Temporary Mistress (32 page)

"Who knows why men do what they do? I've never understood their misplaced sense of honor," Molly said with a sigh. "Come, let's try to eat some breakfast. You haven't had a bite since yesterday."

Isabella grimaced. "I couldn't eat a thing."

"Have a cup of tea. I want company, so you must oblige me." Molly rarely spoke so severely to Isabella, nor was she hungry herself, but she needed to distract Isabella—however briefly—from her despair.

Shelby's note was delivered to them in the breakfast room, and after quickly perusing it, Molly handed it to Isabella with a broad smile. "All our fears were for naught. Dermott is fine, as always. Dear boy."

Snatching the page from Molly's hand, Isabella quickly scanned it as though needing confirmation for Molly's words. And then with a grand sigh, she settled back in her chair and felt as though life was worth living again. "Thank God," she softly said. "Thank, thank, thank God…"

The first rumors reached the City early but didn't arrive in Grosvenor Place until evening. It was then that Joe heard the news of Bathurst's wounds from his brother, who had heard them from Devon's valet. Aware of all that transpired in the household, Joe knew the contents of Dermott's note to Molly and the probable reason that the truth had been withheld.

After informing Molly of his brother's report, they debated telling Isabella. Obviously, the earl hadn't wanted her to know. So the question was—did they do a disservice by telling her?

"How badly is Dermott hurt?" Molly asked. "The degree of his wounds would make a difference."

"He's not expected to live." Joe's voice was hushed.

Molly, who had seen so much misery and thought herself immune, turned pale. "Poor dear," she whispered. But only seconds later, she pinned Joe with a challenging gaze. "There has to be an explanation. Dermott's never wounded; he's the best shot in England."

"Lonsdale fired early."

"Damned cur. I hope he died a slow, painful death." Her voice was pitiless.

"Apparently not, but you can be sure he's burning in hell."

"Exactly the fate he deserves for what he's done! Lonsdale should burn in hell a thousand times over!"

"Why should Lonsdale burn in hell?" Isabella had just entered the room. "Besides the obvious reasons, of course." But the look of panic on Molly's face at her question struck her with terror. Lonsdale's death should have been a triumph for Dermott. Why had they gone silent? Why were they staring at her with such apprehension? "What's going on?" she asked, scrutinizing Molly's pale face. Seized by dread at Molly's hesitation, tears sprang to Isabella's eyes. Furiously, she turned on Joe. "Dammit,
you
tell me the truth!"

Joe looked to Molly for guidance, and Isabella felt as though the world were collapsing around her.

"Joe heard a rumor that Dermott is wounded," Molly reluctantly offered, trying to speak with calm. "Don't immediately jump to conclusions. All gossip isn't true; most gossip isn't true, as you well know."

"But you're ashen and Joe is afraid to talk to me, so please don't tell me everything is all right when it clearly isn't." Isabella stood trembling with fear, her hands clenched at her sides to still the tremors, her gaze swiveling from one to the other as though she might be able to decipher their thoughts. "I want to know where he is," she whispered, her voice tight with horror. "And don't tell me you don't know."

"He was at Lamb's Inn," Molly replied.

"Was?"

"Lord Devon drove back to the inn with Dermott's lawyers, and he was gone. Against his doctor's orders, the inn owner said."

"Where did he go?"

"Apparently no one knows, or if they do, they're not talking. That's all we've been able to find out."

"Is that the whole truth?" Isabella searched the faces of her companions, looking for any indications of subterfuge. "I'm not a child," she reminded them. "I'm aware of what Dermott wants and doesn't want. You're not going to break my heart any more than it's already broken if you're honest with me. I fully realize he doesn't want to be with me, that he doesn't love me. But I'd like to know how badly he's hurt. For God's sake, tell me. I
need
to know."

"They don't expect him to live," Molly whispered.

Isabella sank to the floor, her legs suddenly gone weak. "Oh, my God…" Looking up at Molly, tears streamed down her cheeks. "It's all my fault…"

"Don't even think that, darling." Rushing to comfort her, Molly dropped to the floor and took Isabella in her arms. "It's not your fault," she soothed. "Don't for a minute blame yourself. Everyone knows Dermott and Lonsdale have long been enemies, since their public school days at least. And Dermott pleases no one but himself. Tell her, Joe, she mustn't take responsibility for this."

