Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (3 page)

Lady
Whitcomb looked at her niece, tears filling her eyes. Knowing Isobel hated
emotional displays, she said, “Cook’s seedcake is well worth postponing my
work.”

The
three sat in the Persian Room, as Lady Whitcomb discoursed on the various
objects of interest in the room that also boasted nine Persian carpets, all of
them exquisite and very old. Her voice rattled on until Sloane entered and placed
the tea tray by his mistress. He stayed in the room, straightening knick knacks
while Lady Whitcomb continued to chat like a magpie. She gleefully related the
juicy
on dits
of the day, avoiding their very own, of course, as Isobel
poured the tea, unconsciously making Saybrooke’s just as he liked it. Once they
all had tea in their hands and their choice of confection on a plate on their
laps, Isobel looked up and fixed her gaze on the butler.

“That
will be all, Sloane.”

“Of
course, Your… Miss.” He then bowed and exited, taking up his self-imposed post,
just outside the door.

Lord
Saybrooke waited until the door closed before he spoke.

“Tell
me all, Izzy.”

Isobel
delicately sipped her tea without looking at Lord Saybrooke. Her face was a
lovely mask of serenity, but Saybrooke noticed the hand holding her tea cup
trembled. “There is very little to tell, Drew. Reginald was a bigamist. For
years it seems. I know little more than that.”

“Who
is this new duchess, then? Lord Charles kept going on about Spain.” Saybrooke
probed.

“She
is Spanish. They married in 1809 in Spain. In September, I think Pickens said. Reginald
was wounded at Talavera. I imagine she nursed him back to health.”

“Are
you sure this is all legal? Not some elaborate scheme to cheat you and Lord
Charles?”

Before
Isobel could speak a large snort erupted from Lady Whitcomb. Isobel and
Saybrooke looked at the lady and realized that she was sleeping, her teacup
tilted at a dangerous angle. Saybrooke jumped up and gently removed it from her
hand and the empty plate from her lap as well. Lady Whitcomb stirred slightly, then
rested her primary chin on her two others and settled in for a nice long nap.

“Very
sure. He married her again in England, after his return, for good measure. And
anyway, Pickens assured us that it was indeed legal. And Pickens is a stickler,
Drew. A straight arrow. I believe he is a Methodist, like you,” Isobel could not
help but add.

“I
am not a Methodist and you well know it, though I do admire John Wesley’s
thinking. But do not try and divert me from the main topic. What are you to
do?” Saybrooke seemed truly concerned.

“Do
not tell me you are worried about me, Drew. I thought you gave up on me a long
time ago.” Isobel made an attempt at nonchalance but failed.

“Whatever
our past, we were friends once. More than friends, as you well know. I am
concerned about you, Izzy.”

“So,
now I am to become one of your lost causes, am I?” Isobel’s voice had a teasing
tone, but her eyes were flashing.

Saybrooke
merely looked at her, unable to keep the concern from his eyes. Seeing this,
any pretense at a teasing manner left Isobel, and she stood, the small china
plate in her lap made a muffled clatter as it fell to the Persian carpet,
uneaten cake and all. Her gray eyes were stormy with rage.

“Do
not pity me!” Her words came out in a raspy snarl, her whole body shaking with
emotion.

Lady
Whitcomb stirred in her sleep, but did not wake. Saybrooke looked at Isobel
appraisingly, the shadow of a smile lurking on his face.

“You
didn’t stamp your foot.”

Isobel
just stared at him as if he had lost his mind.

“When
we were children, you always stamped your foot when you said that. Other than
that small detail it’s a perfect reenactment,” Saybrooke said by way of
explanation, unable to suppress a grin any longer.

“Now
you mock me? Well, what is it then? Decide. Am I an object of pity or
ridicule?” Isobel stood, glaring at her former playmate.

“Both.
I cannot choose,” declared Saybrooke.

“Both?”
queried Isobel, truly puzzled. “How can I be both?”

