“Move you filthy urchin,” Courtnay said with a curse and a flick of the whip in his hand. Although the whip did not strike him, the child fell backwards into the street, cracking his head on the cobblestones.
“Oh stop, stop!” Isabella cried, startling the Viscount into pulling his pair of horses to a sudden halt. Isabella leapt from the curricle and into the street, her bonnet coming askew as she did so. The young boy sat up and seeing her running towards him, stood up quickly and disappeared down a side street.
Isabella gave a sigh of annoyance; she supposed the poor child thought he was in some kind of trouble.
“Miss Peregrine have you lost your senses?”
The Viscount was beside her, his face a picture of annoyance.
“I rather think it is you who has lost yours,” Isabella replied angrily; “How could you attempt to strike a child with a whip like that?”
Carriages swerved to avoid them, as they stood glaring at each other in the middle of the road. Conscious that they were attracting an audience, the Viscount put a strong hand on Isabella’s elbow and began to guide her back to the curricle, where Lavinia was waiting, wringing her hands with worry.
“I did not attempt to strike the child Miss Peregrine,” Courtnay said through gritted teeth, his usually handsome face dark with annoyance; “I merely shouted at him to move so that he would not be run over.”
Isabella stared at him flabbergasted; did he really expect her to believe such blatant lies? A part of her wished to argue with him, but an even bigger part of her just wished to be rid of his company.
“Of course,’ she said, her eyes downcast; “I must have been mistaken.”
She allowed the Viscount to deliver her back up into her seat beside Lavinia who gave her an inquisitive look which Isabella ignored. In silence the trio returned to Mayfair and Isabella bid the Viscount a stiff goodbye.
“I shall be gone for a day or two, but I will call on you when I return,” Courtnay said as he left Isabella at the doorstep, taking her gloved hand and kissing it.
“Don’t bother,” was the reply that was on the tip of Isabella’s tongue, but she resisted the temptation to cut the Viscount short. For the season was nearly halfway over and he was the only man who was even close to proposing to her - so instead she smiled and said, “I look forward to that my Lord.”
The betting book at White’s was notorious for logging the extravagant sums of money which members placed on seemingly trivial wagers. Michael had not been there for it, but one legendary night William Arden the Baron Alvanley lost three thousand pounds betting on which raindrop would reach the bottom of the club’s famous Bow Window first.Frivolity with money, especially in a city where abject poverty was only ever a stone’s throw away, was one of the reasons why Michael did not frequent the gentlemen’s clubs very often, that and the fact that they were mostly filled with middle-aged men full of spirits.
The reason that Michael was in White’s tonight was to catch up with Longleaf, and try to ascertain where the Viscount Courtnay was in his pursuit of Isabella. It was proving a difficult task, for Longleaf was quite far gone by the time Michael arrived, earnestly debating a bill that was to come before the House of Lords with one of the club’s more elderly members.
“You’re nothing but a Whig and an upstart,” Lord Castlery shouted at a much aggrieved Longleaf, whacking his cane on the parquet floor to emphasize his point.
“I’m going to fetch a drink Horsefield,” Michael muttered, rising quickly to make his escape from their tedious argument. What a waste of a night this had been. Lord Castlery and Longleaf were both very much in their cups, and Michael was no more illuminated to how Isabella’s romance with Courtnay was progressing.
“We’ll have to stop meeting like this your Grace.”
Michael refrained from rolling his eyes as he registered the cheerful tones of the Marquis of Sutherland - how was the man always in such good spirits?
“Sutherland,” Michael growled in greeting, hoping that his unfriendly tone would deter the younger man from attempting to converse with him.
“I’m actually here on the request of your brother,” Sutherland said blithely, signaling a passing footman to fetch him a drink; “He’s asked me to check something in the betting book.”
“Oh?” Michael asked, his interest now piqued, why would Sebastian want to know about the frivolous wagers that went on here when even more bets were placed at his own establishment?
“Seems one of his clients is seeking credit on foot of a sure thing he’s laid five thousand pounds on.”
Michael whistled, five thousand pounds was a lot to place on chance, even if it was a “sure thing”.
“And who is this client?” Michael asked, his voice low, hoping to encourage Sutherland’s confidence.
