Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (16 page)

Finch
looked at Saybrooke as if he had lost his mind. “What are you saying,
Saybrooke.”

“Come
now, Finch, must I spell it out?” Looking at the perplexed faces of the
seconds, he realized he must. “There was no duel. If anyone saw us, which is
highly doubtful, we arranged to meet here to do a bit of bird watching. If
anyone is curious as to what became of the duel, which is highly likely, we
will explain that it was settled amicably by you, the seconds. Anyone who tries
to ferret out the details will receive an enigmatic smile. Are we agreed?”

Perkins
hesitated and then spoke with heartfelt gratitude. “That is very generous of
you, Saybrooke.”

“Before
you fall to your knees and kiss my feet, let me make it perfectly clear that I
am not doing this for Westcott, but for Miss Kennilworth. She has been through
enough humiliation. She does not need another scandal added to her column of sins.
A duel fought for her honor would be bad enough, but one where her would-be
lover fails to appear would make her a laughingstock.”

A
silent agreement was reached. “Now, gentlemen, I am suddenly famished. I shall
stand you breakfast, if you will join me at the Pig and Whistle,” Lord Saybrooke
offered, suddenly much lighter in spirit.

*****

Isobel
and Lady Whitcomb were enjoying a cold collation just after one o’clock when
they heard a commotion on the stairs. Westcott’s voice was raised in anger and
confusion and Renfrew could be heard trying to calm him.

Isobel
emerged from the dining room just as Westcott’s highly polished boot touched
the final step of the stair case. Without his valet, Westcott’s appearance
suffered. The indignities his body had suffered from being drugged and dragged
did not help his overall look.

“Isobel,
what is going on here? What has happened? I have missed an important
appointment. Why did no one wake me?” Westcott’s voice was slightly slurred and
he seemed a bit disoriented.

“You
fell asleep after dinner, Jeremy. Renfrew, William and Jem were kind enough to
help you to a bedchamber.”

“Helped
me to a bedchamber? I feel as if I have been dragged up a flight of stairs.” He
touched his aching arms.

“Well,
Jeremy, you are quite large,” said Isobel with a deceptively innocent
expression on her face.

“But
why did you allow me to sleep so late?” asked Westcott still befuddled.

“You
did not tell me you had an appointment. I felt that if you were so tired that
you fell asleep while we had our after dinner drinks, that you must need your
sleep.”

“What
bag of moonshine is this? I do not fall asleep in the company of a charming
lady. Are you hoaxing me Isobel?”

“I
know only what I saw, my lord. I did my best to make you comfortable. I am
sorry that you missed your appointment, but I did what I thought was best.”

Westcott
was not convinced and was growing angrier by the minute.

“I
am sorry you are angry with me, Jeremy. Perhaps you should go home and freshen
up. And make sure your valet sees to your poor nose. It looks terribly
swollen.”

“Perhaps
I will. I shall call on you later, my dear.” Westcott did his best to swallow his
anger and behave like a gentleman. He bowed awkwardly and walked to the door.

He
had just reached the door, Renfrew obligingly opening it for him, when Isobel
spoke again. “As to that, Jeremy, I have decided that I will not take you up on
your kind offer. I have no desire to be anyone’s mistress but my own. I would
prefer it if you would not call again.”

Westcott’s
expression darkened and he began to loudly protest. Renfrew closed the door in
his face.
His poor, poor nose,
Isobel thought, and returned to finish
her nuncheon.

Isobel’s
prediction of a quiet life of spinsterhood proved to be coming true, though she
did not attempt needlework. Lady Whitcomb pursued her writing, though further
publication eluded her. Isobel read, played the pianoforte indifferently,
maintained correspondence with Lady Mercer and her former nanny, Mrs. Budge and
generally felt sorry for herself. There were no visitors, save Lord Saybrooke.
He had arrived early every afternoon, only to be refused entry. After ten days,
he had stopped coming.

