Ashlyn Macnamara (14 page)

“Yes, you must join us.” This from the as-yet-nameless sister.

Other ladies? But of course there were more of them. The pair in front of her seemed friendly enough, but Isabelle didn’t actually remember them from her former life. Odd, that. At least one of them must have been out during her short-lived season. If neither one of them recognized her, she might stand a chance—at least until the others joined them.

“Do sit.” Lady Benedict indicated a settee opposite her chair.

Isabelle perched on the very edge of the seat.

“You poor dear,” said the blonde. “You must be worried sick. How did you come to lose your son?”

“I cannot say. I went into his chamber, just to look on him, and he was gone.”

“Gracious!” She placed a hand over her heart. “Stolen straight from his bed.”

Lady Benedict sat beside Isabelle and took her hand. My yes, the woman was a paragon. “And you didn’t hear a thing?”

“No, my lady. I’m afraid not.” Isabelle gritted her teeth and willed Lady Benedict to probe no further. She could hardly admit the real reason she’d heard nothing.

“Call me Julia.”

“Yes, and you must call me Sophia,” added the blonde. “We can hardly stand on ceremony under the circumstances.”

Isabelle would not cry. She would not. She’d no reason at all to let herself get worked up over the sympathy
these women showed her, when, once they learned the truth, their manner would change.

“And what shall we call you?” Julia asked.

“Isabelle.” She folded her hands in her lap to stop their trembling and waited for the reaction. Not so common a name, hers, and they might have heard the gossip. Even if she didn’t remember them, they may have heard of her and for all the wrong reasons.

Neither sister’s concerned expression wavered in the slightest. Sophia took up an embroidery frame and stabbed a needle into it. Julia picked up a small bell, and its tinkle echoed through the room. “We shall have tea in no time, and perhaps the others will join us presently. They’re not so used to country hours.”

God willing, they’d sleep the day away so she wouldn’t have to face any of them.

The teacart arrived, and Julia pressed a cup on her, along with fresh scones, jam, and clotted cream—luxuries she’d foregone for six years, along with proper tea from Ceylon. She couldn’t possibly stomach the richness. Not when her mind kept turning to Jack. Raised on Biggles’s good bread and solid country fare, the boy yearned for iced cakes from the baker’s. Isabelle could never afford such. She broke off a corner of her scone and crumbled it between her fingers.

Julia stayed her stream of small talk and leaned forward. “How I go on. Your mind is on your son, of course.”

“I’m only thinking how Jack would love a bit of scone. And chocolate. He’s never had hot chocolate.” She pushed her plate away. “I’m sorry. I’m sure they’re lovely, but I fear I have no appetite.”

“I should say not,” Sophia said. “If I lost my Frederick, I’m sure I don’t know what I’d do. Bad enough I’ve left him with his nurse. I’ve never left him alone for so long since he was born.”

“How old is he?” Isabelle asked.

“Three this November, and such a clever boy.” A prideful smile tugged at her lips for a brief moment. “Highgate’s taught him his letters already and means him to write his name before his next birthday.”

“Highgate?” Isabelle clamped her mouth shut before she could blurt out anything more.

“Why yes, he’s my husband.” Sophia’s smile stretched her cheeks even wider. “Do you know him?”

Only by reputation, but doubtless the rumors were exaggerated. But if the talk of him killing his first wife and becoming a recluse as a result had been bandied about enough to reach her ears, what sort of gossip had circulated about her? What sort was still whispered behind lacy fans and gloved hands in scandalized undertones?

So brazen, that Isabelle. She never went to the continent, you know. She’s disappeared into the country to raise her natural son. The father wouldn’t even offer for her. No one will have her now, not even her own family. Such prospects she had. An heir to a dukedom going to offer any day, and she threw it all away
.

All of it true. She had thrown it all away, but at the time, she couldn’t imagine facing a future tied to that man. Tied to that life.

“We’ve never been introduced, my lady.” Isabelle pretended to sip at her tea. Of course they wouldn’t have been introduced. Not if she was moldering in the country.

