by Darcy Burke
Isabelle looked up from her book as the shop door opened. Then she gasped in delighted surprise as Beatrice and Caroline dashed toward her.
She’d barely stood from the stool before both girls had wrapped their arms around her. She held them close, basking in their warmth and their familiar sweet scents. Looking toward the door, she braced herself, assuming she would see the new governess or Lady Barkley.
She only saw Val.
“You brought them?” she asked.
The girls stepped back from her but didn’t let her go—Beatrice clutched her left hand while Caroline clasped her right.
“He said he had a surprise,” Caroline said, grinning. “It’s a wonderful one, isn’t it?”
“The very best.” Isabelle laughed. “Now, tell me what I have missed.”
Caroline launched into a diatribe detailing the horrors of needlepoint and the dangers of dancing, then Beatrice complained about Miss Shipley’s terrible pronunciation of French.
“She’s atrocious,” Beatrice lamented. “Your ears would bleed.”
Isabelle stifled another laugh as she glanced toward Val. Only he wasn’t there. Where had he gone?
Caroline sighed. “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Greek.”
“Miss Shipley doesn’t teach it at all?” Isabelle asked.
Both girls shook their heads. “And Mama doesn’t care.” Beatrice’s tone was derisive. “I’ve been keeping up with it, however. As well as I can. His Grace helped me with some this morning, actually. That’s when he said he had a surprise for us.”
Val was helping them with Greek in addition to bringing them to see her? First he’d found her a job and now he was filling the hole in her heart that had formed when she’d had to leave her charges. Was he simply trying to make up for his authoritarian behavior when he’d dismissed her from the tavern?
Or was it something more?
She wasn’t sure she dared contemplate the latter.
“How wonderful that His Grace is helping you,” Isabelle said.
Beatrice looked down at the floor for a moment. “Well, that can’t last since we’re moving to Queen Street tomorrow.”
Isabelle’s chest ached at the melancholy in Beatrice’s tone. She wished things could be different, but there was nothing any of them could do.
Squeezing their hands, Isabelle sank down so she was more on eye level with Caroline and had to look up a bit at Beatrice. “Change can be difficult but also wonderful. Perhaps you will fall in love with playing the pianoforte.”
“Mama is making us learn guitar.” Caroline stuck out her tongue.
“You may enjoy it. The point is to keep an open mind. If you don’t, you might miss the wonders that life has to offer. And I do hope you will give Miss Shipley a fair chance. She is not me, and she shouldn’t try to be.”
“But we want you,” Caroline whined.
Beatrice nodded in agreement. “We miss you.”
“I miss you too.” Isabelle’s throat tightened, but she refused to let them see her emotions. “I shall write to you often, and you must write back to me.”
Caroline scowled. “What if Mama won’t let us?”
Had the baroness said that? A wave of anger swept over Isabelle, and she again worked to keep a positive tone and a kind expression. “I’m sure she will.”
“I’ll strongly suggest she does.”
Isabelle jerked her head up and saw Val standing just a few feet away. Where had he come from?
Beatrice gave him a tentative smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“It’s my pleasure. You girls better choose the books you want, or we won’t have an excuse for our outing.” He winked at them, and they looked toward Isabelle.
“Will you help us choose?” Caroline said.
“Of course. You may have two each.” She met Val’s gaze. “On your membership?”
He inclined his head. “If you please.”
Oh, she pleased. She was so overwhelmed by his kindness and thoughtfulness, she could kiss him.
Or maybe she just wanted to kiss him because he was Val. And the Val of today seemed to be every bit the Val she remembered, only better.
She helped the girls select their books, and in all too short a time, they were on their way. Now that they knew she was here, they promised to visit as much as they could. With a final hug, she waved them off, then hurried back to the counter, where she dashed away her tears.
Later that afternoon, she returned to Berkeley Square feeling satisfied after her first day at the library, as well as a lingering sadness over missing the girls.
“Isabelle?” Viola called her by her first name now since she’d asked Isabelle to call her Viola. “Come into the library!”
Isabelle turned right into the library, where Viola was bent over a table. She had a map of the world spread out before her and didn’t look up as Isabelle walked in.
“How was the library?” Viola asked as she picked up a pencil and scratched a note on a piece of parchment set atop the map.
“Wonderful, thank you. I think I may have found my passion.”
Viola straightened and turned her head to Isabelle. “I thought teaching was your passion?”
“It is. It was.” Isabelle loved teaching, but the life of a governess was rather solitary and, as a result, lonely. She’d developed a close relationship with the girls, but now that was gone and she had no one. The thought of starting over with a new family was less than appealing. “I enjoy the bustle of the library.”
“That’s marvelous,” Viola said. “Perhaps it’s a blessing that your last position…ended.” She shook her head. “I had to pause and think of how to describe that.”
Ended seemed as good a description as any. “The girls came to the library today.” Isabelle didn’t mention that Val had brought them. Viola didn’t need any more evidence that their association was more than they’d let on.
Viola leaned her hip against the table and stuck her pencil into her upswept blonde hair. “Was it nice to see them, or is it difficult since their parents are so horrid?”