The Marquis looked left and right to make sure that no one was close by.
“The Viscount Courtnay,” he said with a whisper; “He’s placed everything he has left on marrying that Miss Peregrine by the end of the season. I saw it written in the book just now.”
Michael gave a growl of annoyance as he registered the news. The Viscount it seemed had gone double for nothing on Isabella’s heart - well Michael would soon put a stop to that.
Chapter Thirteen
Isabella had never visited the pleasure gardens at Vauxhall, so when Lavinia said that they were to attend them that very night she was more than a little excited.
“The Duke of Blackmore has invited us all,” Lavinia continued, failing to notice Isabella’s look of resignation at the news of their host; “He has hired a boat to take us there from Whitehall and then we shall dine in his box.”
“Oh,’ Isabella felt her shoulders slump, another evening of suffering around Michael, still at least she would have Lydia to keep her company. And so, it was with forced cheerfulness that she readied herself for the night, donning a gown of dark, emerald green so that she would be almost hidden in the shadows of the garden.
“I’ve heard that it’s like magic when all the lanterns are lit,” Lydia said dreamily later that evening, as the group crossed the Thames on the rowing boat hired by the Duke.
“The master of ceremonies merely blows a whistle and all the manservants light them as one,” the Marquis of Sutherland called to them, having obviously been listening to the two girls conversation.
“Trust you to ruin the mystery,” Lydia replied crossly, sitting up straight as the boat approached the South Bank. Lambeth Palace, the residence of the Archbishop of Cantebury was visible to the left, while Vauxhall Steps and the main entrance to the gardens lay in front of them. Isabella allowed the Marquis to assist her from the boat, taking pains to avoid being too close to Blackmore, who as per usual was taking up an obscene amount of space.
“Walk with me Liddy,” she said, reaching out her arm for her friend, so that there was no risk of having to be escorted inside by Michael. The two ladies drifted behind the Duke, Sutherland and Jack and Lavinia as they made their way along the tree lined walk called The Grove to their supper box. The other visitors to the garden were dressed in the latest fashions, and music from the orchestra in the central Rotunda drifted lazily across the cool nights air. The supper box was large enough to accommodate ten people, and a feast of cold meats, salads, tarts and custards was laid out upon the table. They ate eagerly, and drank from glasses of Aramack punch which was served by waiters in brocade jackets.
Isabella drank deeply from the punch, enjoying the feeling of warmth that spread through her body as the rum relaxed her. She was seated beside the Marquis of Sutherland, who despite annoying Lydia, was really rather charming company. Isabella kept her face turned towards him for the night, for whenever she chose to glance at the Duke, his dark gaze was upon her. Why had he invited her if he was just going to scowl at her for the entire evening, Isabella thought crossly as she caught his gaze whilst laughing at a joke that Sutherland had just told her.
“What’s say we take a stroll down The Grand
Walk?” Sutherland said jovially, clapping his hands together to rouse the group from the table. Darkness had fallen properly outside the supper box and the groups strolling through the gardens had mostly drifted into pairs - it was terribly romantic. Isabella tried not to start as Michael fell into step beside her, allowing the others to walk slightly ahead of them.
“What do you think of the gardens Miss Peregrine?” Michael asked, his face turned forwards, his posture stiff.
“They are very beautiful your Grace,” Isabella replied truthfully, for they were. The tree lined avenue on which they strolled was illuminated by hundreds of different coloured lanterns and occasional bursts of fireworks lit up the night sky above their heads. It was like walking through a dream, and for a moment Isabella allowed herself to imagine that she and the Duke were actually in love…
“I have heard that the Viscount Courtnay has called on you a number of times,” Michael interrupted her daydream, his voice sounding judgmental.
“And so what if he has?” Isabella asked, her eyes narrowing; “It is no business of yours, your Grace.”
Michael’s hand brushed against hers, his fingers interlacing Isabella’s in a strong grip.
“If we cut down this way we can catch up on the others in a moment without them noticing that we are gone,” he said, ignoring Isabella’s squawk of indignation. The serpentine walks of Vauxhall were darker and more private than the main paths, but to be seen walking along one with a man who was not your husband would be social ruin for a single woman.
“Unhand me at once,” Isabella hissed, as Michael escorted her down the dark path, which was lined on either side by tall laurel bushes.