One
morning at breakfast Lady Whitcomb was reading the gossip column when her face
suddenly blanched and she looked guiltily at Isobel. Isobel, noticing the not
so furtive look, assumed her aunt had read a tidbit about her, though what they
could find of late to talk about baffled her. Lady Whitcomb continued her
attempt at surreptitious glances.

“Aunt
Maude, if there is some scurrilous piece of blather about me, I do not care to
hear it.” Isobel sipped her coffee and studiously ignored her aunt.

“Not
precisely about you,” answered Lady Whitcomb. “Westcott has married Lady
Cynthia.”

“Well,
that was hardly unexpected, Aunt. Tell me, what are your predictions for the
match?” asked Isobel with a sardonic smirk.

“They
shall live happily ever after,” retorted Lady Whitcomb, much to Isobel’s
surprise. “Lady Westcott, soon to be Viscountess of Bourne, will be happy to be
her own mistress of Westcott’s many holdings, which her dowry will bring up to
snuff. She will enjoy her position and prestige immensely and will bask in the
glow of her circle of male admirers. Westcott will be happy to end his father’s
harangues about his duty and will obediently do his best to produce an heir. He
will frequent his clubs, sporting events and
ton
happenings. Not to
mention his mistresses of which there is sure to be a steady procession. He
will not be frequently in the company of his Viscountess, which will make them
both exceedingly happy.”

Isobel
made an effort to laugh at her aunt’s attempt at cheering her, but it only
proved to sink her deeper into melancholy. She supposed she was well rid of
Westcott. That thought did little to cheer her. And yet, she did not really
regret the loss of Westcott. Another gentleman occupied her thoughts and
haunted her dreams.

A
few days after the “duel escapade” as Lady Whitcomb called it, Isobel was
curled up on the couch in the salon trying to read, when Renfrew appeared with
a note and a wide grin. Though he had not read the contents of the missive,
Renfrew knew what it said, and he was bursting with excitement. The servants of
65 Woburn Place had accepted their lot when their beloved family moved out and
Isobel moved in. They had been polite and efficient, but felt neither dislike
nor affection for their new mistress. Until the “duel escapade”. Isobel’s
cunning and bravery impressed them, not to mention being quite a lark for the
caretakers of such a quiet establishment. Isobel had won them over without
knowing she had done so. Her manner had thawed as well and a rapport had begun
to grow. But, now that they held her in esteem, they fretted about her state of
mind.

“Blue
deviled,” declared Renfrew.

“The
poor miss is in a sorry state,” intoned Mrs. Riggs.

“I
will show her my new toad!” declared Jem. “That should cheer Miss up.”

“You’ll
be doing nothing of the kind, young pup. We want to pull her out of her
doldrums, not scare her half to death,” retorted Mrs. Kitchen. “And that vile
thing better not be in my kitchen!”

Jem
just shrugged and wondered at the notions of adults. Toads were much more
interesting than those books that Miss stuck her nose in. Reading all that
nonsense in books didn’t seem to help her mood. Why not try a toad? But he knew
there’d be no supper if he pulled such a stunt, so he stuck the toad back into
his pocket.

And
so with missive in hand, Renfrew offered the glad tidings to Isobel along with
his cheeky smile. She looked at him; eyebrows raised and took the letter.

“You
look exceedingly pleased with yourself, Renfrew. Have you come into an inheritance?”

“No,
Miss,” he replied, with a hint of impatience. Renfrew did not want to chat; he
wanted Miss Kennilworth to open the letter!

Her
eyebrows still arched, Isobel looked from the fidgeting butler-footman to the
note in her hand. She did not recognize the writing.

“That
will be all, Renfrew.”

Renfrew
face fell. So disappointed was he, that he almost protested, but he did not.
“Yes, Miss,” he said sullenly and walked at a snail’s pace out of the room.
Just as he was about to step out of the room, a choked cry came from Isobel and
Renfrew turned to see her face red with embarrassment, her eyes angry, but
brimming with tears. This was not the reaction that he had expected.

“Are
you all right, Miss?” he asked tentatively.

“No,
Renfrew, I am not. The Duchess of Warwick, it seems, has mistakenly sent my
former mount, Bella here to Woburn Place.” Isobel words were tinged with ice.

