Louise Allen (19 page)

* * *

Giles dragged himself back to the present and the other man. He had taken Carstairs into his confidence to a degree, putting it to him that it was in Geraldine’s interests if they could stop her embarking on a destructive feud with Lady Isobel.

‘I’m certain. But I’ve no idea why, she won’t tell me. Threw the coffee pot at my head when I wouldn’t go with her. Damn it, Harker,’ Carstairs said, pulling out a chair and sitting down, ‘I’m not trailing half across the country in support of one of her vendettas and I told her so. Told her you wouldn’t like it, either. Is there any fresh coffee?’

‘Hicks! Coffee for Mr Carstairs.’ Giles picked up his own cup and frowned into the dregs. They held no answers. ‘Any more letters?’

The other man nodded. ‘She’s been getting letters daily that have been pleasing her inordinately, as I told you, and then this one arrived and she said,
Hah! I’ve got the little hussy now
and ordered her woman to pack and sent her footman out to hire a chaise.

‘Thought you ought to know, because I’m pretty certain it has some connection with Lady Isobel. Or, at least, something to do with you. When she got these letters she’d stare at that portrait of you over the fireplace with such a look in her eyes. Brrr.’ He shuddered theatrically and peered at Giles more closely.

‘How’s the face? Looks as though it is healing well. Thought they’d carved half of it off, the way Geraldine was carrying on at first.’

Giles shrugged. ‘Healing. There will always be scars. Geraldine attaches too much importance to looks.’ What the devil had the woman discovered about Isobel?

He was prepared to go to any lengths to protect her, he realised, even though he was not willing to put a name to his feelings. Her hints at the ball that she might take a lover had made him jealous, furiously jealous, even while he knew she was deliberately provoking him and would no more do such a thing than fly. With disastrous honesty she had told him she loved him and she had meant it. His attempts to reject her for her own good had made her angry, but it had not changed her love for him, he sensed that.

‘I’m going to Herefordshire to find out what is going on. But I’ll see Geraldine first and make damned certain she stops this nonsense.’

‘The best of luck, old chap,’ Carstairs said with a rueful grin.

* * *

Isobel got down from the chaise at the Bell in Oxford at seven in the evening, nine hours after she had finished reading Jane’s letter at breakfast that morning. They had made better time than she had expected, but even so she felt exhausted already and there were another fourteen or fifteen hours travelling ahead of her.

‘Looks a decent enough place,’ Dorothy conceded with a sniff as one of the porters came forward, touched his forelock and took their bags.

‘We will require two adjoining bedchambers and a private parlour,’ Isobel said. ‘The quieter the better.’

‘Yes, ma’am, there’s just the thing free, if you’ll come this way.’

‘And hot water and tea and a good supper,’ Dorothy chimed in, clutching the dressing case that she insisted on keeping with her even though Isobel had brought no jewellery.

‘We’re famous for our suppers, at the Bell.’ The man halted. ‘Just mind this chaise coming in, ma’am.’

The vehicle with four horses sweating in the traces swept into the yard and pulled up in front of them. Isobel stepped back to take a new path to the inn entrance.

The door opened in her face, the porter hurried forwards. ‘Here, mind the lady!’ Dorothy took her arm and a tall figure dropped down onto the cobbles.

‘Giles!’

‘What the devil are you doing here?’ He slammed the carriage door shut and confronted her, for all the world as if he had a right to know of her movements, she thought, feeding her temper to keep the treacherous delight at seeing him at bay.

‘Never you mind my lady’s business and watch your tongue, you rogue.’ Dorothy planted her hands on her hips and confronted him, bristling. ‘A respectable lady ought to be able to travel the country without being accosted in inn yards by the likes of you!’

Heads were turning, more carriages were pulling in. ‘I think we would draw less attention if we go inside,’ Isobel said, tugging at her stalwart defender’s arm. ‘Come, Dorothy.’

‘I’ll have them fetch the parish constable, I will,’ the maid scolded as she marched into the inn on Isobel’s heels. ‘I told you he was no gentleman. What’s he doing here, I’d like to know!’

