The Lord and the Wayward Lady

Allen Louise

It was Marcus’s turn to fall silent. Nell wondered if he meant to answer her at all. Then he said sombrely, ‘I may be wrong, but if I am correct it is an old story, a nightmare that should have been long forgotten. You know all about old nightmares, do you not? I can sense it.’

The shudder that ran through her must have been visible to him. He seemed suddenly focused, as though he would read her mind. The piercing grey eyes were hooded; he knew he had scored a hit. An old nightmare. Yes, that is exactly what I feel stirring. But it is coincidence, surely, that has brought me here? If it is not, if Salterton knows who I am—then he knows my real name. He knows more than I do about my past.

‘You are afraid.’ It was a statement.

‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I dislike mysteries. I dislike insecurity. And that man makes me think of knives.’ And I am afraid of you and your family because Mama spoke your name with hate and yet you have all been kind to me, so now I do not know what to trust. But the man in front of her had not been kind. He had been autocratic, bad tempered, sexually domineering—and yet... ‘And I dislike not understanding you,’ she snapped, provoking another of his disconcerting laughs. ‘And I do not want to be kidnapped, you arrogant man.’

‘All you need to understand about me, Nell, is that I will keep you safe.’

From the dark man perhaps. Salterton. But from him? Marcus Carlow wanted her safe entirely for his own purposes and she was certain he had not told her them all.

‘Your definition of safe differs from mine, Marcus.’ How easily she had slipped into using his name. But the image of a great house in the country was powerfully seductive. Big, safe, warm, with people all around and strangers immediately obvious.

Nell tried to tell herself that it was only for a few weeks and then she would be back in her old world. But that was not warm, not safe, and she would be all alone again. What harm could it do to escape for just a little while? It could hardly make things worse. Could it?

‘Very well,’ she conceded.

‘Thank you. This afternoon, after Miss Price returns, we will go to your lodgings.’ There were sounds of a bustle from the hall, a young lady’s laughter. ‘In fact, I think that may be her returning now.’

The journey to Dorset Street was enlivened at the beginning by Miss Price sinking into the carriage cushions only to start up with a cry and produce a small pistol from under her skirts. ‘What on earth?’

‘Ah.’ Marcus reached across and took it, slipping it into his pocket. ‘The footpad’s weapon.’

‘A thief with a nice taste in ivory-handled ladies’ pistols,’ Miss Price remarked, settling herself again.

‘No doubt stolen from a previous victim,’ Marcus said. He and the companion chatted easily, with the air of two people who had known each other for a long time and who, even if they had little in common in terms of station or interests, were comfortable together.

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