Sophia—Lady Highgate—leaned over to lay a steady hand on her arm. “Now, none of that. You must consider yourself among friends here.”

Isabelle had no chance to reply, for at that moment, several other ladies entered the morning room. House guests. Members of the
ton
. Isabelle studied her teacup, while Julia and Sophia greeted the new arrivals. Carefully,
she cast glances at each one, but none of the faces seemed familiar.

Then came the inevitable introductions where she would learn for certain if any of them might recognize her. The younger girls all gave the appropriate murmurs of greeting. Henrietta and Catherine Upperton greeted her with solemn good cheer. Mrs. Upperton and Mrs. St. Claire exchanged glances behind their daughters’ backs. Those two would bear watching. Clearly something about Isabelle triggered their maternal sense of potential trouble. They, no doubt, had heard of her real name, even if they’d never been introduced until now.

Soon enough, chatter and gossip replaced words of sympathy. At one time, such a gathering would have been a delight. She’d have happily exchanged
on-dits
with the others. When Catherine Upperton sighed over the Duke of Amherst’s youngest son, Isabelle chewed on her tongue to stop herself from recounting the time she’d walked into his father’s stables and caught him covered head to foot in horse manure. How the others would gasp in horror, but she couldn’t admit the connection any more than she could admit she’d nearly accepted an offer from his eldest brother.

“And who are you connected with?” Mrs. St. Claire held her teacup halfway to her lips, eyeing Isabelle’s decidedly unfashionable linsey garments. Nothing of pastel-tinted muslins for her. Only practical work clothes that hid the stains.

Isabelle made herself hold the woman’s gaze. If the gossips would brand her as brazen, she must brazen this moment out. “No one of any consequence.”

“She lives in the village, Mama,” Julia said. “She’s come to us for help.”

Something flickered in the older woman’s eyes. Nothing so decisive as recognition. No, it was more along the lines of doubt tinged with suspicion. She’d seen Isabelle
somewhere before, and it certainly wasn’t in some village in Kent. She just couldn’t place where, exactly, or when.

Isabelle gathered all this in the time it took Mrs. St. Claire to sip daintily of her tea and set her cup back down. “And what sort of help do you need?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but the words jammed in her throat. She hardly wanted to call this woman’s attention to her plight. Letting her know of Jack’s existence was handing her another piece of a puzzle Isabelle had no desire for her to complete. She did not recall Mrs. St. Claire from the days before her downfall, but she knew the type well enough. Older women, unhappily married, who passed the hours listening to gossip, feeding themselves on the news of others’ failings because it filled a void in their own lives, and perhaps, just perhaps, they kept an eye on their wayward husbands at the same time.

A new arrival in the morning room saved her from having to respond. A cheery good morning, the voice familiar. Her heart jumped inside her chest. It couldn’t be. She turned and her heart plummeted. It was. In the doorway, still as a statue and staring directly at her, stood Emily Marshall.

Her cousin.

CHAPTER NINE

“Y
OU
.” T
HE
word issued from Emily’s lips on a whisper of astonishment.

Isabelle’s hands turned icy, and she set her teacup aside before she lost her grip on the porcelain.

“What are you doing here?” Emily advanced into the room. “What is the meaning of this?”

Isabelle hardly knew what to reply. The collective gaze of the other ladies settled on her shoulders as an unbearable weight. Her hostesses must be exchanging concerned glances. Mrs. St. Claire was no doubt hiding a smirk while she gleefully thought of repeating this juicy tidbit throughout the next Season.

Isabelle was obliged to surmise all of this, however. She couldn’t take her eyes off her cousin. Emily had grown in the intervening years. Too young when the scandal broke to hear of its exact nature directly from her elders, she was still old enough to discover the gossip through her own means. By the age of thirteen, Emily had become adept at listening at doors when the adults spoke in hushed tones.