Chapter Nineteen

‘I,
too, would like to know what Giles Harker is doing in Oxford,’ Isobel said with feeling. She felt queasy with surprise and nerves, her pulse was all over the place and her thoughts were in turmoil. After that initial shock, the delight of thinking that, somehow, he had come for her, common sense reasserted itself.

What
was
Giles doing here? It was too much of a coincidence that they should both find themselves in an Oxford inn. Had she been wrong and he was the one behind the mysterious stranger who was probing the secrets of Longmere? But if that was the case it could only be out of some twisted desire to hurt her, to expose her secrets, and surely she had done nothing to deserve that? It was hard to believe she had been so far awry in her assessment of his character.

‘Welcome, my lady.’ The landlord appeared and ushered them farther in. ‘If a nice pair of rooms with a parlour on the quiet side of the house is what is wanted, we have just the thing. If you will follow me, ma’am.

‘I’ll have hot water sent up directly, my lady, and supper will be on the table within the half hour. Here you are, ma’am.’

‘That looks very satisfactory, thank you.’ He could have shown them into a prison cell for all Isobel cared, or noticed. The man bowed himself out and Dorothy threw herself dramatically in front of the door, her back pressed to the panels.

‘He’ll not get in here, the vile seducer!’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Dorothy, Mr Harker is no such thing, although what he is doing here I have no idea.’ A rap on the door made Dorothy jump. She emitted a small scream and flung it open to reveal a startled maid with a jug. ‘Your hot water, ma’am.’

‘Thank you.’ Isobel waited until the girl had gone before she turned back to Dorothy. ‘There is no need for alarm. Please be less melodramatic! There is absolutely no call for all this shrieking—oh!’ She pressed her hand to her thudding heart as the door swung open on the knock and Giles stepped into the room.

‘Lady Isobel. Will you join me for supper?’

‘Certainly not. I have no intention of dining with a man in an inn, and most definitely not with you.’ She looked at him with painful intensity. The scars were paler and thinner now. His expression was politely neutral, but his eyes were wary.
As well they might be
, she thought as she strove to settle her breathing.

‘The middle of the Season seems an unusual time to be taking a long coach journey, Lady Isobel,’ Giles observed. ‘Your admirers will be missing you.’

She did not attempt to cover her snort of derision. ‘I hardly think so. A friend needs me for a few days, then I will be returning.’

‘A friend in Oxford?’ He leant a shoulder against the door frame and frowned at her.

‘No. If that was the case I would hardly be staying in an inn.’

‘Where my lady is going is none of your business,’ Dorothy interjected. ‘Shall I go and get a couple of pot boys and have him thrown out, ma’am?’

‘I do not think that is necessary, thank you, Dorothy.’ Isobel doubted two lads would be capable of ejecting Giles in any case. She knew he was strong and fit, but now he looked leaner—and tougher with those scars and his dark brows drawn together into a frown. ‘Mr Harker will be leaving immediately, I am certain.’

‘If I might have a word with you first—alone.’ He straightened up and held the door open for Dorothy.

Isobel opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. If five minutes of painful intimacy meant she discovered what he was about, then it would be worth it. ‘Dorothy, go downstairs, please. No,’ she said as the maid began to launch into a protest. ‘Either you go or Mr Harker and I will have to. I wish to speak to him confidentially.’

‘But, my lady—’

Giles bundled the maid out of the room, closed the door and locked it before she could get another word out.

‘It is a strange thing if a lady may not visit a friend without being waylaid and interrogated,’ Isobel snapped.

‘Yes. I wonder that you stand for it,’ he said musingly, his eyes focused on her face. ‘I would have expected a cool
good evening
on seeing me and then for you to refuse to receive me. It is very shocking for us to be alone like this.’

‘I am well aware of that, Mr Harker! I want to know why you are here.’

‘In Oxford? Why should I not be?’

‘In Oxford, in this inn, at this time? I was foolish enough to fall in love with you, Giles Harker. Even more foolish to trust you. This is too much of a coincidence for my liking.’

‘That trust certainly appears to have vanished. Isobel, you know full well you could trust me to take only what was offered to me.’

‘I am not talking about—’ She could feel herself growing pink, whether from anger, embarrassment or sheer anxiety she could not tell.

‘Sex?’

