Deceived

It was then that Marcus determined to find out what had happened to lead Edward Channing astray. He wanted to discover the identity of the mysterious puppet master whose manipulations drove Edward to ransack Marcus’s house and then burn it down. He needed to know what the lad had been searching for.

And there was another mystery. On the evening of her death, Lady Jane Southern had a visitor. No one saw him leave and, in the aftermath of her death, most people forgot him. But Marcus possessed a strange conviction that his appearance had something to do with both Lady Jane’s death and the fire.

“Mr. Warwick sent me to find what is rightfully his….”

Marcus had no notion what it was that he apparently possessed. He had only the name of Warwick to give him a lead, and he trod very carefully in his investigations, making no overt inquiries, drawing as little attention as possible.

It was when he approached the home secretary, Lord Sidmouth, that he discovered the connection to the Fleet Prison. Sidmouth proved to be most interested in Warwick and his activities. The man was a master criminal, the home secretary had said, drawing his supporters from those desperate debtors who thronged the Fleet. He’d given Marcus tacit permission to continue his inquiries—inside the prison.

Alistair was waiting patiently, his gaze thoughtful on Marcus’s face. His friend was the only other person who knew of Marcus’s quest to find Edward Warwick.

“I had to go very cautiously to avoid suspicion,” Marcus said now. “I let slip that I had heard of a fire at a big house in Salterton, and of rich pickings there, and a few agreed that Edward Warwick had said that there had been treasure there but that it had not been found.”

“Treasure?” Alistair said, frowning.

“That was the word they used.”

“Which could be money, or jewels…”

“Or information.”

Alistair rubbed his brow. “Information in your own house of which you know nothing, Marcus?”

“Perhaps,” Marcus said. “Or information that Lady Jane possessed. Curious, is it not?” He turned his empty brandy glass between his fingers. “I am no closer to discovering what it is that Warwick wants, nor to finding out any more about the man himself than I knew before. He has as many names and disguises as he has criminal interests, but he is so feared and protected that I could find out little more.”

“So you asked in the Fleet and found little,” Alistair said thoughtfully, “and what do you propose to do now?”

“Two things,” Marcus said. He knew that he could not let the matter go now.

“I shall make further discreet inquiries into Warwick’s business here in London, and if that fails to turn up new information I shall return to Salterton, where it all began, and see what else I may discover from there. The renovation of the dower house is almost complete. It will be good to see how it progresses.”

“I suppose that you will have a new landlord now that Lady Jane has passed away,” Alistair said thoughtfully. “To whom did she leave her estate? Freddie Standish would be her closest male relative, I assume?”

“He is,” Marcus said, “but he does not inherit. The hall was not entailed.” He paused. The lease on his house at Salterton, which was little more than a cottage orneé that stood in the grounds of Salterton Hall, had been granted to him when he had married Isabella’s cousin, India Southern. He had plenty of houses but it had been a convenient arrangement to take Salterton Cottage for it provided India with a home of her own when she wished to visit her parents at the hall. Lady Jane had been fond of him and had allowed him to retain the lease after India’s death and although he had visited Salterton less frequently, he still paid a visit there every so often. It was on one of these visits that Lady Jane had told him that she had left Salterton Hall to Isabella on her death. Marcus had already known, though he did not say so. The terms of Lady Jane’s will had thrust a sharp wedge between herself and her daughter India when first they had come to light.

“Mama has always favored Isabella over me!” India had said to him once in a passionate outburst that was utterly out of character for her. “She told me that I had no need of Salterton because I was married to you, and that Isabella had always cared for the place far more than I!” India’s face had contorted with distress. “My cousin has been writing to Mama and pretending to an interest and a concern that she does not feel! First she marries that disgusting old man for his money and now she cuts me out of my inheritance! I cannot believe Mama would do such a thing to me!”

Marcus had tried to soothe her but India would not be comforted, and there had been a tense atmosphere between mother and daughter ever after. Since India had predeceased her mother, the matter of the inheritance of Salterton had become almost academic, but Marcus had never forgotten the bitter betrayal that India felt. It seemed a further example of Isabella’s cupidity.

