Deceived (12 page)

"
It is a situation that you brought upon yourself," Marcus said.

"I require no reminder," Isabella snapped at him. "You may be certain that I shall extract myself from it one way or another as soon as I may." She took a deep breath. "I am certain for a start that our marriage must be illegal."

"And I hesitate to disappoint you but I promise it is not," Marcus drawled. "How could it be, when you went to such pains to make sure that it was lawful? And once it has been consummated, the match will be sealed as well as signed."

Two of the struts of Isabella's fan fractured under the pressure of her fingers. She rubbed the tiny splinters of wood from her gloved fingers.

"Once again, you go too far, my lord."

Marcus raised his hand and touched her cheek thoughtfully. He was hot with anger, but it could not quench the desire that drove him.

"You are my wife, Isabella," he said softly. "You have given me whatever rights I choose to take."

Her face warmed beneath his touch, but whether with fury or need he could not tell.

"Nonsense!" She sounded as though she wanted to have him flayed alive for his impudence. "I owe you nothing but the payment of my debt, Lord Stockhaven."

"Not so." Marcus's tone was hard now. "You owe me whatever I wish. You owe me a wedding night."

They stared at one another like gladiators locked in combat, captured in each other's eyes, sealed from the outside world.

One of the duchess's guests had come upon them unnoticed and now she brushed against Isabella's sleeve with a murmured apology and a more than curious glance. Isabella blinked, as though freed from a dream, and Marcus felt an almost physical tug as she pulled her gaze from him.

"We cannot discuss this here, my lord," she said. "The entire situation is—" Her voice shook a little. "It is absurd."

Marcus, too, was more shaken than he cared to admit. He cleared his throat. "Then let us adjourn somewhere more comfortable to take this . . . discussion . . . further."

"Not tonight," Isabella said. "I have no further desire for your company." Her expression dared him to insist.

Marcus hesitated. He could push the point but he had already forced her hand enough for one evening. He knew that she was on the very edge of her endurance. With infinite reluctance, he drew back.

"Then tomorrow," he said. "I shall call on you."

He took a step back, his gaze still locked with hers. Her expression was cold and unyielding but Marcus could feel what it cost her.

"Good night, my lady," he said.

Once again she inclined her head with that perfectly judged grace of royalty condescending to the lower orders. Marcus felt he had probably deserved that—he had pushed her as far from him as it was possible to go. There was dignity in her stance, but also something almost unbearably poignant and lonely. He hesitated on the verge of making some conciliatory gesture, but before he could do so she had dismissed him.

"Good night, my lord," Isabella said, and she turned from him, shutting him out as though forever.

Isabella watched his tall
figure stride away across the ballroom; saw the debutantes sway like cut corn in his wake. She was willing to bet that any one of them would give their French embroidered underwear to be in her place as wife to Marcus Stockhaven.

She was no longer Princess Isabella Di Cassilis, relict of a ruinous and shipwrecked royal. She was Isabella, Countess of Stockhaven, wife to a man who apparently would not be slow to claim his marital rights unless she could prevent it And at this moment her mind was utterly devoid of ways to circumvent him. Isabella shivered. She had miscalculated, and miscalculated badly at that. In her anxiety to escape the crushing blow of the debt she had not thought matters through. She had trusted Marcus and that had proved a dangerous mistake. Now
she was trapped. Marcus wanted something from her, and he would not let her go before he was satisfied.

You are venal and corrupt and calculating. . . .
If she had ever cherished the least illusion that Marcus held on to some softer feeling for her, then that was now at an end.

Isabella swallowed hard. The pain was still there, an echo of the sharpness that had cut her to the bone when he had spoken. She bit her lip fiercely to repress the tears. She never cried. Early in her marriage she had discovered that Ernest had enjoyed seeing her tears, and from then she had schooled herself never to show weakness of any sort. It had become a habit but the ache was still there, wedged beneath her heart.

You led the life of a whore and then you tried to buy me again when you required my help. . . .

