A Marquess, a Miss and a Mystery Read online

  Nick turned his head away, set his glass down on the mantelpiece and raised both his hands to his cravat. Demonstrating, should anyone else be taking note, that he cared more for his own appearance than he did for his half-brother’s opinion. It was an attitude he’d adopted very early on, in order to conceal his devastating pain at being cast off like an old shoe. Oliver might be the first born and the rightful heir, and nowadays also one of the wealthiest men in England, but Nick was never going to let him forget that, once, Nick had seen him standing hat in hand, shuffling his feet in their scuffed boots.

  After adjusting the set of his already perfectly arranged neckcloth, Nick returned his gaze to the scowling Duke, raising his quizzing glass as he ran a disparaging eye over the bulky frame in its sombre clothing, before allowing his lips to twist in just the hint of a disdainful grimace, before switching his attention back to his sister.

  Who’d so bitterly referred to the Duke as a cuckoo.

  But then that was how it had seemed, to start with. As though the moment he’d come to Theakstone Court, Nick and his sisters, along with their mother, had been tossed out of their cosy nest.

  The truth was, however, that even though they’d all resented the boy whose appearance had made their father look at them all differently, the analogy fell down under scrutiny. Because no matter where Oliver Norrington had spent the first eleven years of his life, there was no disputing the fact that he was the legitimate first born. And that Nick would remain second best for ever. No matter what he did.

  ‘Should I,’ said Nick, quirking an eyebrow at his sister’s reflection, ‘ask why you are here, then?’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘Anyone who is anyone has been invited. It is the event of the Season. Even the Wortley-Fortescues are posting back from Paris to attend.’

  Yes, so they were. He turned to his sister slowly, giving his mind the leisure to ponder that fact before having to come up with the kind of spiteful witticism she would expect.

  The Duke had put it about that he had invited so many of the great and good of the land to Theakstone Court because he wanted to introduce his bride to society from his own home, rather than pitching her into the hothouse that was London. Yet, what better excuse could there be for getting all the members of a network together? They could exchange the latest information they’d gathered over a hand of whist, or while out riding in the park, to whoever intended to take it to their paymasters in France. That must have been what Miss Carmichael had meant by her comment about him having the same reason for coming here as she did. She clearly thought he’d come to Theakstone Court on the trail of those responsible for her brother’s death.

  And he’d said nothing to disabuse her of that opinion. Because he wanted her to think he was at least as clever as she. Yet only now did he regard the way the room was already thronging with all the noblest and most influential members of society left in England with suspicion. For many of them, as his sister had just pointed out, had already taken advantage of Bonaparte’s defeat and crossed the Channel to see Paris. Or Brussels. Or any other of the cities that had been impossible to visit while Europe had been at war. And once the celebrations for the Duke’s nuptials were done, many more of them would take to ships and flock to the Continent. And only a very few people, who knew that information was being passed to the French, would think anything other than that the fashionable were determined to keep up with the latest trend.

  ‘I cannot deny that it has also given me a great deal of pleasure to install my own children in the nursery where we all used to play,’ his sister added, with a flash of malice. The sister who’d correctly deduced why he was here.

  Because she knew him. She knew that he could, and frequently did, act from petty motives. Over the years, he’d gone from doing his utmost to prove to his father that he was the better son, to creating the biggest scandals he could simply to get the old devil to notice he still existed.

  ‘Mary did the same. We thought we should make a point, you know.’

  ‘And what point would that be,’ he said, ‘precisely?’ That they were still pouting over the fact that their father had been unjust and unkind? ‘She was only a babe when we left. She can surely recall nothing of this house, or what it was like to live here.’ He’d only been approaching his sixth birthday himself. Though some things were impossible to forget. Like this room. He let his eyes wander over the nymphs frolicking about the frieze below the elaborate plaster adorning the ceiling. All that yellow. Like sunshine, Mother had always said, although today it put him in mind of lemons and the bitter taste they left in the mouth.

  ‘We still have more right to be here than...than anyone else.’ She shot a look of sheer loathing at Miss Underwood, who was hanging on to the Duke’s arm and gazing up at him with a worshipful expression. He couldn’t quite believe that any woman could look at any man with quite so much open adoration, let alone a man like the Duke.

  ‘Especially that by-blow of his.’

  ‘His what?’ He whipped round to look at her.

  ‘Oh, didn’t you know? Our perfect brother has blotted his copybook. And rather than making any attempt to be discreet, he has brought the fruit of his misdeeds into his house and is forcing that stupid girl to acknowledge it. And she is making a mull of things, from what I hear. The schoolroom is in total chaos, at any rate, since there is no governess in residence.’

  She’d said it at the top of her voice. As though hoping anyone within earshot would hear. Because she was furious. And no wonder. It was bad enough to have been thrown out as though they were chaff. But to hear that Oliver was prepared to bring an illegitimate child here really turned the knife in the wound.

  He turned to stare at his half-brother with resentment. Was he doing it to make a point? To tell the world that he held even a bastard in higher esteem than his own legitimate siblings?