A sardonic smile curved Marcus’s lips at the thought of his new wife as an heiress—and his landlady. What was it that Isabella had said? Her financial embarrassment was of a temporary nature and their marriage of convenience would last only until she had sold her house and realized her inheritance. He had assumed that she had some expectation of salvaging something at least from Prince Ernest’s estate, but now he wondered if it was in fact Jane Southern’s legacy that Isabella was relying on. It was another link in the shadowy chain of family ties and old history that bound them to one another.

“Freddie Standish needs the money,” Alistair said, breaking into Marcus’s thoughts. “He will not be pleased to lose the inheritance. He survives on nothing but his pay and Miss Standish’s meager allowance, so I hear. He is rather a ram-shackle fellow.”

Marcus had never had much to say to Freddie, Lord Standish. It was an accident of marriage that had made them cousins-in-law and their paths had seldom crossed. In fact he had once sensed a dislike of him in Freddie, all the stronger for remaining unspoken, and had steered clear of the man with an indifferent shrug.

He had a warmer regard for Isabella’s sister Penelope, a fearsome bluestocking who had the misfortune to share a small house with Freddie in an unfashionable part of Town. But Pen Standish never went into society, so he did not know her well.

“I could not see Standish choosing to live at Salterton,” Marcus said. “Town is his natural habitat.”

“He could always have sold the house,” Alistair pointed out.

“Which was no doubt one of the reasons Lady Jane chose to leave it to another member of the family,” Marcus said. “She wished it to go to someone whom she thought cared for it.”

Alistair looked quizzical. “Not to you, Marcus? The old lady was monstrous fond of you.”

“No,” Marcus said, shaking his head a little. “She did not leave it to me.”

“Then whom?”

“I believe her heir is Princess Isabella Di Cassilis,” Marcus said.

Alistair pursed his lips into a silent whistle. His eyes were bright. “So that was why you wished me to check on the princess’s debts! I had heard that she had returned to London. The papers have been full of the news.”

Marcus hesitated. Despite asking Alistair to discover the information on Isabella’s debt to Henshalls, he had not confided the truth of his marriage to his oldest friend. Alistair, who had been his groomsman at the ill-fated wedding twelve years ago, would be astonished to know that Marcus had offered marriage to Isabella now. No, he would be beyond astonishment. He would imagine that Marcus had lost his mind. And for Marcus to admit that his motive was a stark and ruthless revenge seemed somehow ignoble. It was not the sort of thing one man confessed to another. Nevertheless, he could not keep his friend in ignorance any longer. The whole of London would soon know of the match.

“There was another reason that I was interested in the princess’s situation,” he said slowly. “We were married on Tuesday.”

He waited while Alistair blinked owlishly, looked at the brandy bottle and then back at him. Alistair’s lips moved silently, forming the words princess and married. Marcus grinned.

“Damned if your brandy hasn’t been tampered with after all, Marcus,” Alistair said, after a moment. “Either that or I’m touched in the attic. I thought you said that you were married to the Princess Isabella. Must be hearing things.”

“You heard aright,” Marcus said. He smiled slightly. “I realize that the news of my nuptials is somewhat sudden.”

“And unexpected.” Alistair was frowning at him. “I had no idea that you were so attached to Salterton Hall that you were prepared to marry the heiress to gain it,” he added. “Why could you not simply make Lady Jane an offer to buy the house? Or was that too easy for you?”

“It was not like that,” Marcus said ruefully.

“A whirlwind courtship in the Fleet, was it?” Alistair said sarcastically. “Ah, the pure romance of it all!” He sat back in his wide armchair, looking resigned. “Damn it, Marcus, I hate the way you spring these surprises.”

Marcus sighed. “In truth there is little to tell. We met, we married and now I am come to claim my bride.”

“As one does,” Alistair said dryly. He shifted, rubbing his brow. “I suppose you are aware that Fleet marriages were made illegal nigh on fifty years ago?”

“I am aware.” Marcus stood up and dusted the sleeves of his jacket in an attempt to make the ancient evening outfit look a little less shiny and a little more acceptable for wearing in polite society. If he was to make a show of claiming Isabella, then he wanted to look his best to do it. His efforts were unsuccessful, however. He mused that perhaps he should visit his tailor as well as his barber on the morrow.

