would, however, be better to deal with Henshalls first. He did not relish giving those most ruthless of moneylenders the news that Princess Isabella Di Cassilis's debts were now impossible to claim, the responsibility of some luckless wastrel in the Fleet Prison. He reached for his hat and folded the marriage lines within the pocket of his waistcoat. Sometimes he felt he did not get paid sufficient for the trials of his work. Still, for Princess Isabella Di Cassilis he would do almost anything.
An hour later, Mr. Churchward tottered back up the stairs to his chambers. He had been pale before; now he was ashen. He went directly to the cabinet, extracted the sherry and resisted the temptation to drink it straight down from the bottle. He was shaking so much that the neck of the bottle rattled like a cannonade against his sherry glass. He collapsed into his chair with a heartfelt sigh, raised his glass and gulped the revivifying liquid down with as little regard as though it had been water.
To his great amazement, the Henshall brothers had been very pleased to see him. Only an hour before, they had received a visit from a gentleman who had settled in full—and in cash—the debts of Princess Isabella Di Cassilis. There had been handshakes all round.
Mr. Churchward lay back in his chair as the sherry warmed his veins. He tried to make sense of the aspects of the case that puzzled him, which were practically all of them. Princess Isabella had given him to understand that her new husband was under lock and key and would remain so for the foreseeable future, yet when Churchward had arrived at the moneylenders' he had discovered that the gentleman was not only at liberty but had already paid the princess's debt.
He wondered why on earth Isabella had not told him her husband's true identity.
He wondered what on earth Marcus Stockhaven, one of the richest men in the Ton, had been doing in the Fleet Prison.
And he wondered what the devil his two most noble clients were doing contracting an apparent marriage of convenience and then expecting him to arrange an annulment.
"Dear oh dear oh dear," Mr. Churchward said unhappily, emptying the sherry bottle into his glass. A third glass of sherry was previously unknown in Mr. Churchward's experience, but such unsettling circumstances called for extreme measures.
"How do I look?"
Marcus Stockhaven tilted his head to one side, the better to appreciate the set of his neck cloth in the mirror above the drawing-room mantelpiece.
"Like a man who has spent three months trying to tie his cravat in a dark cellar," his friend Alistair Cantrell said brutally.
Marcus grinned. " That bad?" He surveyed his reflection thoughtfully in the mirror and rubbed a hand over the stubble shadowing his chin. "I need a barber."
"You need more than that." Alistair looked around. "Where is your valet?"
"I gave all the servants leave of absence whilst I was away," Marcus said. "Why do you think you are pouring your own brandy?"
He watched as Alistair folded his lanky length into the armchair beside the fireplace. Stockhaven House was small as London town houses went, and wholly unostentatious. The Earls of Stockhaven had never felt the need to boast their wealth and lineage through vulgar display, and Marcus was no exception. Nevertheless, a house like this required a staff to run it. The room was cold, for the June evening had turned unseasonably damp. No fire glowed in the grate. The dust sat thickly on the cherry wood furniture and the whole house felt faintly unloved.
"So," Alistair said, turning from contemplation of his brandy to study Marcus's face. "Why the change of plan?"
Marcus shrugged. "My business was all but complete," he said, "and I was starting to draw attention in a manner that I could ill afford." He took a mouthful of brandy, grimaced and put his glass down. "Either someone has been selling off my liquor whilst I was in the Fleet and replacing it with tea dregs or I have lost my
An hour later, Mr. Churchward tottered back up the stairs to his chambers. He had been pale before; now he was ashen. He went directly to the cabinet, extracted the sherry and resisted the temptation to drink it straight down from the bottle. He was shaking so much that the neck of the bottle rattled like a cannonade against his sherry glass. He collapsed into his chair with a heartfelt sigh, raised his glass and gulped the revivifying liquid down with as little regard as though it had been water.
To his great amazement, the Henshall brothers had been very pleased to see him. Only an hour before, they had received a visit from a gentleman who had settled in full—and in cash—the debts of Princess Isabella Di Cassilis. There had been handshakes all round.
Mr. Churchward lay back in his chair as the sherry warmed his veins. He tried to make sense of the aspects of the case that puzzled him, which were practically all of them. Princess Isabella had given him to understand that her new husband was under lock and key and would remain so for the foreseeable future, yet when Churchward had arrived at the moneylenders' he had discovered that the gentleman was not only at liberty but had already paid the princess's debt.
He wondered why on earth Isabella had not told him her husband's true identity.
He wondered what on earth Marcus Stockhaven, one of the richest men in the Ton, had been doing in the Fleet Prison.
And he wondered what the devil his two most noble clients were doing contracting an apparent marriage of convenience and then expecting him to arrange an annulment.
"Dear oh dear oh dear," Mr. Churchward said unhappily, emptying the sherry bottle into his glass. A third glass of sherry was previously unknown in Mr. Churchward's experience, but such unsettling circumstances called for extreme measures.
"How do I look?"
Marcus Stockhaven tilted his head to one side, the better to appreciate the set of his neck cloth in the mirror above the drawing-room mantelpiece.
"Like a man who has spent three months trying to tie his cravat in a dark cellar," his friend Alistair Cantrell said brutally.
Marcus grinned. " That bad?" He surveyed his reflection thoughtfully in the mirror and rubbed a hand over the stubble shadowing his chin. "I need a barber."
"You need more than that." Alistair looked around. "Where is your valet?"
"I gave all the servants leave of absence whilst I was away," Marcus said. "Why do you think you are pouring your own brandy?"
He watched as Alistair folded his lanky length into the armchair beside the fireplace. Stockhaven House was small as London town houses went, and wholly unostentatious. The Earls of Stockhaven had never felt the need to boast their wealth and lineage through vulgar display, and Marcus was no exception. Nevertheless, a house like this required a staff to run it. The room was cold, for the June evening had turned unseasonably damp. No fire glowed in the grate. The dust sat thickly on the cherry wood furniture and the whole house felt faintly unloved.
"So," Alistair said, turning from contemplation of his brandy to study Marcus's face. "Why the change of plan?"
Marcus shrugged. "My business was all but complete," he said, "and I was starting to draw attention in a manner that I could ill afford." He took a mouthful of brandy, grimaced and put his glass down. "Either someone has been selling off my liquor whilst I was in the Fleet and replacing it with tea dregs or I have lost my
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