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‘Possibly.’ Still feeling defensive, Marcus opened the library door and motioned Veryan inside. ‘I had hopes he was finding this more stimulating than upsetting, but the reminder that there might be some doubt about Wardale’s guilt—that hit him hard.’
‘So, what else is there?’ Veryan strolled over to the globe and set it spinning, one long finger tracing across the continents like an emperor seeking new lands to conquer. ‘Anything to do with that charming young lady I met in the hall on my arrival by any chance?’
‘Miss Latham? She delivered the parcel that set this whole nightmare going.’
‘And is she the owner of a pistol, one wonders?’
‘Of course not.’ He trusted Veryan, but the identity of whoever had shot him—a capital crime at worst—was not something he intended to reveal to anyone outside the family.
‘No. Quite.’ Apparently intent on the borders of Russia, Veryan did not lift his head. ‘A young lady of mystery, then?’
‘A milliner, that is genuine enough. She says the man who sent the parcel used her employer to secure its delivery.’
‘Possible.’
‘But she is hiding something,’ Marcus said, half to himself. ‘I want to believe she is telling me the truth and yet, somehow, I cannot.’
‘Then trust your instincts,’ Veryan said, looking up suddenly, his pale eyes intent. ‘With a male suspect there are obvious methods of getting to the truth, regrettably coarse though some of those methods may be. With women, perhaps one needs to be slightly more…subtle.’ His smile did not quite reach his eyes.
With an unpleasant taste in his mouth, Marcus watched Veryan’s carriage disappear down the drive. Veryan’s veiled suggestion that he seduce the truth out of Nell chimed all too closely with his own desires to be comfortable. It felt as though he had somehow let Nell down by talking about her to the other man and that he had revealed too much of his own thoughts to the experienced spymaster.
He gave himself a brisk mental shake and went back to the study, determined to take both his, and his father’s, mind off the mystery by discussing coppicing and the troublesome flooding in the West Meadow.
Nell sat in the window seat, arms tight around her knees, staring out into the bright sunlight. The frosted world was radiant, untouched except for the marks of Lord Keddinton’s carriage cutting through the whiteness on the drive and the birds’ tiny footprints on the lawns. This place was so peaceful, so lovely, so apparently secure. Once, she had had a home like this, and that security had been built on sand.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ The deep voice behind her made her jump. Marcus.
‘Yes, in London, snow or frost soon turns into filthy sludge,’ she agreed without turning.
‘Would you like to drive out with me?’
That brought her round, catching at her skirts to keep her ankles modestly covered. As she did so, Nell smiled at the impulse. She had been in bed in her nightgown with this man, for goodness’ sake! It was past time for worrying about her ankles.
‘You like the idea?’ He had caught the smile, although he must be wondering about the accompanying blush.
‘The ground is too hard for the horses, surely?’ What was this? Another olive branch or an opportunity for interrogation?
‘Not if we stay at a walk. There is a stand of timber my father and I disagree about. He wants it clear felled, I favour coppicing. A second look would be useful and the fresh air welcome.’ When she did not respond, uncertain what she wanted, he added, ‘And your company, of course.’
‘Thank you, it would be pleasant, if you do not mind waiting while I find my coat and boots.’
‘Borrow a muff,’ he called after her as she whisked up the stairs, her mood lifting from mild melancholy to sudden happiness. Even if this house was less of a safe fortress than it seemed and the people within it not everything they purported to be, it was still a waking dream to cling to while it lasted. And she would be alone with Marcus again, that heart-stopping, frightening pleasure.
‘You are very quiet,’ he observed, glancing down at her as the curricle proceeded sedately along the drive. ‘Or are you unable to speak under all that?’
Nell was wrapped up in her coat, a rug around her legs, a scarf about her neck, and Honoria’s vastly fashionable muff covering her knees like a large shaggy dog. The matching fur hat came down almost to her nose, so she had to tip up her head to look at him.
‘There is too much to look at,’ she explained. ‘This is like a fairy-tale scene at Astley’s Amphitheatre.’
‘You’ve been there?’
Nell made herself relax and tried not to feel defensive. Even milliners might save up to go to Astley’s now and again. ‘Oh, yes. Not often, of course.’ When they had come back to London, selling the little villa in Rye and moving into rented rooms, there had been enough for occasional treats for a while. She remembered the lights and the spangles, the white horses and the acrobats, and she smiled.
‘Is your head better?’ Marcus asked abruptly when she did not elaborate.
‘Yes, thank you. You are a good physician.’
‘Not at all. But I am glad it is all right. My conscience was pricking me for not insisting on the doctor after all.’