Isabella clenched her jaw. Enough of that. She would think of it no more. There was bitterness in Marcus. It prompted him to seek revenge and she had to thwart him. She absentmindedly fingered the ruined struts of her fan. There was no possibility that she would reveal the truth to Marcus. She shrank from exposing all the horror and pain of the past to him and reliving it all again. She had locked all the love and the despair away in an ice-cold knot, and as long as she kept it buried there undisturbed, she would survive. A splinter of broken wood stabbed her finger and she winced.

You owe me a wedding night.

Never. She shook her head slowly. Too much had happened for her to face the prospect of being Lady Stockhaven in deed as well as in word. Twelve years ago, Marcus's touch had brought sheer bliss and the promise of future happiness. But twelve years was a long time and neither of them were the same people now.

It had broken her heart to part from Marcus when she was seventeen. Then Ernest had shown her how debased could be the other side of love, and then her daughter Emma had died,
and now Isabella knew that she would risk neither love nor loss ever again. Her attraction to Marcus was dangerous—the embers of her love for him were still hot beneath the cold crust of ashes. But Marcus wanted her for all the wrong reasons. He had made his disgust of her absolutely clear and she would not give in to him, no matter the fire in her blood that she could not deny. It would be madness to give herself to him only to square the debt he thought she owed him. She would not do it.

She had bought herself some time, but now she needed to stay one step ahead of him in the game. He would come to her tomorrow and she knew she must be ready. She had to have a plan. She had to escape him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

P
enelope
S
tandish was dressed
in her nightshirt, a practical, masculine, striped cotton affair with no frills. She was sitting on her bed rather than in it, and around her on the embroidered counterpane were spread sheet upon sheet of writing. Some had been discarded because they were not scandalous enough, others because they were too lurid. It was difficult to hit the correct note of suggestiveness, but Mr. Morrow, the editor of the
Gentlemen's Athenian Mercury,
thought that she was doing very well for a beginner.

Pen shuddered as she thought of what Isabella would say if she knew it was her sister who was feeding stories to the press. Isabella did not deserve such disloyalty. She had come home from her travels and taken her younger sister to her heart as though they had never been separated. Pen had been surprised and warmed by the friendship that had grown so rapidly between them. Yet now she betrayed Isabella at every turn.

The difficulty was that she was desperate. In fact, she was not simply desperate but utterly, completely and irrevocably without hope.

The house was very quiet. Freddie had escorted her home from the Duchess of Fordyce's ball and left immediately thereafter. He had not told her where he was going. These days he seldom did, and anyway, Pen required no explanation. When Freddie rolled home in the dawn smelling of drink and cheap perfume it was fairly evident where he had spent the night.

It happened more and more frequently these days. There had been a time when she and Freddie had been able to coexist in comfortable affection, sharing if not confidences, at least conversation. Nowadays they seldom saw each other and when they did, Freddie was disinclined to talk. Pen knew she hectored him and that this merely made him run from her, but she could not help herself. She worried about him. There was a hunted look in his eyes these days, as though he were trying to blot out some unpleasant truth with the drink and the women and whatever else he did in the dark reaches of the night.

The money had disappeared, too. Freddie's income had never been large, and now all of it seemed to go to support the wine-sellers and brothel-keepers of the capital. Pen's small allowance, left to her by her father, was insufficient to sustain both of them. The debts were piling up and soon, very soon, would come the creditors and then the bailiffs and the summonses and the courts. Pen remembered how her father had ended, an embittered man who had suffered half a dozen ignominious court appearances for debt and had died of bad temper at being reduced to living off the pittance of his wife's jointure. Debt stalked their family like a curse.

Which was where the information about Isabella's activities came in. Pen had tried to write fiction at first, but her work had been rejected by various publishers with the comment that it was rather too sensational for the popular taste. She had toyed with the idea of writing conduct manuals or moral fables, but her inherent irreverence always seemed to shine through at the most inappropriate moments. Then she had been tidying the study one day and her eye had fallen on an old copy of the
Mercury
that Freddie had left lying around. There had been a salacious story about the extramarital affairs of a well-known lady. And Pen had thought that she could write something at least as good if only she knew someone famous to write about. . . .