Emily stood tall in a morning gown of pale yellow muslin edged in the finest French lace. The height of fashion, of course. Nothing too good for the Marshalls, as long as you lived up to their standards.

“I demand an explanation.”

The order, spoken as if to a servant, broke whatever
spell had held the room in thrall. Julia struggled to her feet. “Mrs. Mears is from the village. She—”

“Mrs. Mears, is it?” Emily kept her gaze trained on Isabelle. “Did you dupe some unfortunate soul into marrying you? Or have you lied to these good ladies?”

“Now see here,” Julia insisted. “She’s come to us for help. There’s no call to accuse her of lying.”

“That’s quite all right, my lady.” Isabelle’s quiet statement cut through the tension. She kept her eyes downcast so as not to see the admonishment on Julia’s face at the title. Under the circumstances, she preferred the distance created by formality. She no longer belonged to these circles. “I won’t disturb your gathering any longer.”

She leaned forward to stand, intent on stalking out with all the dignity she could muster. A hand on her shoulder stopped her progress. She turned her head to find Sophia had crossed to sit beside her on the settee.

“You aren’t disturbing us in the least.” The countess’s normally breathy voice took on an edge of steel. “You’re quite welcome to stay. If anyone feels offended by your presence, I daresay the problem lies with them.”

Isabelle blinked and blinked again, but the sudden burning behind her eyes persisted. Her throat tightened until the only reply possible was a curt nod.

“It ought to be her problem.” Emily sniffed, her expression so smug, so arrogant with her firm chin and taut lips. “No decent family would receive her. No decent family ought to.”

Anger burned to the surface and dissipated the knot in Isabelle’s throat. How dare she? If Emily had kept her mouth shut, they might have moved past this with no one the wiser. But Emily’s self-righteous outrage had only served to call attention to the old scandal. Isabelle’s shame reflected poorly on all the Marshalls, Emily included. Well, Cousin Emily had always been a spoiled brat.

“Do you mean to imply your hostesses are not of decent family? Perhaps you ought to leave, then, before they sully your pristine reputation and ruin your chances at making a suitable match.”

A gasp came from one of the ladies as the echo of Isabelle’s words faded. Too late, she realized, that in her anger she’d forgotten to maintain her accent. Her elocution had been just as clear and precise as she’d been taught by her governesses—perfectly in keeping with her cousin’s.

Two red blotches formed on Emily’s cheeks. “If I’ve not drawn the attention of someone suitable, it’s because of the scandal you’ve brought on the family.”

“Really?” Brows raised, Isabelle shot to her feet. “Papa hasn’t ensured things were kept quiet?”

“He has his ways, as you well know. No one dares speak of you to his face, but behind his back …” Emily waved a dismissive hand. “Behind his back, he has no say.”

“And in all that time, no one’s found something else to talk about? Have you shot yourself in the foot by keeping old gossip alive? Because I can’t imagine why else my doings would remain fresh in anyone’s mind for so long. I haven’t paraded myself through society lately. I’ve been living very quietly and out of everyone’s eye for some time now. I might have continued if you hadn’t dredged up the past.”

She paused for breath and felt the burn of a roomful of rapt gazes at her back. Oh, she’d done it now. Tongues would be wagging for days, repeating the story of her disgrace with the addition that the intervening years had turned her into a shrew. There’d be no more hiding her antecedents, either. Not after Emily’s outburst.

She caught Sophia’s eye and experienced a pang deep in her belly. Sophia, a beautiful countess who had extended the hand of friendship, only to have it betrayed.
She stood next to Isabelle, pale and speechless, an emotion akin to pity in her blue eyes.

“Forgive me,” Isabelle murmured. “I’ve intruded on your gathering far too long.”

She straightened her spine, raised her chin, and marched toward the door. On her way from the manor, she met the gaze of no one else.

T
HE
sun had begun its descent toward the horizon by the time George strode up Shoreford’s broad front steps. He ought to have been exhausted after a sleepless night followed by a day of tedious searching. Who would ever imagine a small boy of little account could disappear so completely?