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Deceived. Nicola Cornick
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“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.