus, I cannot bear it. Does Warwick know?”
“Not yet,” Marcus said. He spoke slowly. “It seems fitting to tell him. Warwick will die a quick death, unlike some of the others he condemned through his criminality. To know the ultimate irony, that he had his own son within his grasp yet failed to recognize him, to know that it was his fault Edward died…That would be punishment indeed.”
“That would be too cruel,” Isabella whispered.
Marcus shook his head. “Life cannot always be neat and painless,” he said.
Isabella closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them again her gaze clung to his. “No one knows that as well as I,” she said.
Marcus took her hands in his. “It shall never again be so,” he said. “I swear it.”
ISABELLA WATCHED from the window as they took Ned Warwick away. He was escorted in chains down to the quay by a detachment of sailors from HMS Sapphire. They were to take him to London by sea for his trial. It seemed a huge amount of trouble for a man who seemed so sick he could barely walk under the weight of his restraints. Isabella remembered the dank cell in which Marcus had been incarcerated, with its walls leaching damp and the stench and sourness of imprisonment in the air. She shuddered. Day after day, without release, ending only in death…Yet that would be Warwick’s punishment anyway, regardless of whether or not he was caged. He would never find his son now. He would either die unknowing or die tortured by the truth.
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