by Amelia Grey
Isabella waited until her aunt was gone before she and Gretchen climbed into the Colebrooke coach. The earl’s town house wasn’t far away, but in the chilling silence it seemed to take forever for them to arrive.
The house was the largest and most impressive on its exclusive street in Mayfair. An elaborate iron arch framed the entrance. Isabella was not accustomed to succumbing to fits of the vapors, but that was exactly how she felt as she walked with Lady Gretchen and her maid up the limestone steps to the door of the earl’s London town home. After all, it wasn’t everyday she told an earl that his sister had struck a man and killed him.
Apparently Lord Colebrooke had just returned to London after more than a year’s absence. Some of the gossip she’d heard about him characterized him as a dashing rogue who set out to break as many young ladies’ hearts as possible. Others considered him devilishly handsome and charming, and put him at the top of their guest lists.
Everyone in the ton had been disappointed he hadn’t stayed for any of last Season’s parties. And that he hadn’t returned for the first parties of this Season was an outrage. Isabella would find out for herself, in a matter of moments, what kind of man the earl of Colebrooke was.
From Gretchen she knew that their father and older brother had been killed two years ago in a carriage accident. Upon inheriting the title, Daniel had to prepare himself to take on the duties of being an earl and the first thing he’d wanted to do was visit all the properties and holdings entailed to the title. And, if the gossips were to be believed, he was returning to London from his travels to find a wife and produce an heir.
Isabella glanced at Gretchen as they waited at the front door. The girl’s lips were gray and her eyes dull and vacant behind her spectacles. Isabella didn’t know how Gretchen was holding herself together.
It was an impossible situation for anyone, let alone for a young lady of nineteen. Isabella was more than ready to turn this distressing state of affairs over to Gretchen’s brother. Surely he would know what to do.
They continued to wait as Gretchen’s maid hit the door knocker for the third time. Isabella had wanted to comfort Gretchen in the carriage but knew she couldn’t alert the maid to what had happened. Instead she’d taken the time to shore up her own courage and formulate a way to tell Lord Colebrooke what had happened.
There was no easy way to say it.
Unfortunately, Isabella would have to take some responsibility for this accident. After all, Gretchen was in her care when it happened. It could be considered Isabella’s fault that Gretchen had slipped away into the garden to meet with Mr. Throckmorten. It was Isabella’s Reading Society she had been attending.
And Isabella’s aunt would be considered a terrible chaperone.
An older, well-dressed butler with an unusually small pinched nose opened the door. Isabella didn’t wait for him to speak. Going against her natural inclination, she forced herself to be assertive and said, “Lady Gretchen isn’t feeling well.” Isabella pushed past him. “Please show us to the parlor at once.”
“Yes, madam,” the startled butler responded.
Isabella turned to Gretchen’s maid and said, “Perhaps you should prepare her bed. I think she might need to lie down after she speaks with her brother.”
The young maid looked at her mistress for approval. Gretchen nodded, and the maid headed up the stairs.
Isabella kept her hand on Gretchen’s arm as the butler ushered them into the front parlor. He helped settle the trembling young lady on the tapestried settee. Gretchen immediately took off her spectacles and laid them none to steadily on the little satinwood table in front of her.
Taking charge again, Isabella commanded the butler, “Please summon the earl. If he isn’t here, send someone to find him and say he is needed at home immediately.”
The portly butler merely said, “Yes, madam, his lordship is home.” He bowed and hurried from the room.
Looking around the luxuriously appointed room, Isabella spied two crystal decanters and some glasses on a gilt inlaid sideboard. Without a second thought, she walked over and poured a hasty splash of the amber liquid into a glass for Gretchen.
Isabella was surprised to see that her hand wasn’t shaking, but she felt as if her stomach was quivering and her knees were terribly weak. On the carriage ride over, she had not allowed herself to think about what might happen to her or what would happen to Gretchen if this story hit the London Times.
