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“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.
“Miss Penelope Standish, Your Serene Highness.”
The butler’s smooth tones broke into her thoughts. Belton spoke with the air of a man announcing news in somewhat dubious taste. It had been clear to Isabella from the beginning that Belton was a servant of discrimination, who felt it might be slightly beneath his dignity to work for a family where the genes of King George’s fishmonger were combined with the poor reputation of a third-rate European prince. After all, he had served the most high-ranking families of the land. This could only be construed as a comedown.
The butler’s tone was not lost on the young lady who entered the library, for she gave him a twinkling smile. When he responded with a faint but irresistible twitch of the lips, she went into a peal of laughter.
“Good evening, Belton. I always have the impression that you wish you had a respectable duchess to announce.”
“Madam…” the butler said repressively. “It is scarcely my place to express a preference.”
Pen gave him another melting smile, very like her sister’s, and came forward to kiss Isabella.
“You look very doleful this evening, Your Serene Highness,” she said. “Have you lost a guinea and found a groat?”
“Please drop the Serene Highness nonsense,” Isabella besought. “I have asked Belton time and time again, but he insists that it is not appropriate merely to call me madam.”
“I should think not,” Pen said cheerfully, throwing herself down on the sofa with hoydenish abandon. “The least you can do is give your servants the gratification of addressing you properly if they have the privilege of working for a princess. There is nothing worse than a lady of consequence who will not accept her own importance, you know.”
“You talk a great deal of nonsense,” Isabella said. Nevertheless, she felt cheered. Until Pen had arrived she had been drinking a solitary cup of tea and staring blankly at the newspapers, wondering what the Gentlemen’s Athenian Mercury would make of the real truth. She had importuned a former lover to marry her; she had contracted the marriage in the Fleet Prison and she intended to have it annulled as soon as she could. If the editors of the papers knew the true story, their gossip columns would likely burst into flames.
“You look tired,” Pen was saying solicitously.
“I have not slept,” Isabella said with a sigh. “It puts me out of countenance.”
It was not in fact accurate to describe the last night as sleepless. Her bouts of wakefulness had been punctuated by broken dreams about Marcus of such astoundingly erotic content that she had been dizzy and aroused upon awakening, unable to banish him from her mind. She had been forced to dredge up her Latin declensions in order to try and bore herself to calm. It was the third night it had happened and thinking of it now was sufficient to put her out of countenance all over again.
“Are we not to attend the Duchess of Fordyce’s rout?” Pen inquired, stripping off her gloves. She gestured to her rose-pink gown. “Here I am dusting down the only dress in my wardrobe worthy of the occasion and I find you sitting here with a face like a December morning.” Her comical expression faded. “Oh! I forgot—you were to see Mr. Churchward this week about Ernest’s debts, were you not? Was it so very bad?”
“Worse than very bad,” Isabella confirmed.
Pen made a tutting sound. “Then I am surprised not to find you at your packing,” she said. “Was Mr. Churchward’s advice not to return to the continent?”
“It was one of the suggestions that he made,” Isabella said evasively. She did not intend to tell Pen about her marriage of convenience. This was no altruistic move designed to spare her sister the shock, but sprang from the certain knowledge that Pen would disapprove and, further, would express that disapproval in very pithy terms. And since Isabella intended to dissolve the marriage before the ink was dry on the certificate, there was no need for Pen to know anything. It would have been nice to have a confidante, but in recent years Isabella had become used to keeping her own counsel and, besides, she knew the one thing it would be dangerous to discuss was Marcus Stockhaven.
“This house is to be sold,” she continued. “Not that I regret that particularly, since it was Ernest’s and he furnished it in his customary deplorable taste.”
Pen looked around at the ostentatious golden ornaments and flamboyant decor. “It would be appropriate for a bawdy house,” she conceded, “but I cannot favor it for a residence.”
“Mr. Churchward thinks that a nabob may buy it,” Isabella said gloomily. “Home from home, so to speak.”