"He's met more than one man on the dueling field, Miss Isabella. This weren't the first time by a long shot."

"You see," Molly insisted. "You're as guiltless now as with any of the others."

"I won't even be able to see him before—" Convulsed with a sob, Isabella couldn't conceive of so strong and vital a man facing the awful finality of death. Perhaps he was already dead… Whimpering, she clung to Molly, terrified of so fearful a thought.

"Come, darling," Molly cajoled. "Come sit and have a glass of wine to ease your nerves. We'll see if we can find out more." Rising, she tugged on Isabella's hands.

Numb with grief, Isabella allowed herself to be helped to her feet and led to a chair, where Molly wiped the tears from her face. When she was handed a glass shortly after, she drank the wine, though it was tasteless in her mouth. Like dust.

She answered when spoken to, but she neither heard nor cared what was being discussed. All she could see was Dermott's cold body laid out in death. All she could think about was how sad and dreadful and devastating beyond belief the waste of his life.

And she couldn't go to him because she didn't know where he was.

Because he didn't want her to know.

"I can't stay here," Isabella abruptly declared, interrupting the murmured conversation, feeling a desperate, inexplicable need to flee. "I'm going to the country."

Molly looked at Joe and then at Isabella. "I'm glad."

Isabella came to her feet, her spine rigid, her shoulders stiff as a soldier on parade, shield against the collapse of her soul. "I'm going right now."

"Wouldn't you rather—" Molly's words died away at the look of anguish on Isabella's face. "I'll have the maids pack your clothes."

"Don't," she brusquely retorted, a kind of defensive anger in her voice. "I'm not taking anything." She didn't want to be reminded of Dermott, how he'd looked the day she'd been trying on the black lace gown at Molly's, or the way he'd stripped the white dress from her at Bathurst House and made her love him, or the scent of his hair and cologne that still lingered in the silk of her clothes. "Joe, please call for my carriage." Her voice was sharp and crisp. If she could pretend she'd never known Dermott, if she could obliterate any memory of the last unbelievable weeks, if she could physically separate herself from the people and places that reminded her of his beauty and tenderness, his playfulness and essential goodness, maybe with time she could learn to bear the unbearable pain.

Or if she couldn't, at least she could hide her misery from the world.

Dermott, traveling south, was undergoing his own unbearable torment, each revolution of the wheels an agonizing shock to his ravaged body, each bump in the road racking torture. Despite the doctor's protests, despite Shelby's pleadings, despite the horror in Charles's eyes, he'd insisted on leaving once he'd regained consciousness. He'd wanted to find a solitary cave where he could lick his wounds, a hermitage and refuge away from the world, away from prying eyes and gossip, away from help he didn't want and decisions he couldn't make. And if he were to die—he'd heard the doctor through the shifting levels of his consciousness—he'd take that final journey alone.

He didn't wish his mother alarmed. She was to be told only that he was recuperating at the seashore.

And so he meant to. His spirit willing.

He was unconscious more than he was conscious on the road to the south coast. A blessing, the doctor declared, seeing that Dermott swallowed another dose of laudanum each time he woke. And on that painful journey to the Isle of Wight, when those with him never knew if his next breath might be his last, Dermott's opium dreams were peopled with familiar images of his wife and son, the sweet visions bringing a smile to his lips. But another face intruded in the habitual, well-known fantasies—a beauty with golden hair and gentian eyes and the strength to draw him away. Sometimes he fought against her lure, and other times he willingly followed her. But their path always took them to the very edge of a high, rocky precipice shrouded in fog, and he found himself unwilling to follow her when she took that last fatal step. Invariably, he'd wake with a start, only to be met with a more brutal kind of pain, a clawing, fiendish pain that mercilessly ripped through his body and brought him panting, begging for oblivion.

The same evening Isabella was on her way to Suffolk, her uncle's family was dining at home, gloating over the events of the day.

"Herbert, tell us again when you first heard of Bathurst's mortal wounds," his wife cheerfully said, glancing at her two beaming daughters.