  By God, he hoped that Miss Carmichael was right. That this week-long celebration of the Duke’s nuptials to a nobody really was a front to disguise the true purpose of gathering this particular set of people here. That among them all was a small group who were dedicated to betraying their country by passing on highly sensitive information to the French. Specifically, to those segments of the French population who persisted in supporting Napoleon Bonaparte and stirring up as much unrest as they could. Who’d do whatever it took to see him restored to power, even if it meant plunging Europe back into a state of warfare.

  When he and Herbert had first been alerted to what was going on, he’d leapt at the chance to find out who the traitors were, believing there could be nothing more satisfying than preventing Europe from descending into warfare again. But if the Duke was mixed up in this particular act of treason...then, oh, yes, that would really be something.

  Even if the Duke wasn’t mixed up in it, at the very least Nick would stir up a hornet’s nest.

  He looked round the room at the wedding guests who’d already arrived. Miss Carmichael seemed to believe that her brother’s killer was here. Possibly in this very room. Why? What did she know that he didn’t?

  Hah. Probably a great many things. He’d been so distracted since Herbert’s death that he hadn’t even heard about the Duke’s love child.

  He had to pull himself together. The room was teeming with nobles, politicians and high-ranking clergy. Any one of whom could have turned traitor and then had Herbert killed rather than risk exposure. Because Herbert had been getting close. Too close for someone’s comfort, clearly. Else why have him killed?

  He altered his stance, just a touch, so that he could see the corner of the room in which Herbert’s sister was sitting. She was nibbling at a slice of chicken, rather disconsolately. Because he’d told her she was no good at this line of work.

  And she wasn’t. Yes, she could decipher codes, but she had no talent for the kind of double-dealing that had come to Herbert naturally. She couldn’t sit up all night drinking a
potential source of information into a stupor, lulling them into a false sense of security by ladling on the charm. She couldn’t befriend someone and, under the guise of gossiping, gain their sympathy and get them to reveal far more than they should.

  And yet she wanted to track down Herbert’s killer. It was why she’d come here. It must be. It certainly couldn’t be for the reason most women would attend a wedding. She wasn’t one of those who went to any lengths to get invitations to the most fashionable events, to get a rich, titled husband. Since she’d stumbled through her first Season without taking, she’d gained a reputation for disliking men. You only had to look at her to see she had no interest in fashion, either.

  And from what she said, she had information that, when put together with what he knew, might blow the whole conspiracy wide open.

  But how could he involve her in an affair that had become so dangerous that even Herbert, a skilled operative, hadn’t survived?

  And Herbert had been so determined to keep her out of things that he hadn’t let anyone, not even Nick, know she was making any contribution to their work at all.

  Not so determined, however, that he’d had any scruples about getting her to decipher the coded messages that had occasionally fallen into their hands.

  ‘Whatever is it about that creature that has you so fascinated?’ His sister’s strident tones broke into his thoughts, making him aware that for the last few minutes he’d been staring at Herbert’s sister, while debating with himself whether he could, in all conscience, bring her on board.

  ‘I am wondering whether it would be profitable to cultivate her acquaintance.’

  ‘What, a drab little thing like that? Not your usual style, Nick.’ Though then she grinned. ‘What mischief are you plotting? It has to be something exceptionally wicked for you to get that particular look on your face.’

  ‘I shall not tell you,’ he said with sincerity. The last person he could tell of his sensitive dealings with government ministers was a gabblemonger like Jane. He might as well take out an advertisement in The Times. ‘But what I can promise you is that our half-brother is not going to like it.’

  ‘Oh, goody,’ she said. ‘If there is anything I can do to help, you have only to let me know. I would give almost anything to see that smug expression wiped off his face.’

  Yes, even to the point of conniving in an innocent damsel’s downfall, by the look she was shooting Miss Carmichael.

  Though was he any better? His plans for her were not of the sort Jane assumed. But they would bring her into just as much danger. And not merely of her virtue, but possibly of her very life.

  If he was a less selfish man, he wouldn’t dream of involving her. But he was selfish. The work he’d begun with Herbert had given him a sense of purpose for the first time in his life. And he was good at it, too. He simply didn’t want to give it up.

  Besides, preventing a war was more important than the welfare of one insignificant female.

  Wasn’t it?

  Chapter Six

  The chicken was probably delicious, but to Horatia it might as well have been shoe leather she was chewing. Lord Devizes was just like every other man she’d ever known, apart from Herbert. They thought she could not possibly be of any help with their manly, important work. He’d walked away with a sort of sneer, though how on earth anyone could express disdain by the way they walked she could not say. And then she’d watched him discussing her with his scarily dainty, fashionable sister, to judge from the way they kept glancing at her and laughing nasty little laughs.

  The rebuff was doubly hard because at one point he’d more or less acknowledged the contribution she’d made, just before he’d dashed her hopes by pointing out how unfit she was for the kind of work Herbert had undertaken. And then rounded it all off by saying that Herbert would want her to stay out of it.