‘Yes,
sex
.’ She was blushing, she knew it, and it was more from desire and anger at herself than embarrassment. ‘I am talking about the way you abandoned me, washed your hands of me the moment my parents appeared.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘You wanted me to treat you as a friend in front of your parents? You wanted to risk your reputation by acknowledging a liaison with me?’

‘No, I did not want that and you know it! But there was no word of affection or regret, no acknowledgement that I was distressed or of what we had shared. You had your amusement—and yes, I am aware of your self-control, I thank you—and then, when it all became difficult, you shrug me and my feelings aside.’

Giles pushed away from the door, all pretence of casualness gone. ‘Isobel, I only did what was practical. It would not have helped to have drawn out our parting, merely added to your unhappiness.’

‘Practical? Giles, there was nothing practical about my feelings for you.’

‘Was? Past tense?’ He came so close that the hem of her skirts brushed his boots, but she would not retreat. ‘I thought that when you loved, you would love for ever.’

‘Then I cannot have been in love with you, can I? Just another foolish woman fascinated by your handsome face.’

‘We did not make love until after this.’ He gestured towards his scarred cheek.

‘Guilt, then. Gratitude. Lust. Call it what you like. It was certainly lust, those few mad moments in the passageway at the Leamingtons’ ball!’ Only her anxiety for Annabelle and Jane, only the price of misplaced trust, kept her from falling into his arms. ‘What do my feelings for you matter? I want to know why you are here. Are you following me?’

‘No,’ Giles said. ‘I am not following you and our meeting here is a genuine coincidence.’ Truth? Lies? How could she tell? She had thought he had fallen in love with her and he had not. Obviously she could not understand him at all.

If she did not love him, he would not make her so angry. If she only dared trust him—but he would be disgusted when he realised she had given away her child, had not had the courage to raise her as his own mother had raised him. Whatever she thought of the Scarlet Widow, the woman’s fierce love for her son could not be mistaken.

‘You are very agitated for a woman who is merely going to visit a friend for a few days,’ he remarked, cutting through her thoughts and sending her tumbling into unconsidered speech.

‘If I am agitated, then it is because I cannot get free from you. It seems I cannot keep even my secrets—’ She stumbled to a halt.

‘So,’ Giles said slowly, his eyes never leaving her face with its betraying colour, ‘I am right. You have a secret, one greater than the loss of your virginity, one that you would not trust to me even though you tell me you loved me, even though then you had no reason to mistrust me. You are afraid. Is it a secret that lays you open to blackmail, perhaps?’

‘Blackmail?’ Isobel went cold. ‘No, of course not.’ Was that what the prying stranger was about? But who had sent him? ‘You may leap to whatever conclusions you wish, Giles Harker. You have made me so angry I scarce know what I am saying.’

‘No, you are not angry.’ He caught her hands in his and held them even when she tugged. ‘Or, rather, anger is not the main emotion here. You are afraid.’

Unable to free herself without a struggle, Isobel turned her face away. What she was going to do when he left her alone—if he ever did—she had no idea. She dared not let him know where she was going or she might lead him to Annabelle. All she could do was to get to Jane and try, somehow, to work out how to protect her daughter and her friend.

‘Of course I am afraid—I am locked in a room and being manhandled. Am I your prisoner while you interrogate me?’ she demanded. Defiance was the only weapon she had against the fear and the awful weakness of her love for him. And that love would betray Annabelle.

Giles released her wrists and she stood rubbing them, although he had not held her tight enough to hurt. The touch of his hands, the fingers that had orchestrated such pleasure in her, seemed to burn like ice. ‘This has gone too far for me to walk away from it now, Isobel, whether you want me or trust me or not. You are in trouble, more trouble than you know.’

He turned the key in the lock and walked out, letting the door slam behind him. Isobel sank down in the chair behind her, her knees suddenly like warm wax.

‘My lady? I passed him on the stairs and he looked like thunder—are you all right, my lady? I should never have left you alone with him.’

‘I am perfectly fine, Dorothy,’ Isobel said with a calm that was intended to steady herself as much as the maid. ‘Mr Harker and I had unfinished business, that is all. I did not have the opportunity to say everything I wanted to when we left Wimpole.’

She had not convinced her, but there was nothing to be done about it now. ‘Dinner will be here soon and neither of us have so much as washed our hands.’