“It was very nice. I would never blame them for their parents’ failings. Indeed, I wouldn’t want them to know about their parents. They have time enough to learn for themselves, though I suppose I hope they never do, particularly when it comes to their father.” Isabelle shuddered.
Viola’s nostrils flared. “He didn’t…do anything untoward, did he? I mean, physically.”
“If you’re asking whether he attacked me, no. He touched me in a way he hadn’t before, and thankfully, I was able to walk away without provoking him.” She felt grateful when she thought of how much worse it could have been.
Viola snorted. “Men are terrible. Most men, anyway. I do like my brother, but in my mind, he isn’t a man. He’s my brother.”
In Isabelle’s mind, he was most definitely a man and was definitely not disgusting. Her husband, on the other hand… “I can’t disagree with you.”
“Of course, women can be just as bad,” Viola mused. “Take Val’s wife. She was awful.”
She shouldn’t ask, but Viola couldn’t help herself. “How was she awful?”
“She was reckless and indiscreet, always staying out until all hours gambling and generally behaving as a wanton instead of a duchess. She nearly sent poor Grandmama into apoplexy.”
Isabelle had no idea, and why should she have? It was no wonder Val had been unhappy. “What happened to her?” Again, she shouldn’t ask, but was utterly unable to remain silent.
“She was with child and lost the babe. She didn’t survive either.” Viola looked down, her brow creasing. “Grandmama said it was for the best. I say ‘poor Grandmama,’ but it was Val who bore the brunt of Louisa’s behavior.”
Had he loved her? Had she broken his heart? These were more questions Isabelle longed to ask but decided she couldn’t. None of this was her business, and she was ignoring her own warnings about not showing the depth of her relationship with Val to
his family.
However he’d felt toward his wife, Isabelle ached for him. Losing a child was worse than not being able to have them. At least that was what she, as someone who apparently couldn’t have one, surmised.
Viola looked at her with a sly, secretive smile. “I think I should take you out tonight.”
“I couldn’t,” Isabelle protested. “I haven’t a thing to wear.” Never mind the fact that she didn’t want to.
“I have clothes you can borrow, and this isn’t a Society event. I want to take you where I go sometimes. It’s devilish fun, and you can be completely anonymous. Are you up for it?”
Anonymous? In London? And it wasn’t Society?
A slow grin lifted Isabelle’s lips. “What time shall we leave?”
“Tarleton!”
Val didn’t look up from his tankard at the chorus that rose upon the entry of his friend Hugh Tarleton. He was too intent on brooding.
Hugh sat down beside him. “Eastleigh, are you drunk?”
“Not yet.”
“He’s been like that all evening,” Jack said. “Maybe you can deliver him an uplifting sermon.”
“If you want to hear a sermon, come to church.” Hugh’s deep, commanding voice rumbled over the table.
Jack chuckled. “Not your church. I’d like to keep the contents of my pockets intact, thank you.”
Hugh was rector at St. Giles in the Fields, in the very center of some of London’s worst neighborhoods. “Your pockets would be fine. No one dares steal at my church.”
Val didn’t doubt it. Hugh was a mammoth of a man with massive shoulders and arms that looked as though they could break you in two.
“Why are you getting drunk?” Hugh asked as one of the barmaids deposited his mug before him.
“Seems like a good idea.” Because then he could forget about Isabelle, at least for a short time. He had to stop torturing himself as he’d done today when he’d taken Barkley’s girls to the library. He’d done it because the poor things had been so forlorn since Isabelle had left, and Val felt sorry for them having such terrible parents. But if he were honest with himself, he’d also done it to see Isabelle.
Not just see her—he’d done it to please her. And judging from her reaction, he’d done that. The problem was, having done that, he wanted to keep doing it. And the problem with that was the fact that he had no occasion to do so. She was not his to please.
He finished the ale in front of him and signaled for a refill.
The door opened, but there was no chorus. This happened from time to time as not everyone who came in was a regular patron. They likely soon would be, however, so it was not surprising when someone immediately welcomed the newcomer. Newcomers.
Val glanced up and saw two young gentlemen. They were both rather thin, and they both sported far too much facial hair. Val assumed they’d had the pox, and their beards covered the scars.
“Would you care to sit with us?” Hugh invited.
“No, thank you,” one answered. “We’re for the billiards room. Er, do you have a billiards room? We heard you might.”
Val narrowed his eyes at the shorter of the two who’d spoken. There was something about that voice…
“We do, in fact,” Jack answered. “I’d be happy to show you.” He stood and went to the bar. “Doyle, a pair of ales for these fine gentlemen.”
“Already poured.” Doyle slid them across the bar with a smile. “Welcome to the Wicked Duke, lads.”
The shorter man picked up his mug, then shot a look at the other man when he hesitated. There was something very odd about them. Val slowly rose. “I’ll come along with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course they don’t mind,” Jack said. “They wouldn’t turn the owner away.” He stage-whispered to the two gentlemen, “This is the Duke of Eastleigh, one of the ‘Wicked Dukes’ the place is named for. He generally gets what he wants.” Jack winked at him, and Val rolled his eyes. He also noted that the taller of the two gentlemen looked straight at him and then quickly averted his gaze as if meeting Val’s eyes could set him on fire.