  Which was true, of course. Herbert had been terribly protective of her. He’d stressed how dangerous the people were he hunted down and how important it was that nobody ever find out she was involved in bringing them to justice.

  And he’d been right. They were so dangerous that one of them, sensing Herbert was getting close to exposing them, had killed him. But did that mean she was going to just sit back and let them get away with it?

  She dragged her eyes away from Lord Devizes, and his titled sister, and gazed round the room, wondering which of these lofty personages could possibly be not only a traitor, but also responsible for the death of her brother. Not that they would have soiled their aristocratic fingers with the dagger themselves. They’d have hired some low, common person to do the dirty work. But somebody here was the one who signed his notes by the code name of The Curé. The presence of Lord Devizes had at least confirmed that much, even if he wasn’t going to share any other information with her. His animosity for his half-brother the Duke was so tangible nothing else could possibly have induced him to attend the wedding.

  Just as her thoughts turned to him again, he started stalking in her direction, eyeing her the way she’d imagine a lion would look at its next meal.

  ‘The chicken not to your liking?’

  ‘Um,’ she said stupidly, her mouth suddenly running dry. What was he playing at? And why was he looking at her like that? As though...as though he’d like to sink his teeth into her.

  ‘Come, come, Miss Carmichael, if you are going to mix with the great and good of the land, you are going to have to come up with a wittier response than um when somebody makes a conversational gambit.’

  ‘Oh...er...’

  ‘That is even worse. You are making it obvious to all that my presence overwhelms you. And now you are blushing,’ he said mockingly. ‘Gauche. That is what you look. Gauche and ill dressed, and totally out of place.’

  Well, she might be a bit gauche, but he was being extremely rude. Deliberately. As though he was trying to upset her. ‘You are not going to scare me off,’ she said fiercely, having suddenly seen what he was about. ‘I have come here to find out who is responsible for...’ She pulled herself up on the brink of saying the words he’d warned her were not to be uttered, and changed them to, ‘You know what...and insulting me isn’t going to make me...cry, or run away, or...or whatever it is you are attempting to do.’

  ‘Well, well,’ he drawled. ‘Quite the little vixen, when provoked. Perhaps,’ he said in a voice suddenly turned all...caressing, ‘there is more to you than meets the eye.’

  Now what was he doing? She narrowed her eyes. He was looking at her the way he looked at all those silly women who fluttered round him, hoping to become his next bed partner. With smouldering eyes. And a smile that she could somehow only describe as inviting. ‘It is of no use ladling on the charm,’ she said firmly. ‘Not when it is so patently insincere. Besides, I have a mirror. I know perfectly well what I look like.’

  ‘Ah, but I was pointing out that there is more to you than meets the eye. Things that a mirror cannot show.’

  ‘I am not going to fall for that plumper, either,’ she said. She would have said a great deal more, only Miss Underwood was coming over.

  ‘I do hope you are, I mean, that everything is...’ said Miss Underwood, looking anxiously between her and the lazily smiling Lord Devizes.

  Horatia found that she was clutching her plate in such a tight grip it was a wonder the fragile porcelain had not snapped. Her irritation must be obvious to everyone in the room, while Lord Devizes was lounging against the side jamb of the window, the epitome of cool, calm masculinity. No, no, not cool and calm. Smouldering and confident, that was what his stance portrayed. As if he was sure she was going to be his next conquest.

  ‘What can you possibly be implying?’ he said, folding his arms across his chest and raising one eyebrow.

  Exactly! He could not possibly be attempting to make a conquest of her, no matter how it might appear.

  So what was he about? Did he just
delight in making sport of poor little dabs of females? Or was it Miss Underwood and his brother he was trying to provoke?

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Miss Underwood, ‘I am sure it must be very hard for Miss Carmichael to cope with...um, having been so recently bereaved, I mean she must be...and really, we ought to be trying to be more...’

  He straightened up. ‘Are you trying to teach me my manners?’ His smile had gone. ‘Miss Underwood?’

  ‘Of course she isn’t,’ said Lady Elizabeth, who must have also approached while she’d been talking to Lord Devizes. Or at least, fencing with him verbally. ‘Horatia, I can see you have finished with your food. Shall we retire to our rooms now?’

  Lord Devizes was smiling again down his perfectly formed nose at her. And no wonder. Not just her hostess, but also her friend, had noticed her mounting annoyance and come dashing to her rescue before she disgraced herself by doing something like flinging her plate to the ground so that she could stand up and launch into a proper duel with him.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said in a voice that was as humble as she could make it sound, ‘that would be best.’ She got to her feet and set her plate on the side table the footman had brought her, before she could change her mind about turning it into any kind of missile.

  ‘Best for whom?’

  To her surprise, it was Lord Devizes who’d spoken.

  ‘You may be pretending to be concerned for her welfare,’ he continued, eyeing Miss Underwood in a very disdainful manner, ‘but isn’t it the truth that you want to shuffle her out of the way? So that she cannot bring a shadow to your glittering show?’