“The
first, because you are truly in a pitiable situation, Izzy. The second, because
it is of your own making.” Lord Saybrooke spoke without a trace mirth, but
despite the harsh words, they were spoken with compassion.

“My
own making? How dare you, sir!” This time Isobel’s outburst did wake Lady Whitcomb,
who sputtered and blinked her eyes, gradually taking in the scene before her.
She promptly feigned sleep.

“How
am I possibly to blame?” continued Isobel in a fury. “Did I marry Warwick
knowing he was already wed?”

“No,
and that is why you are to be pitied. No one could have foreseen such an
outcome, not even you, despite your cunning plan.”

“Plan?
What plan?” Isobel gave him a haughty look and sat down.

“Come
now, do you deny it? You relentlessly pursued Reginald Aiken, he was the
Marquess of Crewe at the time, I believe,  though you clearly did not love him,
or respect him or even like him. But he was to save your family from penury and
to elevate you in society. To that end you mowed down anyone in your path.”

Isobel
glared at him, so angry she could not speak. Saybrooke continued relentlessly.

“Laura
Downing was his first choice and you plotted her demise with the pockets-to-let
Lord Tyndale, luring her into a compromising situation where she was forced to
wed the scoundrel. And you were free to pursue Aiken.” Saybrooke fixed Isobel
with a scowl.

“In
light of recent events, it would seem that Laura was fortunate to have escaped
Reginald,” countered Isobel in a defensive tone.

“Someone
was fortunate, but it was not Miss Downing. Tyndale was more than able to pay
off his creditors with her dowry and then promptly lost every farthing that was
left over the gaming tables. He died two years ago, leaving her penniless.”

“I
hardly planned that! I am not God,” Isobel sputtered.

“No,
you are not. But you played God in this situation and now you must live with
the consequences.”

His
words were aimed straight at her heart, or perhaps, at her conscience, but they
were not said with anger or censure. Isobel stared at Saybrooke, aghast. He
looked back at her with a strange mixture of severity and tenderness. Anger and
guilt fought for supremacy in Isobel’s breast. Anger won.

“If
God had been in evidence after my father lost every farthing of our money on
his ridiculous schemes, I would not have had to take matters into my own hands.”

“I
don’t recall you ever asking for guidance from God or anyone else for that
matter.” Lord Saybrooke’s hold on his temper was weakening.

“I
was an unmarried woman, sir! I had guidance from everyone including the cook. I
need never have asked for it! I could not stroll in the garden without someone
commenting upon it, suggesting it might be too cold and should I not wear a
shawl. An unmarried lady, Lord Saybrooke
,
has a surfeit of constraints
and controls imposed upon her which masquerade as guidance. My parents gave me
guidance, my governess gave me guidance, and the vicar’s wife gave me guidance.
And all of them impressed upon me that my duty was to marry. The worth of my
very existence depended on marrying well.”

“And
so, you would have me believe that you merely succumbed to your parents’
mercenary machinations, your governess’ self-serving maneuvers and the vicar’s
wife’s meddlesome interference?  You were just a pawn in their plot to have you
married off, is that it?” Saybrooke looked at Isobel, disgust written all over
his face.

Isobel
said nothing, but looked over at Lady Whitcomb, who had managed to fall back
into a true slumber from her feigned one. Isobel thought about his words. Of
course, any advice from the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Woodley, would be dismissed out
of hand. The woman was a pious, toad-eating fool. And her governess, Miss
Littleton? Her guidance was also suspect. She dallied with the head groom, who
had to be over fifty, while she preached of chastity and propriety. Isobel
loathed her. Her parents, however, that was the difficulty. She had been a
lonely little girl, raised by nurses and nannies and governesses. She had longed
for her parents’ approval. No, that was not quite true. By the time she was
twelve, she had dismissed her father as an officious bore. And she had long
since given up on ever getting her mother’s approval. Now that had passed on,
she gave the matter little thought.

