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Marcus turned, met his mother’s eyes and nodded reassurance.
‘Don’t tire him,’ was all she said as she went out, the demi-train of her gown swishing on the carpet.
‘Who shot you?’ his father demanded.
‘Miss Latham, who is, of course, the young woman who delivered the parcel the other morning.’ Marcus kept his voice scrupulously matter-of-fact. If he was in his father’s shoes, nothing would make him more frustrated and unwell than getting half-truths and evasions. ‘I tracked her down to her place of employment, followed her home and startled her, looming out of the fog. It appears she carries a pistol in her reticule.’
As if speaking of it touched a nerve, a wrenching pang shot through the wound. Marcus gritted his teeth, looked longingly at the brandy decanter and decided that, on top of blood loss, even one glass would seriously impair his analytical ability.
‘She meant to kill you?’ His father’s knuckles whitened on the head of his cane.
‘Probably not.’ Marcus shook his head, wondering why he had any doubts. Nell had seen his face and she had still held the pistol to his chest. Could she really not have realized it was loaded when she did not deny it was hers? ‘But she’s lying to me, still. I mean to keep her here for a day or two, see if I cannot pry the truth out of her. She’s deeper into this business with the rope than she says. I know it.’
Beside anything else, he could recall the feel of the gun in his hand. It was a well-made lady’s weapon with an ivory handle, not some ancient, cheap pistol bought on impulse from a Spitalfields pawnshop. Her confederate must have given it to her; that was the most likely explanation.
‘Who can be behind it?’ Lord Narborough frowned. ‘Now, I mean. In ninety-four
any of us were targets, and when Hebden and Wardale died, then I could have understood an attack.’ He swallowed and made a visible effort to regain his composure. ‘Feelings ran high.’
That was an understatement, Marcus thought, for the furore surrounding a murder, the unmasking of a spy ring, and a crisis of conscience that had never left his father in peace. ‘Almost twenty years,’ he pondered. ‘Enough time for the Wardale son to grow up.’
‘Young Nathan? He’ll be a man now. Last saw him when he was nine or ten. Blond child, big watchful eyes. Solemn little soul.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t suppose—’
‘Miss Latham is most definitely female.’ That earned an old-fashioned look from his father. ‘Blond, you say? Nathan Wardale’s not Nell’s dark man, then,’ Marcus added before the earl could pursue the question of why he was so certain of Nell’s gender.
‘Unless she’s trying to deceive you with a description that is the opposite of the truth,’ his father said, sitting up straighter. ‘Could she be his mistress, do you suppose?’
‘No!’ Marcus startled himself with the vehemence of his response, then tried to justify it. ‘She lives in cheap lodgings near Spitalfields church. Decent enough, but not the sort of situation to keep one’s mistress.’
‘And you would know,’ the older man said with an unexpected crack of laughter. ‘Come to an arrangement with Mrs Jensen yet? You’ve got good taste, I’ll give you that. Expensive ware, that one.’
‘Not yet, no, sir,’ Marcus responded, refusing to rise to the bait. How the devil his father knew about Perdita, let alone any details about her, escaped him. It never did to underestimate the earl.
‘So, what are you going to do about her?’
‘Mrs Jensen?’ he asked, playing for time.
‘No, this Miss Latham.’ The earl turned his gaze on his son, wicked amusement lurking behind the intelligence. It was not often these days that Marcus was reminded where Honoria and Hal got their wildness from, but it was evident tonight. The strain might be bad for his father’s heart, but the puzzle and the excitement were good for his spirits and his brain. ‘Do you think she’ll try and kill off any of the rest of us?’
‘I doubt it. She is not that foolish,’ he said dryly. ‘She’ll stay here—if whoever is behind this sees we have his agent in our hands, that might provoke a reaction.’
‘And how do you intend to keep her here short of force? Your mother might have something to say about that.’
‘I have threatened Miss Latham with Bow Street and a charge of assault by shooting,’ Marcus explained, grinning back as his father’s face was transformed by an appreciative smile.
‘Very good. And what was her response?’
‘She said it was nonsense, but as she was ripping up her petticoats to bandage my wound, she was unable to develop the argument.’
‘Stopping you bleeding to death certainly weakens the case against her,’ the earl observed. ‘She could have fainted conveniently and left you to bleed.’ There was a tap at the door.
‘Dr Rowlands for Lord Stanegate, my lord.’
‘I’ll be with him directly.’ Marcus got to his feet and rested one hand on his father’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry yourself about this, sir. We’ll get to the bottom of it soon.’
‘Aye, and what are we going to find there?’ he heard the older man mutter as the door closed behind him.
Nell was beginning to feel as if she was involved in a fencing match against two opponents. Miss Price, impeccably polite, appeared to be analysing every word she said and finding it sadly wanting. Her half smile expressed more doubt than if she had been on her feet accusing Nell of shooting Lord Stanegate deliberately.