The devil of temptation had whispered in her ear that her sister would not mind, her sister would understand, Pen needed the money and Isabella knew what it was to be poor and desperate and in debt. . . .

Pen selected a few sheets, read the contents, then put them down with a sigh. The guilt grabbed her by the throat again. Even though she had been only fifteen when Isabella had married Ernest and gone abroad, she had been extremely attached to her elder sister. She could still remember with perfect clarity the dreadful moment when their father had told Bella, in front of the entire family, that she must marry Ernest or they would all be ruined. Pen had been too young to understand properly what was happening. She had taken Isabella's hand and said that she had been told that if her sister refused the prince they would all starve in the Fleet Prison, and surely that could not be true, and surely Isabella would not let that happen. She had seen the change in Bella's face then, a sort of crumpling beneath the surface, and had understood too late that Bella was young, too—too young to have to make such choices. And yet she had made the choice and saved them all. Ernest had been rich then, and carelessly generous to his new family. They had started over, their father investing just as poorly as before and inevitably losing it all again some years later.

Pen fidgeted with the pages. They had written to each other through the years, she and Bella. It had kept them close even when they had only met three or four times in twelve years. They had discussed, gossiped, confided. Then they had met each other again and found that they liked each other a great deal in real life as well as on paper, and Pen had felt almost as if she'd rediscovered a part of herself that had been lost.

Under the circumstances, detailing her sister's misfortunes for the press felt like the greatest deceit imaginable.

Pen tried to tell herself that her sister had not seemed unduly disturbed by the column in the
Mercury.
It had been a relief in a way to know that Isabella did not intend to track down the author. In another sense she had felt disappointed, for now she knew that her deception could continue. Isabella would never know.

Pen bit her lip hard. She supposed that she could take the time-honored route out of trouble and find a rich husband, but she was an old maid of seven and twenty now and, although men still admired her golden prettiness, it was unlikely anyone would come to the point when she was both old and poor. Nor did she feel she had the temperament to spend her life cajoling a rich man. She would probably lose her temper with him, tell him a few pungent truths and then he would consign her to Bedlam. Besides, the only man who had interested her recently had been Alistair Cantrell and she had already discovered that he was not rich. Not in the slightest.

Thinking of Mr. Cantrell made her think of Marcus Stockhaven. Not as a potential husband—Pen did not mind admitting that the thought of marrying a man like Marcus would terrify her, for there was a physical quality about him that was quite overwhelming—but because he was the only one of her relatives who was rich enough to help her. It was a possibility, of course, but she did not know him well and she sensed that he disapproved of Freddie for some reason, and Pen loved Freddie and did not want to expose his weakness to Marcus.

Thinking of Marcus brought her thoughts firmly back to Isabella. Pen had thought—no indeed, she had
known
—there had once been something very strong and passionate between Marcus and Bella. She had been only a child that last summer in Salterton, but she had seen Isabella creeping from the house at night, and seen her return from the gardens later, a spring in her step and light in her eyes. Isabella's betrothal to Marcus had seemed the next natural step, a formal recognition of the unbreakable bond between the two of them. And yet the bond had been broken, irrevocably.

And now, curiously, both of them had returned and, judging by their behavior at the ball that evening, some pattern was reasserting itself . Only this time they were older and the passion between them seemed darker, somehow, and more painful. Pen thought of the way that Marcus had looked at Isabella and she shivered with reaction. If a man ever looked at her in so particular a way, she thought she would probably run a mile.

There was the sound of the street door crashing open and Freddie's voice raised in drunken discord as he shouted for his valet, utterly thoughtless for the rest of the household. Pen sighed. She gathered the scattered sheets together and bundled them into the cupboard at the bottom of her nightstand. She could hear Mather, Freddie's valet, speaking softly to his master as he steered him across the landing and into his room with a minimum of damage to the furniture.