“Oh,
but it weren’t no mistake, Miss,” Renfrew hastened to explain. “Mrs. Aiken,
that is the duchess, is just returning her to you.”

“She
is not mine,” said Isobel with sadness and anger. “Instruct William to return
Bella to Wren House.”

“But,
Miss…”Renfrew began.

But
it seemed that the fledgling rapport and camaraderie that had begun so recently
was dissipating. Isobel did not speak, but the look that she gave Renfrew
brooked no argument.

“Yes,
Miss.” Renfrew exited utterly deflated.

Isobel
read the brief message again.

Miss
Kennilworth,

Reggie
and I have just returned to London from the country. We were surprised to see
that your hack, Bella, was mistakenly left behind. I am sending her to you at
Woburn Place and I am sorry about the confusion.

Sincerely,

Adriana
Aiken

Isobel
crumbled the note and threw it on the floor.

In
a few minutes time everyone in the household knew what had occurred. Their
optimism at the return of Miss Kennilworth’s much beloved horse was dashed and
a melancholy settled over the occupants of the house; except for Lady Whitcomb.
She was angry.

“Isobel
Kennilworth, are you determined to be a martyr?” She stood in the doorway of
the salon dressed in a orange gown with a huge ruffled collar. Her voice was
raised, her three chins quivered.

Isobel
at first was going to pretend not to understand, but decided it served no
purpose. “How does refusing to accept an expensive gift from a stranger make me
a martyr? It is only correct.”

“Isobel!
You love that horse and I know how much you love to ride. Bella is your horse,
blast it!” Shocked at her own language, Lady Whitcomb reddened.

Isobel
ignored the slip and answered in a flat, reasonable voice. “No, she is not. She
was bought with Warwick’s money. That means she belongs to the current Duke of
Warwick. Despite the fact that he is six years old, it would not be proper for
me to accept a gift of such value from him.”

“Such
fastidiousness is foolish! And it was the boy’s mother that sent Bella over. If
it was a gift, it was from her, from the dowager Duchess.”

“All
the more reason not to accept it,” said Isobel without emotion.

Exasperated,
Lady Whitcomb let out a cry of frustration, turned on her heel, and left the
room.

Early
the next afternoon, Isobel was discussing menus with Mrs. Kitchen in the
library when Renfrew appeared to inform Miss Kennilworth that her aunt would
see her in the parlor, at her convenience.

“We
are almost done here, Renfrew. Tell her I will be with her in ten minutes
time.”

Mrs.
Kitchen and Isobel settled on a menu for the coming week and Isobel prepared
herself to face her aunt. The previous day had been strained, with little
conversation at dinner and an early night for both Isobel and Lady Whitcomb.
They had both chosen to breakfast in their rooms. Isobel had no desire to hash
over her refusal to accept Bella, but knew that their domestic harmony was more
important than her pride. She rose to beard the lioness in her den.

Entering
the parlor, Isobel saw that tea had been laid.
A peace offering,
Isobel
thought, and smiled. Her smile faded when she entered further into the room and
saw not only her aunt, but Lady Warwick. Years of breeding prevented her from
fleeing the room. Instead, she forced a smile back on her face and turned to
the dowager Duchess.

“Your
Grace, what a surprise.” Isobel’s tone was light, her eyes guarded.

“Miss
Kennilworth. A pleasure to see you again,” said Lady Warwick in her perfect,
though accented English. “I hope that I am not coming at an inconvenient time.”
Her chin held high, her black eyes wary, she looked determined, despite her
obvious uneasiness.

Isobel’s
smile as she looked at her aunt promised that there would be a reckoning once
the duchess left. She noted that the true widow was appropriately dressed in
black, her raven locks tucked into a chignon at the nape of her neck. Her gown
was stylish and simple and she had almost a regal bearing. But she was
definitely ill at ease. Ever the proper hostess, no matter the situation,
Isobel gestured for Adriana to resume her seat. Isobel perched on the edge of
one of the more uncomfortable chairs in the parlor, as if poised for flight.