Val asked Doyle for the key to the ball box and followed the gentlemen, who were led by Jack, into the billiard room. It adjoined both the main and private parlors, but the doors were kept closed since the lighting in the billiard room was far brighter than anywhere else in the pub.
One of the four tables was already in use, as a pair of gentlemen were at play beneath the oil lamps. They warmly welcomed Jack and Val and the new arrivals.
“Here you are,” Jack said. “Have you played before?”
The tall gentleman shook his head, while the shorter one nodded. “Many times.”
Val went to the locked box where they kept the valuable ivory balls, and withdrew a set. He set the two white cue balls and the red ball on the nearest table and relocked the box.
Jack inclined his head toward the taller gentleman. “Good luck to you.” Then he turned to Val. “I’m going back to the salon. You coming?”
Val was far too interested in uncovering the mystery of these two gentlemen. He had his suspicions and felt certain he could confirm them in relatively short order. “No, I’m going to stay and watch.”
The taller gentleman shot a look toward Val, and it was all he needed. He knew those cobalt eyes, and they didn’t belong to a man. He also knew the voice of the other man because he, rather she, came in here often, though in a different disguise. Clearly, Viola was trying to mask her identity because if Val knew it was her, he’d likely recognize her friend. Which begged the question, why would Viola risk it? Surely she would know he’d puzzle it out.
The perimeter of the room contained a handful of tables and chairs for spectators. Val situated himself in a chair nearest their billiard table and settled in to be entertained. “How many points will you play to?” he asked.
“Six,” Viola answered as she moved to the wall and selected a cue rather than a mace. What would Isabelle choose? Did she even know the difference?
Suddenly, Val couldn’t resist the opportunity before him. He stood and joined her at the wall. “Since this is your first time, may I recommend a cue? They are far more accurate than the mace.” He selected one and offered it to her, noting that she kept her gaze from meeting his. “The leather on the end will help guide the ball as you seek to strike the others on the table or if you can achieve a hazard point.”
“A hazard point is when you put one of the other balls in a pocket,” Viola said, careful to keep her voice pitched low. Viola explained the rest of the rules they would follow that night, using everything Val had taught her. If he hadn’t discerned her identity before, he would have now.
“Why don’t you have a few practice rounds to show your friend, Mr.—?” Val suggested.
Viola responded. “I am Mr. Gates, and this is Mr. Beaufort. I’ll go first to demonstrate.” She explained to Isabelle how to strategize what to hit and where, as well as showed her how to hold the cue. Viola was quite accomplished at billiards and achieved a hazard, sending the red ball into a pocket.
“That doesn’t look terribly difficult.”
Val bit his lip lest he laugh at the comically low pitch of Isabelle’s voice. “Go on and give it a try.”
Isabelle assessed the table and went up to the edge. She realized she was too close and took a step back. Then she angled her cue and missed hitting the ball entirely.
Viola sniggered, and Isabelle shot her a heated look. Val swallowed a laugh. “May I show you?”
He took a cue from the wall and moved to her side of the table to model how she should approach the shot. “You want to hold the cue so that you can control its movement. Like this.” He gripped it low and then guided the upper portion with his other hand.
She tried to mimic what he did, but still wasn’t quite mastering the stance or grip. He leaned his cue against the table and stepped behind her to position her arms.
That was a mistake.
She may have been dressed like
a man, but he was all too aware she was a woman. And not just any woman, but Isabelle, the source of every dream he’d ever had.
He tried to keep the contact minimal, but it didn’t matter. At this proximity, her scent filled his senses. Moving quickly, he adjusted her grip on the lower part of the cue, then reached around and leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back as he showed her how to guide the stick toward the ball. Then he demonstrated, controlling her movements.
The cue struck her ball and hit Viola’s. And Val tore himself away before he was unable to.
He picked up the cue and replaced it on the wall. “Very nice.” He meant it to describe her strike, but it applied to so much more.
Oh, this was madness.
He went back to his chair and the table where he’d set his tankard. Lifting the mug, he took a long drink.
“More practice, I think,” Viola said. “You go again.”
Isabelle bent and took aim, and Val swore he saw her tremble. Madness didn’t begin to describe it. Because he should go. Instead, he sat there and watched her practice several shots.
A small group—five gentlemen—came into the room, their laughter filling the space. “Glad there’s a table free,” one said.
“Two, actually,” Viola said cheerily. “But there’s five of you. Who’s not playing?”
“We’ll take turns,” one said.
Val rose and went to unlock the ball box. They took two sets and set up the remaining two tables. Soon the billiard room was alive with boisterous conversation and good-natured wagering.
“Are you ready to start the game?” Viola asked Isabelle.
“As ready as I will be.”
At Isabelle’s insistence, Viola went first, scoring a point when she hit Isabelle’s cue ball. Isabelle then hit her ball, but it barely moved. She grunted in frustration as Viola moved to take another shot.
She missed, and it was the start of two missed shots by both of them. On her third try, Isabelle hit the ball so hard, it skipped over the rail and hit one of the gentlemen at the next table in the back.