“This marriage, however, is not illegal,” he continued. “It was celebrated by a proper priest and authorized by special license. It is signed and sealed. You may trust Princess Isabella to have made sure of that. She could not afford for the marriage to be overset.”

Alistair nodded. “Of course. The debts.”

“Precisely.”

Alistair’s mouth turned down at the corners with deep disapproval.

“I do believe that one of us is mad here, Marcus, and I am not sure that it is I. How could you even countenance such an arrangement, given the history between yourself and Princess Isabella?” He caught Marcus’s sleeve and compelled him to sit down. “Cease fussing over that jacket, Marcus. Nothing will make it look any better. Instead tell me what is going on.”

Marcus sat back with a sigh. “It is a marriage of convenience,” he said. “Princess Isabella needed a husband to keep her debtors at bay and on the strength of our brief, previous acquaintance she approached me for assistance. Which I was—” He hesitated. “Persuaded to give.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Of all the rum starts, Marcus! Brief, previous acquaintance indeed!”

“I appreciate that it must appear strange,” Marcus said. He sat forward, feeling the constriction of the jacket across his shoulders. “Hmm. I require a new wardrobe—”

“To go with your new wife, I suppose,” Alistair said. “You are not making sense, Marcus. I thought that no one but I knew of your sojourn in the Fleet. How did Princess Isabella find you?”

“By happy chance,” Marcus said, a little grimly. “As I said, she needed a debtor and I was available.”

“The devil you were! Does she know that you were in the Fleet by your own choice?”

“Not yet,” Marcus said. “It is one of the many surprises that I have in store for her tonight. I cannot pretend that she will be pleased to see me, but that cannot be helped.”

Alistair peered at him. “I always thought that weddings were supposed to be happy affairs,” he said. “You do not seem very enamored of your bride, Marcus. Furthermore, this is not like you at all.”

Marcus fidgeted restlessly. He felt irritable and rather suspected it was with himself.

“On the contrary it is very like me. I become bored with the conventions of society—”

“So you arrange to be locked in the Fleet and then marry a shady princess into the bargain,” Alistair said.

“Exactly.” Marcus paused. “The marriage is a secret for the time being, however. I should be obliged if you would keep it so, Alistair.”

“Why?” his friend asked bluntly. “I mean, why is it a secret, not why should I help you keep it so, which goes without saying if you wish it of me.”

“There are various reasons,” Marcus said. “Firstly, my wife is unaware that I have achieved my release from prison and I wish to discuss the matter with her before our marriage becomes common knowledge. Secondly…” He hesitated. “Well, I have said that it is a match of convenience. It may be that the marriage will not endure long.”

Alistair was shaking his head. “Dashed irregular. The more I hear, the worse it becomes. Hope you know what you’re doing, Marcus.”

“I am not certain that I do,” Marcus conceded. “However, if I could ask you to keep the secret for now…?”

“Mute as an undertaker’s boy, I promise you,” Alistair said. He shook his head. “Lord, but I’d give a monkey to see the Dowagers’ faces when they realize another earl is off the marriage mart! And caught by a lady with such a scandalous reputation—” He stopped. There was a short and very pointed silence. The bleakness in Marcus’s heart was matched only by the pity in Alistair’s eyes.

“Just so,” Marcus said.

“My apologies,” Alistair said. “You will not wish to hear your wife’s name bandied about.”

Marcus shut his lips in a grim line. When Alistair had spoken he had felt the kick of rage through his body like a lightning strike. God help him, if a passing reference to Isabella could do this to him…he felt a white-hot possessive fury that beat anything he had ever experienced before. By rights Isabella Di Cassilis was his, now more than ever, and he would not rest until it was true in word and deed, and the memory of all that had gone before was wiped out.

He clenched his fists in his pockets and slowly released them.

“This is a marriage of convenience, Alistair,” he said, with a passable attempt at nonchalance.

“And so far the convenience appears to be all on the princess’s side,” Alistair pointed out. “I hesitate to appear meddlesome, Marcus, but what is the benefit to you?”

Marcus met his eyes very directly. “I want a reckoning. She owes me that.”

Alistair was shaking his head. “There is nothing so bitter and empty as revenge, Marcus. Let it go.”