"And tell us, Papa, when we may attend the more refined society entertainments now that Bathurst is no longer your nemesis."

Their father cast them a lowering look. "He's not dead yet."

"But he's as near dead as ever may be, Papa!" Caroline exclaimed with considerable glee. "I heard it from Harold's valet, who heard it from any number of his friends. It's quite certain."

"So he can't hurt you now, Papa," Amelia declared. "It's so exciting! Just think, we can mix with the very best of the ton now."

"Don't set your sights too high, my dear," her doting papa remarked, more sensible than the females in his family of their station in life.

"But, Papa, you're ever so rich and you know that means we'll have our pick of a number of eligible parties. Now that we aren't obliged to go to those dreadful routs in the City."

"And have to talk to mushrooms without titles."

"Abigail," he sternly noted, "I suggest you set your daughters on a more realistic path. The world of the ton doesn't offer many titles to bankers' daughters."

"Oh, pooh on you. Papa. Just think of Evelina Drucker, who married a viscount only last year."

"A very poor and old viscount."

"Well, who would give a fig how old or poor they might be if one could wear a coronet," Caroline maintained.

"And you know the aristocracy never even talk to each other," her sister chimed in. "They live in separate parts of their great mansions and see one another only at ceremonies."

"So you girls know it all."

"Enough, Papa, to know that the only thing that matters is your money. And now that Bathurst is almost dead, we will be allowed to dance at the very best balls."

"Isabella is gone as well, Herbert. You said it yourself. Your watchers told you. So surely there are no further impediments to our daughters' season."

"Where did she go?" Harold had just come down from his chambers, his dandified attire having taken considerable time to adjust on his porcine body.

"You've missed the first course, Harold," his mother admonished him.

"Save your reproach for Steeves," he protested, sitting down across from his sisters. "He ruined a dozen of my neckcloths before managing to make me presentable. So where did she go?"

"To Tavora House. Are you going to woo her now that Bathurst is dead?" Amelia teased, knowing of her brother's tendre for their cousin.

"She's not worth my time now that she's used goods," he said in an affected manner, Isabella's relationship with
Bathurst the stuff of gossip. "But I may pay a visit on her—and give her the benefit of my advice."

"Used goods, indeed," Abigail sniffed. "She was out and out Bathurst's whore."

"But Lady Jersey slept with the Prince of Wales for years and now Lady Hertford does and the Duke of Devonshire has a mistress living in his house along with his wife and any number of nobles do—"

"For heaven's sake," Abigail exclaimed, directing a blistering glance at her younger daughter. "How in the world would you know such scandal?"

"From Maude, of course. You know how informed she is, Mama, and that's the reason you keep her. And if I'm going to be married soon, I should understand how the world goes along."

"Herbert! I would wish you to inform our daughters that immorality is wrong regardless of rank."

It took a moment for Herbert Leslie to gather the proper severe expression when he knew very well how the beau monde conducted itself. Fornication and flirtation had long been the amusements of the leisured class. "Listen to your mama, girls. She knows best."

"A little more sincerity, if you please, Herbert."

"Cut bait, Abigail," he brusquely retorted. "As if you don't know how the ton play at life and the world be damned."

The girls snickered and Harold smiled, but none dared confront their mother openly. She managed the household with an iron fist, and even Herbert rarely interfered in his wife's domain.

"We'll have no more talk of disreputable people at this table." Abigail scanned the faces of her family with a penetrating gaze. "Now then," she said in her most proper tone, "what if we all attended Mrs. Bambridge's tea tomorrow—as a family."

"I have to work, as you well know, Abigail."

"And I'm bound for the races, Mama."

Abigail frowned at her husband and son. "It wouldn't hurt you to show yourselves at some of the girls' parties."

"Not old lady Bambridge's tea though, Mama. There's no one of consequence there."

"Mrs. Bambridge has hired an opera singer. And she has hopes that Baroness Tellmache may appear, for she likes Madame Dolcini's voice above all things."

"Mama, don't bother. Harold would lief walk to his races before he'd listen to an opera singer. And Lucinda and Emilie will be there, which is quite enough for us to have fun."