Feeling wretched about the whole affair, Isabella sat down beside Gretchen and said, “Drink this. It will make you feel better. Your brother will be here shortly. I’m sure he will know exactly what to do.”
Gretchen’s hands trembled so badly that Isabella was afraid to let go of the glass, so she helped Gretchen to take a sip of the strong drink.
“Madam,” came a firm masculine voice from the doorway. “What do you think you are doing?”
Isabella looked up and brought the glass down from Gretchen’s lips. She rose from the settee and stared into the light-brown eyes of one of the finest-looking men she had ever seen. Not even the furrow on his broad brow could mar the handsomeness of the width of his cheekbones, his wide, well-defined mouth, and his narrow, high-bridged nose.
He stood tall, commanding, and powerful-looking. He was so imposing that Isabella was stricken with her old fearful shyness.
She couldn’t move or speak. Her heart beat so wildly in her chest, she could only stare at the man advancing on her with unconcealed anger. All the self-confidence she had learned the past three years fell away like the skin from a peeled apple. Suddenly she was once again the timid child of her youth.
“Can you not answer me?” he challenged, stopping in front of the settee.
No, she couldn’t.
“What’s that you’re giving my sister to drink?” he demanded as he swiped the glass from Isabella’s hand and plunked it on the table by Gretchen’s spectacles.
His shocking rudeness and his callous tone of voice cut through Isabella’s fog of shyness and her shoulders edged up a notch. Resolve took hold and flourished inside her. He might be powerful-looking and easily the most handsome man she’d ever seen, but she would not let him intimidate her again.
She swallowed past a dry throat and calmly said, “I would think it obvious, my lord, that I was helping her to drink brandy from that glass.”
His gaze pierced hers severely and held fast. “That much is obvious. I want to know why.”
“Then it should also be obvious that she is too upset to hold it herself.”
His eyes narrowed, and for a fleeting moment she thought she saw admiration in his sparkling eyes. And she’d never been so glad that she’d found her voice.
“You try my patience.”
“It appears you have none, my lord,” she countered quickly.
“Not when I’m talking to someone who can’t answer an uncomplicated question.”
“I responded to your questions. You simply didn’t like the answers.”
“Your impertinence is provoking.”
She glared at him. “No more so than your antagonistic approach.”
Not taking his imperious gaze off Isabella, he said to the butler who had followed him into the parlor, “Parker, bring Lady Gretchen tea at once.” Then he looked down at his sister for the first time, and his expression softened.
Gretchen still wore her dark blue cloak and gloves. Her matching bonnet was askew. Her eyes were watery with tears, and her lips were still ashen.
In a tender voice Lord Colebrooke asked, “Gretchen, what has happened?”
Gretchen rose and fell into her brother’s arms, weeping. She buried her face in the soft wool of his coat, crying all the harder.
Isabella was immediately struck by the gentle way Lord Colebrooke affectionately embraced his sister. One strong arm circled her waist and held her protectively against him. His large hand cupped the back of her neck and comforted her with caring movements. When her shoulders shook with despair, he
slid his hand from her waist up to softly pat her back with a loving touch.
“I only meant to hurt him,” Gretchen said between sobs.
“Calm down, Gretchy. Everything will be all right.” He pulled on the ribbon under her chin and slipped her bonnet off and let it drop to the settee. “Stop crying and tell me who you hurt?”
The quiet, concerned tone of his voice stunned Isabella. She wouldn’t have thought him capable of such compassionate treatment after his accusing tone and his brash behavior toward Isabella.
Isabella’s gaze strolled up and past his high collar and perfectly tied neckcloth to his brown eyes that were so light they almost looked golden. She found them staring at her over Gretchen’s shoulder. His gaze was so intense Isabella had to force herself not to take a step backward. She would not cower before him again.
“I’m afraid to tell you,” Gretchen managed to mumble between broken sobs.