“It is not for me,” Marcus argued, knowing that he was lying in part at least. “Princess Isabella drove a wedge between India and her mother that never healed.”

“And you feel guilty about India,” Alistair said heavily. “So you think to make Princess Isabella suffer for your guilt.”

The anger seethed within Marcus. “I would not allow many men to get away with such a remark,” he said through shut teeth.

“Not many men would have the guts to tell you the truth,” Alistair said with unimpaired calm.

The tension in the room simmered down a degree. Marcus gave a short laugh. “Damn you, Alistair.”

“By all means, old fellow,” Alistair agreed.

There was a silence.

“I do feel guilty,” Marcus admitted, after a moment. “India and I led such separate lives. I was never there for her.”

“She would still have died, Marcus. You were not responsible for that.”

Marcus moved restlessly. “If I had been here in Town instead of at Stockhaven…”

Alistair shook his head. “Marcus, she stepped in front of a carriage. It was an accident.”

Marcus did not reply. He wondered if there would ever come a time when he could think of his late wife without the mixture of paralyzing guilt and remorse that he felt now.

“I do not suppose,” he said after a moment, “that you know where Princess Isabella will be this evening?”

Alistair looked at him suspiciously. “What, am I your social secretary now? She is your wife. That is the sort of thing that a husband should know.”

Marcus sighed. “Touché, old chap. So?”

Alistair sighed, too. “You will find her at the Duchess of Fordyce’s ball. The old lady is very high in the instep, but not too high to welcome royalty.”

“Foreign royalty with a tarnished reputation?”

“Always welcome. It gives Her Grace’s guests something to talk about.”

“Hmm.” Marcus found that he disliked the idea of people gaping at Isabella as though she were a freak show. He knew he should not give a rush either way, but he did, and the knowledge was not entirely welcome.

“Do you have an invitation?” he inquired.

Alistair looked wry. “Second sons do not receive invitations to the Duchess of Fordyce’s events, Marcus.” He frowned. “I thought that we were going to White’s tonight?”

Marcus shook his head. “My plans have changed. I would like to indulge my sudden taste for society. Do you think the Duchess would welcome an itinerant earl, if not a younger son?”

“If the earl were rich and respectable enough, he would be welcomed with open arms,” Alistair said dryly. “I am not certain that she approves of you, though, Marcus. You are somewhat disreputable.”

Marcus looked offended. “I am not!”

“Well, at the least you are…” Alistair waved his hand about vaguely as though trying to pluck a description from the air. “Eccentric. Different. You are not in the normal run of earls. You have odd interests.”

“My interests are not odd.”

Alistair picked a book from the table and tilted it toward the lamplight. “Theoretical Naval Architecture,” he read aloud. “I rest my case.”

Marcus shrugged. “I am undertaking the design of a new frigate for the admiralty. They are plagued by those fast ships of the American Navy and wish to match their skill.”

Alistair laughed. “I doubt that such projects, worthy as they are, will convince the Duchess of Fordyce that you are anything other than unconventional, Marcus.”

“Well, if the duchess will not invite me then I must invite myself,” Marcus said. “I doubt that she will go so far as to throw me from the door.”

Alistair raised his brows critically. “You will attend a society ball looking like that?”

“Of course.” Marcus got to his feet. “My story is that I am but recently returned from Italy. They are a great deal more casual in their dress on the continent.”

“They would need to be deplorably so to pass muster looking as you do,” Alistair said with a grin. “However, if we are fortunate, the evening will already be well advanced and no one will notice us.”

“On the contrary,” Marcus said, “I intend to make an entrance.”

“To what purpose?”

Marcus’s eyes gleamed. “To disconcert my wife, of course. It will be my pleasure.”

He got to his feet. “An undertaker’s mute, eh?” he said with a look at his friend. “How very appropriate, when I imagine that Princess Isabella will view my arrival very much as the funeral of all her plans.” He clapped Alistair on the back. “Let us waste no more time. I am anxious to claim my bride.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“STOCKHAVEN HAS BEEN ASKING about you, Mr. Warwick.”

