It was when he approached the home secretary, Lord Sidmouth, that he discovered the connection to the Fleet Prison. Sidmouth proved to be most interested in Warwick and his activities. The man was a master criminal, the home secretary had said, drawing his supporters from those desperate debtors who thronged the Fleet. He’d given Marcus tacit permission to continue his inquiries—inside the prison.
Alistair was waiting patiently, his gaze thoughtful on Marcus’s face. His friend was the only other person who knew of Marcus’s quest to find Edward Warwick.
“I had to go very cautiously to avoid suspicion,” Marcus said now. “I let slip that I had heard of a fire at a big house in Salterton, and of rich pickings there, and a few agreed that Edward Warwick had said that there had been treasure there but that it had not been found.”
“Treasure?” Alistair said, frowning.
“That was the word they used.”
“Which could be money, or jewels…”
“Or information.”
Alistair rubbed his brow. “Information in your own house of which you know nothing, Marcus?”
“Perhaps,” Marcus said. “Or information that Lady Jane possessed. Curious, is it not?” He turned his empty brandy glass between his fingers. “I am no closer to discovering what it is that Warwick wants, nor to finding out any more about the man himself than I knew before. He has as many names and disguises as he has criminal interests, but he is so feared and protected that I could find out little more.”
“So you asked in the Fleet and found little,” Alistair said thoughtfully, “and what do you propose to do now?”
“Two things,” Marcus said. He knew that he could not let the matter go now.
“I shall make further discreet inquiries into Warwick’s business here in London, and if that fails to turn up new information I shall return to Salterton, where it all began, and see what else I may discover from there. The renovation of the dower house is almost complete. It will be good to see how it progresses.”
“I suppose that you will have a new landlord now that Lady Jane has passed away,” Alistair said thoughtfully. “To whom did she leave her estate? Freddie Standish would be her closest male relative, I assume?”
“He is,” Marcus said, “but he does not inherit. The hall was not entailed.” He paused. The lease on his house at Salterton, which was little more than a cottage orneé that stood in the grounds of Salterton Hall, had been granted to him when he had married Isabella’s cousin, India Southern. He had plenty of houses but it had been a convenient arrangement to take Salterton Cottage for it provided India with a home of her own when she wished to visit her parents at the hall. Lady Jane had been fond of him and had allowed him to retain the lease after India’s death and although he had visited Salterton less frequently, he still paid a visit there every so often. It was on one of these visits that Lady Jane had told him that she had left Salterton Hall to Isabella on her death. Marcus had already known, though he did not say so. The terms of Lady Jane’s will had thrust a sharp wedge between herself and her daughter India when first they had come to light.
“Mama has always favored Isabella over me!” India had said to him once in a passionate outburst that was utterly out of character for her. “She told me that I had no need of Salterton because I was married to you, and that Isabella had always cared for the place far more than I!” India’s face had contorted with distress. “My cousin has been writing to Mama and pretending to an interest and a concern that she does not feel! First she marries that disgusting old man for his money and now she cuts me out of my inheritance! I cannot believe Mama would do such a thing to me!”
Marcus had tried to soothe her but India would not be comforted, and there had been a tense atmosphere between mother and daughter ever after. Since India had predeceased her mother, the matter of the inheritance of Salterton had become almost academic, but Marcus had never forgotten the bitter betrayal that India felt. It seemed a further example of Isabella’s cupidity.
A sardonic smile curved Marcus’s lips at the thought of his new wife as an heiress—and his landlady. What was it that Isabella had said? Her financial embarrassment was of a temporary nature and their marriage of convenience would last only until she had sold her house and realized her inheritance. He had assumed that she had some expectation of salvaging something at least from Prince Ernest’s estate, but now he wondered if it was in fact Jane Southern’s legacy that Isabella was relying on. It was another link in the shadowy chain of family ties and old history that bound them to one another.
“Freddie Standish needs the money,” Alistair said, breaking into Marcus’s thoughts. “He will not be pleased to lose the inheritance. He survives on nothing but his pay and Miss Standish’s meager allowance, so I hear. He is rather a ram-shackle fellow.”
Marcus had never had much to say to Freddie, Lord Standish. It was an accident of marriage that had made them cousins-in-law and their paths had seldom crossed. In fact he had once sensed a dislike of him in Freddie, all the stronger for remaining unspoken, and had steered clear of the man with an indifferent shrug.
He had a warmer regard for Isabella’s sister Penelope, a fearsome bluestocking who had the misfortune to share a small house with Freddie in an unfashionable part of Town. But Pen Standish never went into society, so he did not know her well.
“I could not see Standish choosing to live at Salterton,” Marcus said. “Town is his natural habitat.”
“He could always have sold the house,” Alistair pointed out.
“Which was no doubt one of the reasons Lady Jane chose to leave it to another member of the family,” Marcus said. “She wished it to go to someone whom she thought cared for it.”
Alistair looked quizzical. “Not to you, Marcus? The old lady was monstrous fond of you.”
“No,” Marcus said, shaking his head a little. “She did not leave it to me.”
“Then whom?”
“I believe her heir is Princess Isabella Di Cassilis,” Marcus said.
Alistair pursed his lips into a silent whistle. His eyes were bright. “So that was why you wished me to check on the princess’s debts! I had heard that she had returned to London. The papers have been full of the news.”
Marcus hesitated. Despite asking Alistair to discover the information on Isabella’s debt to Henshalls, he had not confided the truth of his marriage to his oldest friend. Alistair, who had been his groomsman at the ill-fated wedding twelve years ago, would be astonished to know that Marcus had offered marriage to Isabella now. No, he would be beyond astonishment. He would imagine that Marcus had lost his mind. And for Marcus to admit that his motive was a stark and ruthless revenge seemed somehow ignoble. It was not the sort of thing one man confessed to another. Nevertheless, he could not keep his friend in ignorance any longer. The whole of London would soon know of the match.
“There was another reason that I was interested in the princess’s situation,” he said slowly. “We were married on Tuesday.”
He waited while Alistair blinked owlishly, looked at the brandy bottle and then back at him. Alistair’s lips moved silently, forming the words princess and married. Marcus grinned.
“Damned if your brandy hasn’t been tampered with after all, Marcus,” Alistair said, after a moment. “Either that or I’m touched in the attic. I thought you said that you were married to the Princess Isabella. Must be hearing things.”
“You heard aright,” Marcus said. He smiled slightly. “I realize that the news of my nuptials is somewhat sudden.”
“And unexpected.” Alistair was frowning at him. “I had no idea that you were so attached to Salterton Hall that you were prepared to marry the heiress to gain it,” he added. “Why could you not simply make Lady Jane an offer to buy the house? Or was that too easy for you?”
“It