“What nonsense is this, Gretchy? You know you can tell me anything.”
“Not this. It’s too horrible.”
Lord Colebrooke’s burning gaze found Isabella’s again. “Who are you and what the devil is she talking about?” he said, returning to the annoyed voice that was obviously reserved for Isabella.
“My name is Isabella Winslowe and—”
“I’ve heard of you,” he interrupted in a heated tone. “You’re the one who started that odd Wallflower Society.”
Isabella gasped and stiffened with indignation. Wallflower Society? Her group of ladies? How dare he use that derogatory term in connection with her ladies’ group? What nerve!
“I beg your pardon, sir. I will not allow you to besmirch my—”
“Never mind that right now, Miss Winslowe. What have you and your group of misfits done to Gretchen?”
Isabella’s temper rose with her chin and her shoulders. This man was impossible to talk to. She should have insisted on taking Gretchen to her aunt, and would have if she had known that the earl was an ill-mannered ogre.
“We have done nothing, Lord Colebrooke. I’ve only tried to see to her best interest under extremely trying circumstances. Furthermore, I will gladly explain to you if you will see fit to let me finish a sentence without interrupting me.”
Gretchen’s sobs grew quieter, and her brother visibly relaxed, if only a little. “Finish your sentence,” he commanded. “And be quick about it.”
It was clear that the small concession was as close as she was going to get to an apology or politeness from him. Obviously the man was used to asking questions and then giving orders without waiting for answers.
“Thank you.”
If this wasn’t a most unusual of circumstance, Isabella would turn and walk out on this man and not say another word to him—ever. But she couldn’t do that to Gretchen, and she did have Mr. Throckmorten to worry about.
Isabella moistened her lips and took a deep breath. There was no easy way to get the job done. She said, “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news.”
“What could be more disturbing than Gretchen falling apart in my arms?”
“Your sister killed a man in my garden.”
Three
Hot denial flashed across Lord Colebrooke’s face. “That is an outrageous accusation, Miss Winslowe. What kind of trickery are you up to?”
“This is no trick, Lord Colebrooke. I’m quite serious.”
“It’s true, Danny,” Gretchen whispered, looking up at him with red, tear-soaked eyes that pleaded for help. “I hit him with a marble statue and he fell dead to the ground. I didn’t mean to kill him. What are we going to do?”
She started softly weeping again and tried to bury her face in his coat once more.
The earl gently forced her to face him. He picked up the glass he’d just taken from Isabella and said to her, “Here, stop crying and drink this, Gretchy. You are home now and everything will be all right. You must calm down so I can find out what the devil you and Miss Winslowe are talking about.”
Gretchen would not be consoled or talked into drinking the brandy. Lord Colebrooke should know that there were times a lady just had to cry until there were no more tears.
Isabella disliked barging into what was really a family situation, but unfortunately, she was already in the middle of this horrid affair. The dead man was in her garden. It was clear to her that the consoling earl wasn’t going to get any more out of Gretchen this afternoon. She was overwrought.
At the risk of provoking further resentment, Isabella dared to offer, “Lord Colebrooke, may I suggest that perhaps Gretchen’s maid should take her upstairs to lie down. There are things you and I need to discuss, and I don’t believe we have much time.”
He pierced her with another cold gaze before looking at Gretchen. “Very well, Miss Winslowe. Stay where you are,” he ordered. “I’ll be right back.”
Isabella watched him walk out with his sister wrapped firmly in his arms. She heard him call for Gretchen’s maid as he climbed the stairs. Lord Colebrooke was the most exasperating person she had ever had the misfortune to meet. He couldn’t have been more unapproachable if he’d been a wild boar.
She realized again that her knees were shaking and her insides were trembling. Thank God she had managed to get over her initial fear of him and had not let him continue to intimidate her with his anger and condescension. If she hadn’t seen how gently he spoke to Gretchen, she would have thought him a monster incapable of kindness.