The room, at the top of a building in Wigmore Street, was hot and oppressive. Downstairs the expensive modiste’s shop that fronted the business was closed for the night. The equally expensive brothel that operated at the back was just starting to get busy.

A dazzling peach-and-gold sunset was fading over the London rooftops, but inside the room, the dirty windowpanes seemed to block out all that was fresh and alive. A bluebottle buzzed plaintively against the glass, seeking escape. The candles hissed softly. The man behind the desk was writing. He did not pause, or look up.

“Where?” His voice was very quiet. It was one of the things about Edward Warwick that frightened people; the contrast between the smooth surface and the viciousness beneath.

“In the Fleet.”

“I knew that.” Warwick looked up and a slight smile touched his mouth. “I might almost feel sorry for him. Three months in that hellhole and not a thing to show for it.” His expression sharpened, slate-gray eyes narrowing. “I take it that no one talked?”

“Of course not.” The other man was standing in front of the desk. He had not been invited to sit. “No one would dare, sir.”

Warwick stood up. He was not a tall man. Indeed, his air of near-frailty might lead some to underestimate him. He was fair, willowy and of such indeterminate appearance that no one was likely to remember him clearly. Which was just as it suited him.

“Then why are you here, Pearce?” There was a distinct undertone of menace in Warwick’s voice now. “It cannot be to tell me something I already know. I hope you are not wasting my time.”

The other man was nervous. “No, sir. I’m here because Stockhaven got married. In the Fleet, three days ago. We thought you might wish to know.”

Warwick froze. “Married? To whom?”

Pearce gulped. “To the Princess Isabella Di Cassilis, sir.”

There was a silence. Nothing happened. Warwick was as still as though he had not heard. Nevertheless, Pearce quaked in his shoes.

“You are certain?” Warwick’s voice was very soft now.

“Yes, sir. Which means that Stockhaven—”

“Owns Salterton Hall now. Yes, I realize that.”

Pearce fell silent. Edward Warwick did not need him to make his deductions for him. He had a mind like a steel blade.

“I thought,” Warwick said, after a long interval, “that Princess Isabella was ruined by debt and would be obliged to sell Salterton. How damnably annoying.”

“Her debts were more pressing than we had been led to believe. She had no time.” Pearce shook his head. “Henshalls are very discreet, sir.”

Warwick sighed. Not even his intelligence was accurate every time.

“This is inconvenient.”

Pearce knew that to be an understatement. He waited.

Warwick sighed again. “Very well. Leave this with me. Watch Stockhaven, and keep me informed.” He opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a small bag. The contents clinked softly. Warwick pushed it across the desk to Pearce. “You have done well.”

Pearce was so relieved that his body came out in a cold sweat. He brushed a droplet away from his brow. “Thank you, sir.”

He took the money and went. The fresh air swirled along the corridor downstairs. He could hear the sounds of female shrieks and masculine laughter from the open windows of the brothel. He did not want to linger. He had money for drink now and he still had his job. And his life. The last man to occupy Pearce’s role had disappeared and turned up six weeks later in the Thames. One could never be certain with Mr. Warwick.

ACROSS TOWN IN BRUNSWICK Gardens, Isabella was reading the evening edition of the Gentlemen’s Athenian Mercury. That newspaper was taking a close interest in her affairs and she did not care for it.

Members of the Ton will doubtless be disappointed to have seen so little of the lovely Princess IDC since her return from foreign shores. Can it be true that the princess has become a recluse, or is it merely that she is so short of funds that she cannot afford a new dress in which to dazzle society? Or perhaps the upright society hostesses cannot countenance such a bird of paradise upsetting their nests? One matter is for sure—the Princess will not find a rich gentleman to meet all her needs if she hides away at home….

Isabella put down the paper with a sigh. For a week now that vulgar publication had been running a series of announcements on the return of a certain royal personage whom they coyly referred to as Princess IDC. It did not take the finest minds in Europe to identify which particular princess they were referring to. Isabella sighed again. It seemed that someone was selling information about her. Most of it was presented as speculation, of course, but a couple of times the informant had been uncomfortably close to the mark. There had been a reference to her need to sell the Brunswick Gardens house, for example, and an accurate description of its tasteless opulence. Isabella found it disconcerting that someone should know so much about her life.