‘And what has Verity done to deserve a gift?’ enquired the earl.

‘Nothing whatsoever—the best reason for giving a lady a present, I always think. Merely a set of enamelled buttons I saw this morning in Tessier’s. A pretty trifle.’

‘You spoil her.’

‘My godchildren interest me.’ Viscount Keddinton twirled the wine glass, admiring the colour against the light. ‘I like to keep in touch.’

‘That must take some effort, you have quite a few,’ Marcus observed.

‘I have been honoured by the confidence their parents place in me.’ Keddinton turned to the earl. ‘A practical joke, you say?’

‘Some friend of Hal’s, I have no doubt,’ the earl said easily. ‘Sent Marc a parcel which I opened—thought there was a snake inside! Gave me such a start my blasted heart was all over the place.’

‘And it was not a snake?’ Veryan set down his glass and fixed his full attention on the earl.

‘No. Merely a cord of sorts. How are Felicity and the family, Veryan?’

The conversation passed to family matters. Marcus sat letting the two older men talk, his mind on the puzzle of the rope. He would speak to his father about confiding in Veryan; the man knew all about the scandal of ninety-four. They had discussed it only that Christmas when Keddinton had visited in company with his new confidential secretary who expressed an informed, if tactless, interest in the case. Keddinton had long been at the centre of the shadowy world of secrets that surrounded the heart of government. He could be an excellent source of information and would bring a powerful brain to bear on the mystery.

‘Let me show you out, sir.’ When his father’s friend finally took his leave, Marcus strolled down the stairs beside him, restless with his own weakness from loss of blood and his inability to see clear to the heart of this strange threat.

‘There was no message with the parcel?’ Veryan asked abruptly.

‘No. As I say, a prank misfiring, that is all.’ He must speak to his father first before confiding in Veryan.

‘Of course. Please give my compliments to your mother. I am sorry to have missed her.’

Marcus stood staring at the hallstand and its gleaming card tray for a long moment after Wellow had closed the door behind Lord Keddinton.

‘Where is Miss Latham, Wellow?’ He had been putting off that confrontation all morning. Sleep had not only rested his hurts, it had also ensured that he faced the morning feeling rather more clear-headed than he had the night before. And one picture that was very clear indeed was of Nell clawing her way out of his embrace—if that was not too polite a word for how he had taken her. The fact that there had been an answering flash of desire in her eyes, just for one moment, did not excuse falling on a virgin like a starving man on a loaf.

She had not come down to breakfast; no doubt she wished to avoid him, he concluded ruefully. It would be easier to mistrust her if the wrongdoing were all on her side, he told himself with a grimace at his own thought processes.

‘Miss Latham is alone in the White Salon, my lord. Lady Verity having just gone shopping with Lady Narborough and Miss Price having accompanied Lady Honoria for a dress fitting; Miss Latham is reading, I believe.’

He should probably call his mother’s dresser to sit in the corner for propriety, Marcus thought, opening the door. But if he did, he could hardly discuss last night.

‘Miss Latham.’

She was sitting very upright at the table in the window, a book open in her hands, her bent head making a graceful curve of her neck above the simple leaf-brown bodice of her gown. As he spoke, she looked up and closed the book, keeping one finger inserted to mark her place.

‘My lord.’

There was little of the weary, frightened milliner about the woman in front of him, just a dignified young lady in a plain gown interrupted by a man when she thought she was alone. Then the colour flooded her cheeks and she stood up with more haste than grace, dispelling the illusion. No, Nell had not forgotten that damned kiss.

‘My lord.’ Nell bobbed a curtsy, all too conscious that she had behaved as though she were an equal by remaining in her seat like a guest, not the milliner that she was. She had allowed Miss Price to take care of her last night, to lend her night things. She had been sent up supper to her room, and now she had forgotten her place in the sheer comfort and luxury of it all.

My place might be to curtsy and defer, but I will not let him take advantage of me, not after last night. Nell had lost a great deal of sleep, lying wide-eyed in the darkness, wondering what on earth had come over her to let the viscount so much as touch her, let alone to have responded for that fatal moment.

‘Marcus,’ he said, smiling his cool smile. ‘I told you last night. You have no need to stand up for me, Nell. May I sit down?’

‘Of course.’ How polite they were being. ‘I hope the fact that you are downstairs means that the wound is not troubling you too much this morning?’ That had been another waking nightmare: that he contracted a fever, the wound became infected, he died—and she became a murderer.

‘A trifle uncomfortable, that is all. There is no fever.’

She lowered herself to her seat cautiously, in time with him. ‘My lord, I cannot call you by your given name; it is not suitable. It would give the impression of an intimacy.’ She ran out of words.

‘And after a certain incident last night, intimacy is the last thing you wish to encourage?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair and studying her across the circumference of the table.

He was nothing if not direct! The colour left her face; she felt it as a chill on the skin. ‘Indeed.’

‘I apologise. I have no excuse for my loss of control. It will not happen again.’

Instinct told her not to believe him; men could not be trusted. But his eyes were wide and candid. Serious. Nell blew out a small, pent-up breath, her conscience pricking her. ‘I...it was not entirely your fault. For a moment I just wanted to be held.’

‘And then you changed your mind?’ She had fought him like a fury, that was what he meant, she acknowledged. Wounded and dazed as he had been, a good push would have been more than adequate to repel him, she was sure. There had been no need to struggle like a wild thing.

‘Er...yes,’ she said. There was speculation on his face for a moment, then it was gone. ‘My lord, I should go home.’

‘No.’ He said it flatly and for the first time she actually believed that he would keep her by force if necessary. ‘You are not very obedient, Nell, and I know you have more to tell me than has yet come out. You will call me Marcus when we are alone. Is Nell Latham your real name?’

‘Yes!’ It was. Or at least, it was one that long use entitled her to.

Marcus Carlow studied her with openly sceptical eyes, but he did not comment, only seemed to reach a decision. ‘This is how it will be. You will go this afternoon with Miss Price and me to your lodgings and we will collect whatever you need for a prolonged stay and make sure your valuables are secured—’

‘I cannot stay here for days! I have employment that will vanish if I am away. Today is Saturday, thank goodness, but on Monday—’

‘I will write to Madame Elizabeth informing her that the Countess of Narborough requires your presence,’ he continued as if she had not spoken. ‘It would take less than the very broad hint I will give her of future patronage, should she continue to employ you, for your post there to be secure.’

Lady Narborough and the Misses Carlow would not thank him for having their choice of milliner dictated! Or perhaps he would send his mistress there. Nell eyed him, her thoughts concealed behind a mask of composure, then could not resist a jab at his assumption of control.

‘Madame does good business providing for the convenients of rich city merchants, as well as their wives,’ she observed. ‘But perhaps the mistress of a viscount expects a milliner of the top flight?’