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Miriam had set the battered old writing slope on a table with as much care as if it was a costly dressing case. The feel of the tiny key around her neck had Nell pulling it out, turning it between her fingers. Should she open the box, read the diary and the letters? Which was worse? Knowing the truth or imagining it?
The other maid came back, garments draped over her arms. ‘Lady Honoria and Lady Verity thought you might wish to borrow some gowns, Miss Latham, seeing as how your luggage got lost. And there’s some indoor shoes, miss, just come from the cobblers, that Lady Verity thought would fit.’
The key on its ribbon slid back under her bodice as Nell got up. So, her face was saved in front of the servants at least. She smiled and tried not to show her emotions at the thought of those pretty gowns, the light fabrics, the big Paisley shawl, the brand-new silk stockings that lay on top.
‘Dinner will be in an hour and a half, miss. Would you like to take your bath and to change now?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Time to get used to her new clothes. Time to practise walking and smiling and chattering of polite nothings so she could survive the first formal meal in this fairy-tale world into which Marcus Carlow had propelled her.
But her resolution to think of nothing but ladylike behaviour did not survive long once she was dressed and alone in the jewel box of a room. The writing slope seemed to call to her, crouching like a toad in the middle of the polished table.
Her hands shook as she opened it. Diary or letters? Just one letter, the most recent, that was all she could cope with. The pink silk ribbon was faded with age as she untied the bow and lifted the topmost folded paper. The paper crackled, brittle and yellow, as she smoothed it out. It was clear to read, a strong male handwriting in spluttering brown ink with a pen that had seen better days.
Newgate.
Nell dropped the sheet in shock, then forced herself to pick it up again.
March 16, 1795
My darling, tomorrow is my last day on earth. I have stopped hoping now that George Carlow will relent, will make any effort to save me. He could, if he wished, I know it. He has the ear of those high enough, if only he will tell the truth about what happened. Why he will not, I do not know. Is it because of that sin I committed that you, my love, have forgiven me for? Could his priggish disapproval of adultery be enough to see me hang when he knows me innocent of the greater crimes for which I am condemned? Or is there some other reason?
> I can hardly believe that. Yet others believe it of me. If it is true, if George is behind this tangle of lies, you must beware. Trust no one, least of all him. He will try and tell you his conscience and his honour dictated his actions, his treachery to his oldest friend. Honour? I hope he has enough to keep away tomorrow. I do not want to go to my Maker with the sight of his face before me.
Your money they cannot touch. They have taken my title, my lands, my wealth, my name—my life is the least of it. Your dowry is safe. Even at my most profligate, I never touched that. You know where to go, where to hide to start your new life.
I beg you not to come tomorrow. I want to know you are with the children, that you, at least, are safe. Kiss them for me. Tell them their father loves them as I love their mother. I have not always shown that love as I should, but I give it now, with all my heart.
Your devoted husband, to death and beyond,
William.
Her father had hanged for something so awful that they had stripped him of his title. Hanged. That was what the silken rope was about. She remembered now, a nobleman was hanged with that, not with coarse hemp.
The letter fluttered to the embroidered bedcover and this time she did not pick it up. Papa had gone to his death believing that George Carlow—the Earl of Narborough, that nice man who was so ill—could have saved him, and suspecting that he had the worst of reasons for not doing so.
Her father had betrayed her mother with another woman and had been forgiven for it.
Nell stared blindly at the wall. So much made sense now: her mother’s reticence; her aloofness from their neighbours; their quiet, retired life. The money from a fixed income ebbing away inexorably as three children grew up and prices rose. Her bitterness and sadness.
Had Nathan and Rosalind known the truth? Nathan should have inherited a title, lands. She scrabbled through the pile of letters until she found an earlier one with the address wrapper still intact. The Countess of Leybourne. That made sense now, the memory of someone talking about the Earl of Leybourne when she had been small and of being hushed.
An earl. Hanged. She had known there had been scandal and tragedy surrounding her father’s death, but not this, never this. A dry sob rose in her throat, but there were no tears. Perhaps it was the shock, but her mind was clear and her hands, as she folded the letter away and turned the key, were steady.
Courage, she told herself. Somehow her own tragic history had resurfaced; it was too much of a coincidence that she had become accidentally entangled with the Carlows just when someone decided to attack them with the memories of that old scandal. Someone was pulling strings, and she had no idea who or why.
Now she had to go downstairs, make conversation, sit and break bread with the man who had stood by and let her father hang. If her father’s suspicions were correct, Lord Narborough might even have been guilty of something far worse than abandoning his friend. She had to keep her knowledge secret. If Marcus Carlow found out who she was, he would believe she had every motive in the world for seeing his father dead, for wreaking vengeance on the entire Carlow family.
There would be a time to let her emotions sweep her away with grief for the past, for her parents. But not now, not while that man watched her, alert for the slightest weakness.
Chapter Seven
It was as though the good clothes wrought their own magic, Marcus thought, studying Nell as she pecked at her dinner. With her hair dressed by the maid and in one of Honoria’s evening gowns—its amber silk making her eyes greener and her hair more richly honey-brown—she looked every bit as much the well-bred young lady as did his sisters. But then, he realized, he had paid little attention to her clear speech and obvious education. She might be a milliner now, but she had not always been one. Miss Latham had been born and brought up a lady. More secrets. More lies.
She was very pale and avoided looking at him, which was an achievement, considering that he sat opposite her. With five women and only two men, the table was, of necessity, unbalanced. He was flanked by Verity and Diana Price, with Nell and Honoria opposite. His father had felt well enough to take the head of the table; his mother, elegant as always, was at the foot.
But Nell, while she did not look at him, could not seem able to keep her eyes off his father, her expression serious, questioning, as it kept flickering towards the earl. Was she watching him for signs of weakness, anxious about the effect her delivery of the parcel had had on his health?
She caught the fullness of her underlip in her teeth and the unconscious gesture drew his attention to her mouth and sent a lance of heat straight to his loins. He must have made some movement, for her eyes finally met his, colour touching her cheeks at whatever she saw there. She looked away again and listened to Verity’s chatter about the plans for her come-out ball, but Marcus sensed her wary attention was still on him.