“You
know that is not true. I have never been anyone’s pawn,” Isobel confessed then took
a breath. “You went away. You left me to their machinations. I saw no reason
not to give in to their ceaseless harangues.”

Saybrooke
looked at her with surprise. “I asked you to marry me and you turned me down.”

“You
asked me to run away with you. I did not want that kind of life.”

“Life
with a poor second son, a country vicar,” Saybrooke said with sadness.

“You
were never poor, Drew. Your great aunt left you a tidy competence,” Isobel said
with a little laugh.

“But,
nothing as grand as a duke; and I was a vicar.”

“Not
yet, you were not, but you know that did not matter to me.  I had hoped that you
would fight for me, so we could marry properly.”

Saybrooke
stood, placing his plate on the tea tray and walked to the window overlooking
the back garden. The room was quiet, except for the gentle snuffling of Lady
Whitcomb. Even the noises of the bustling streets of London could not be heard.
Nonetheless, the large room was filled with the echoes of unsaid words and the
ghosts of lost dreams. Isobel felt tears sting her eyes, but she fought them,
forbidding them to fall.

“Oh,
but I did. Your father rebuffed me more than once. He was determined you would
marry well and pull him out of the River Tick. But, I refused to give up. Until
the day after you turned me down. However, even then I did not admit defeat
gracefully. I went to your father and told him what I thought of his using a
mere slip of a girl to recoup his losses. How disgusted I was that he could
sell his only daughter to the highest bidder.”

 “I
never knew.” Isobel voice was barely above a whisper. “Why did you not tell me?”

Saybrooke
turned to her, his eyes full of sadness. He walked a few steps toward her, and
then stopped abruptly, pushing his hand through his thick brown hair.

“I
was twenty two years old, full of pride and anger and pain. I did not know what
to do.”

Isobel
sat, her back rigid, her hands clutching each other. “So, you left without a
word.”

“Just
a few days after I railed at your father, I got the offer of a living in
Surrey. A living offered by your father’s cousin, it so happened. I took it.”

“And
I had the offer of a season in London and I took that. And here we are.”
Isobel’s eyes were once again shuttered, the passion of the old Isobel put
away. Saybrooke knew that this was her unspoken hint that they were done with
this topic.

“Why
Warwick? Who chose Warwick?” Saybrooke ignored the hint.

Isobel
‘s full mouth was drawn into a thin line, a sign of her disapproval. “How on
earth could that matter now?”

“I
confess to being curious. He was titled and rich, but certainly there were
other titled and rich men who at least had a shred of intelligence and would
have suited you better.”

“Indeed,
there were. I did not want one that suited. I wanted one that would leave me be
once we were married. Warwick, though he was not as yet Warwick, was my choice.”
Isobel‘s troubled eyes belied her light tone.

Saybrooke
knew he should let that information be enough. But, it was not. He knew he
should say no more, pry no further, but he could not help himself. “And whose
idea was it to ruin Miss Downing, so that you could have your unsuitable
husband?”  

Saybrooke
expected an angry reply, but was surprised by Isobel’s weary tone. “What is the
point of all of this, Drew? I am tired. It has been a frightful day.”

Still,
Saybrooke would not yield. “Whose?”

Isobel
sighed heavily and spoke with a bone aching weariness. “Mother’s. I had
befriended Laura, so it was easily done.”

“I
see,” Saybrooke said as if satisfied. But, there was still one question he must
have answered. “And whose idea was it to lure Reginald Aiken, Lord Crewe at that
time, to the Cheltenham’s library the night of their daughter’s come out ball
in order to catch you in a compromising situation? Who hatched the scheme to
trap the poor bastard into marrying you?”

All
the languor left Isobel and her eyes once again crackled with fury. She stood
to face him and though her head reached only to his chin, she stared up at him,
her fiery eyes almost able to set him ablaze. “I did! It was my idea. He would
not come up to scratch and I was tired of my mother’s bullying. So, I did it.
Are you satisfied? Are you?” Isobel did not raise her voice, but she sounded
fearsome nonetheless.