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And the madness had seized him, swept way everything that might have held him back until that moment, almost too late, when he had found himself at the very point of surging into her body. It had been her eyes again—filled with trust—that had stopped him. Trust. And he was betraying it, whatever she thought she wanted or needed at that moment.
Damn it, why should she give him a second glance now? Hal was here: handsome, laughing—Hal never frowned—fun. Good. Excellent in fact, provided Hal did not seduce her. He would have a word with him about that, explain her circumstances, tell Hal all about the mysterious attacks.
Marcus looked across, satisfied he had now solved the puzzle of what to do about Nell Latham. All he had to do was warn his brother to behave, let her enjoy whatever parties or amusements that Hal’s fertile brain conjured up, and then when this was all over, establish her in a neat little shop in a fashionable district. She could communicate with his man of business; there would be no need to see her again. That had to be good.
He caught Hal’s eye and jerked his head slightly towards the door.
‘I’ll go up and er…rest before I change for dinner,’ Hal announced, getting to his feet. ‘Keep me company, Marc?’
‘Of course.’ He followed his brother out and they climbed the stairs together in silence until they were out of earshot of the footmen in the hall.
‘What’s afoot?’ Hal asked. ‘Mysterious ladies disguised as milliners—or is it the other way round?—gamekeepers all over the place, Mama putting a brave face on something, you all here with only weeks to go to the start of the Season. This is a damn sight more interesting than I expected my convalescence to be.’
They walked into Hal’s room to find his batman laying out his evening clothes. ‘Thank you, Langham. Lord Stanegate will assist me.’
‘It’s a mystery,’ Marcus said as the door closed and he went to help Hal out of his well-fitting coat. ‘And a dangerous one, I suspect. I’d best start at the beginning. What do you know about the scandal of ninety-four?’
‘Nothing.’ Hal began to unbutton his waistcoat. ‘I was five, remember? No one has enlightened me since, and on the one occasion I asked, I had my head bitten off for my pains. Life’s too short to worry about ancient history.’
‘Not so ancient,’ Marcus said, going down on one knee to pull at his brother’s boot. ‘It’s come back to haunt us.’
‘Bloody hell.’ After half an hour of concise explanation, Hal had given up undressing and was still in his shirt sleeves and stockinged feet. Military life had certainly given him an ability to absorb facts, Marcus noted. The questions had been few and pertinent, but Hal’s eyebrows still had to descend to their normal level.
‘No wonder you’ve abandoned the field and surrendered the delicious Mrs Jensen to Armside,’ he added, when the tale was finally told.
‘What? Damn it, I was on the point of settling with her.’
‘I know. The clubs are full of it and Armside is smug beyond bearing. Mind you, having seen the delicious Miss Latham—’He broke off as Marcus’s fist clenched involuntarily. ‘No?’
‘No,’ Marcus said with emphasis. ‘Miss Latham is gently born but has fallen on hard times since the loss of her family and is now employed as a milliner. She is mixed up in this because, as I told you, our mystery man used her as a messenger.’
‘That’s not all, is it?’ Hal began to strip off the rest of his clothing.
‘No. She knows more than she’s saying, but I can’t believe— Hell’s teeth, that looks sore!’ A raw scar cut a jagged path down Hal’s ribs. In the centre, there was still a dressing and the s
kin looked heated and slightly swollen.
‘You might say so.’ Hal squinted down at himself. ‘The cut wasn’t deep—more of a slice—but it took all sorts of rubbish in under the skin and by the time I got some medical attention it was a proper mess. Healing now, though.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Marcus splashed warm water into the washbasin for him and propped his shoulder against the bedpost while Hal took the rest of his clothes off and began to wash. ‘Another dashing scar to fascinate the ladies?’
‘Well, not exactly ladies.’ Hal grinned, comfortable in his nakedness. ‘You were saying about Miss Latham?’
‘That she might be hiding something and she might be a milliner now, but she has enough on her plate without you setting out to break her heart.’
‘Me?’ Hal managed a look of utterly unconvincing innocence as he pulled on his evening breeches. ‘What you mean is, you were enjoying a pleasant flirtation when along I come, with my superior charm and elegant profile, and now you’re getting all protective.’
‘As yet the French have not managed to flatten your elegant profile, little brother, but believe me, if you compromise Miss Latham I will do it for them.’ He managed to smile as though the threat was a joke.
‘Compromise her? Certainly not.’ Hal tucked in his shirt. ‘Pass me a clean neckcloth, will you? But I’ll enjoy cutting you out.’
Marcus contemplated retorting that his brother could try, then saw the trap. The worst thing would be to offer Hal a challenge, it was the equivalent of releasing a mouse in front of a cat. He shrugged negligently. ‘Stop mangling that neckcloth. I need to change too.’
‘I’m ready.’ Hal tugged at his cuffs and followed Marcus out. ‘So what, exactly, are we doing to solve this mystery, or does the family skulk out here for ever?’
‘We can’t do that,’ Marcus said when they were alone in his room. ‘The girls and Mama don’t know what is going on. They expect to be back in London for the Season. If it were you and me and Father we could lure him in, but I daren’t send the women away either, not without me.’
He tossed his shirt on the bed as Hal came and turned him by the shoulders into the light. ‘So this is the famous gunshot wound from the footpad?’ He lifted the edge of the dressing and drew a sharp breath. ‘Nasty. But small calibre. One might almost say a lady’s pistol.’