Pen got to her feet, crossed to the dresser and splashed some cold water from the ewer onto her face. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked pale and tired, and behind her like a mocking ghost, the rose-colored ball gown lay discarded across the back of a chair. No husband, no prospects, no money. Miss Penelope Standish dismissed her reflection and vowed to send her next piece to the newspaper immediately, so that it would make the morning editions.

M
arcus had gone straight
from the ball to the rather less salubrious surroundings of the
Ratcliffe
Highway in East London. Alistair, who had been cultivating the company of a Bow Street runner called Townsend, had had a tip that one of Warwick's henchmen was implicated in the recent spate of murders in that area. Marcus spent several hours and not a few guineas in a fruitless attempt to buy information. No one was talking. Everyone was too fearful.

"It is the strangest thing," Marcus said, as they took a battered hackney carriage home in the early hours, "but Warwick is nothing more than a whisper, is he? He is everywhere and nowhere. I begin to wonder if he exists at all."

"Oh, he exists," Alistair said grimly. He was sitting in a corner of the carriage, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his chin buried in the folds of his cravat. "In one form or another, he exists. Whether it is as a legend or as a man, the effect is the same. He spreads terror with the mere mention of his name. That is what we are fighting against."

"But how to find him?" Marcus asked. "We do not even know where to look. He slips through our fingers like smoke."

Alistair turned his head and looked out of the carriage window at the strengthening daylight. Marcus thought for a moment that he would not reply. He felt cold, stiff and frustrated. There was only one benefit in such activity, and that was that it took his mind from Isabella. In a couple of hours he would have to wash and make himself presentable and go to Brunswick Gardens and confront her.

"You forget," Alistair said suddenly, "that you have something Warwick wants. Sooner or later, he will come looking for you."

A certain vivacious princess, whose return to London has been greeted with excitement by all those rakes and beaux who courted her the first time around, was last night much in evidence at the Duchess of F's Scottish Ball. The princess, never one to shirk her responsibility in providing scandal, was heard to remark that she had no intention of encouraging the amorous attentions of any gentlemen because, in her view, Englishmen are the very worst lovers in the world. Whilst we bow to the princess's superior experience in the field—she has lived much of her life abroad and therefore must have the means of contrast—we hope a gentleman may step forward to defend the reputation of his countrymen and change the princess's mind. Perhaps the Earl of S may be just the man for the job? Those with long memories will recall that the lovely princess and the gallant earl were once more than mere acquaintances. . . .

—The Gentlemen's Athenian Mercury,
July 3, 1816

Isabella sighed and placed
the newspaper carefully by the side of her plate of breakfast toast. It was scarcely unexpected to see herself mentioned in the scandal sheets again. Someone who had attended the Duchess of Fordyce's ball must have been delighted to make a swift guinea from passing on so prime a piece of gossip. In Ernest's time it had happened time and again. This piece of scandal, however, she had brought entirely on herself. Whatever had possessed her to make such an outrageous and ridiculously untrue statement about the amorous capabilities of the English male? It was not even as though she had the experience to judge. If only she had not risen to the Duchess of
Plockton's
barbed provocation. But the comment about her daughter, Emma, had overset her, being the one subject on which she would always be vulnerable, and as a result she had not given a damn for the proprieties.

"The ladies and gentlemen of the press," Belton said
sepulchrally
, from the doorway, "are encamped outside, Your Serene Highness. I have taken the liberty of removing the door knocker so that they cannot disturb you, but I fear they may attempt an entry through a window. And Miss Standish has arrived."

"I had to enter by the back door," Pen grumbled, plumping herself down on one of the rosewood chairs and slapping a pile of newspapers next to her sister's plate, making the china jump and the tea spill. "Oh, you have already seen the papers!"

"Whatever has happened to put you in such a temper?" Isabella inquired. "It is unlike you to arrive with the first post on the morning after a ball."