Feeling chilled, Isabella hugged her arms to her chest. She picked up the untouched brandy and downed it all at once in a most unladylike fashion. It burned her lips, her mouth, her throat, and she winced as it settled like fire in her quaking stomach. Heat rose up her chest and neck to flame in her cheeks.
“Sweet mercies.” She coughed and untied the ribbon under her bonnet as the warmth of the liquor settled low in her stomach.
Auntie Pith had told her there were times a lady needed a little fortifying with a strong drink. If that were true, this must be one of those times. Isabella wasn’t sure she would last through another stretch of Lord Colebrooke’s interrogation.
As she turned to place the empty glass on the table, she saw the earl standing in the doorway looking at her with unconcealed distrust.
Even with the apparent anger in his strong features, she found there was something unusually compelling in the way he looked over her face. She watched his gaze glide down the length of her and back up again to center on her eyes. It was as if he were assessing her physical attributes as well as her sanity.
And Isabella felt an unexpected shiver of awareness.
Lord Colebrooke’s wide shoulders tapered to a flat stomach, slim hips and long powerful-looking legs encased in black breeches that disappeared into shiny top boots. He walked toward her with that commanding presence that had intimidated her earlier. Now she realized she no longer feared him at all. She was intrigued by his intense dislike for her.
Amazed that she was no longer fearful of him, her self-confidence soared. Isabella relaxed and waited for the earl to speak.
“Gretchen is clearly talking out of her head, Miss Winslowe, and I can’t make any sense of her words or yours. Tell me, what is this preposterous tale you and my sister have concocted?”
“Concocted, indeed, sir. You sound as if you think I have nothing better to do with my time than go around and spit out stories.”
“I’ll reserve my judgment on that until after I hear what you have to say for yourself.”
Isabella ignored his accusation and simply said, “Very well, would you like the short version or the long one, my lord?”
“Short.”
Yes, she had a feeling he would pick that one.
She looked up into his troubled eyes and, after taking a deep breath, she said, “Your sister says she struck a man and killed him. As we stand here wasting time, his body is lying in my back garden.”
“Impossible,” he said coldly.
“I assure you, it’s true. He was lying on th
e ground and Gretchen was standing over him with a statue of a cherub in her hand when I happened upon them.”
Lord Colebrooke’s brow furrowed so deeply she didn’t know if it was caused by rage or disbelief.
He took a step closer to her. “If there is a man, as you say, in your garden, are you sure he is dead?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you know that, Miss Winslowe?”
“It was really quite chilling.” She folded her arms across her chest again as she remembered the way Mr. Throckmorten looked. “I shook him and tried to rouse some kind of response from him, but there was no life in him. I wanted to—”
“Perhaps you should give me the long story—but quickly.”
Under his bold gaze, she found the courage to say, “The time it takes me, sir, will depend on how many times you interrupt me.”
“Talk, Miss Winslowe.”
“Your arrogance knows no boundaries, my lord.”
“You seem to be the one without boundaries, Miss Winslowe.”
“Whatever have I said that made you come to that conclusion?”
“As if this bizarre tale of yours and Gretchen’s isn’t reason enough?”
Isabella would never get the story out if she continued to mince words with this unreasonable man. She skipped the angry retort she wanted to make and mentally braced herself for another bout with the earl.
As briefly as possible, she told him what had happened from when the ladies first arrived for their readings until she dismissed all the servants and sent her aunt to pick up a gown that could have waited until another day.
“We boarded Gretchen’s carriage and came straight here,” she finished.
His face hardened with suspicion. “I don’t know what kind of chicanery you are up to by trying to pin this outrageous tale on my sister, but hear me now—I won’t allow you to do it.”
He took another unfriendly step toward her.
Isabella’s muscles recoiled, her eyes flinched, but she stood her ground. “My lord, I swear to you, I would not do such a thing. You heard Gretchen admit she struck the man.”