But what had those parting words meant? How did he know she was in trouble?

* * *

‘Just you stop right there, my bullies.’

The chaise juddered to a halt and Isobel let down the window. ‘Ned! Ned Foster, it is I, Lady Isobel. Please open the gate.’

‘Yes, my lady!’ the big man called back and swung open the heavy gate that barred the entrance into the manor courtyard. Chickens ran flapping in panic as the postilions brought the chaise in and Isobel heard the clang of the gate thudding back into its catches. It felt as though she was in a besieged castle. Isobel fought back the melodramatic image and gathered her things.

She was paying off the men and Dorothy was carrying the bags around to the back entrance as Jane came running down the steps, a big shawl bundled around her shoulders against the raw air. ‘Isobel! I did not dare hope you’d come. How long can you stay?’

‘For as long as it takes,’ Isobel said grimly as she hugged her friend. ‘I am so glad to be here. The weather was bad after Oxford and there was a landslip about sixty miles from Oxford so we had to spend another day on the road. Oh, Jane,’ she confessed as they entered the hallway, out of earshot of the servants. ‘I do not know what is going on here, or who is to blame for it, but I have been so foolish. I fell in love with the most impossible man and I think this is a consequence. I am so sorry.’

‘Foolish to fall in love?’ Jane smiled. ‘That is never foolish.’

‘It is when the man in question is the illegitimate son of the Scarlet Widow.’

Her friend’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, my, I have heard of her. But how on earth did you meet him? Does he know you love him?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. We made love, Jane,’ she added as the drawing-room door shut safely behind them. Best to get the entire confession over as quickly as possible.

‘You aren’t—’

‘No. But it all ended badly—I thought he felt the same for me, but it is quite obvious that he does not, and, in any case, there is no way we can ever be together. His mother sees me as a threat to him and I think she must be behind whatever is going on here. But how she ever found out, I do not know.’

‘You did not tell him?’

‘That I had a child? No. He knows that Lucas and I anticipated our marriage, but that is all.’ Isobel paced to the window and stood staring out at the darkening gardens. ‘Perhaps I am worrying unduly after all, for unless one of your people betrays us, there is no reason anyone might suspect Annabelle is not exactly who you say she is.’

‘And I trust them implicitly,’ Jane said, nodding. ‘There might be a danger if she resembled you closely, but as it is, she is very obviously a Needham. It is seven months since you saw her, isn’t it? She is growing.’

‘Yes.’ It seemed like seven years. ‘May I see her now? I did not want to speak of this unless we were alone, but now, I cannot wait. Is she much changed?’

‘I think she is perfect, but you will judge for yourself.’ Her friend’s smile was warm and once again Isobel was filled with gratitude that Jane had taken her child, loved her like her own and yet was prepared to share her so unselfishly. ‘She is bright, quick and very lovely. Come and see—they are in the kitchen with old Rosemary, hindering her efforts to make cakes.’

Isobel almost ran down the stone-flagged passageway and into the kitchen. Two small children were perched on the edge of the big table, legs dangling, their eyes glued to the big bowl of fruit cake mixture the cook was stirring.

‘More plums,’ Nathanial demanded, but Isobel could only focus on the little girl.

She scooped her up, warm and sweet and slightly sticky around the mouth from stealing batter. ‘Surprise!’

‘Aunt Ishbel,’ Annabelle said with a crow of delight and a kiss. She had never been able to get her tongue around Isobel’s name.

‘How pretty you look—and how sticky you are.’ Isobel whirled her round in her arms and everything in the world was right again. Then she stopped at the sight of their reflection in the battered mirror propped at one end of the dresser. Annabelle, female to her chubby fingertips, examined her own image with interest. Two heads of tumbled hair, soft and slippery, sliding out of its pins, but Annabelle’s was blonde while Isobel’s was brown. Two rather determined little chins, but very different noses. Two pairs of wide grey eyes.

‘Pretty,’ Annabelle said with a crow of delight.

‘Pretty,’ Isobel agreed.
Oh, thank you, Lucas, for giving me this child
. And anyone who saw them together would not pick up any significant likeness, she was sure. She turned to see Jane smiling as she watched them.