“I will in a moment, just listen to what I have to say.”
Isabella stopped struggling against him and stopped dead in her tracks, her arms crossed, her face glaring up at the Duke.
“Whatever it is you have to say, say it now,” she demanded, thoroughly tired of Blackmore and his high-handedness.
“Courtnay has no money.”
The words came out in a rush, almost jumbled together, and it took Isabella a second to register what had just been said.
“What?”
“The Viscount Courtnay has a gambling problem,” Michael continued, his words slower this time, his tone patient as though he was talking to a child; “He is in huge amounts of debt to half of London including my brother Sebastian. I think he is just courting you for your dowry Isabella.”
Isabella felt her cheeks burn with humiliation - of course the only man who had showed a glimmer of interest in her all season was only after her for her money. And of course the person to deliver the news was Michael - as if he hadn’t witnessed her humiliated enough this season.
“Thank you for telling me your Grace,” she said stiffly, after a few seconds silence, in which the Duke watched her intently for a reaction.
“Promise me that you won’t marry that man Isabella,” Michael said, grabbing her by the shoulders; “He’s not good for you, he just wants your money.”
“You have no right to ask anything of me,” Isabella cried, the violence of her reaction shocking both her and the Duke; “You have already humiliated me once this season and now you seek to do so again. Why should I believe you?”
“Why should I lie?”
In the distance the orchestra began a patriotic marching song and a huge cheer went up from the crowd. Isabella took a deep breath to calm herself and forced a smile upon her face.
“Thank you for informing me of all you know your Grace,” she said firmly, holding up a hand to silence the Duke as he tried to interrupt her; “We really must be getting back to the others, before they send out a search party.”
Without waiting for a reply, Isabella turned on her heel, and walked quickly back the way that they had come. She could hear the heavy steps of the Duke following her as she emerged onto the The Grand Walk. Keeping her head down, Isabella hurried along the tree lined avenue, falling silently into step beside Lydia and the Marquis.
“Are you alright Isabella?” Lydia looked at her with concern, then back at the Duke who was walking a few steps behind them his expression fierce.
“I am fine,” Isabella linked her arm through Lydia’s and gave her a smile; “I am just tired.”
Which was true - tired of London, tired of the season and tired of her search for a husband.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day Isabella woke early, her mind still in turmoil from having discovered that the Viscount Courtnay was in debt. Jack had assured her that his sources had given him no reason to suspect that Courtnay was anything other than solvent, though Isabella supposed that Blackmore had access to far less salubrious sources than her brother in law.
“Have you any plans for the day?” Lavinia asked at breakfast and Isabella shook her head.
“My only plans involve pretending I am not at home to receive callers,” she said resolutely, firmly set on deciding what her next move should be. And so later that morning, when Lavinia had left to make her rounds of morning calls, Isabella sat down at the writing bureau in Lavinia’s small, private parlour and began to write a series of letters.
Dear Father,
Thank you for your earlier letter, which I read eagerly. I am glad to hear that Caroline is feeling healthy despite her confinement, and that all our neighbours and friends are well.
You inquired if there were any suitors who particularly caught my eye and I confess that there was one. It has recently been highlighted to me however, that this gentlemen has bad debt accrued with several establishments and so I find myself at a crossroads: I cannot marry a man who only wishes to marry me for my dowry as much as I cannot marry any of Caroline Blowstock’s odious nephews. So, dear father, I am writing to tell you that I shall not be returning to Devon - I shall be entering the world of work as you initially suggested.
I shall write to you and let you know where I have found employment. I suspect I should enjoy being a governess to small children over a companion to someone in their dotage.
I hope you can forgive me.
Love from,
Isabella.
Isabella set her quill down with a satisfied smile. Her father would be apocalyptic with rage, though there was nothing he could do. At five and twenty she did not need his permission to seek work - nor did she need his permission to chose a husband if one came along. Her thoughts drifted to handsome footmen, handsome grooms, handsome…
Drat.
All the handsome male servants she was picturing in her head looked exactly like the Duke of Blackmore. Michael’s worried face as he chased after her the night before flashed across her minds eye. Isabella sighed - with the benefit of hindsight and a day removed from her humiliation, she had to admit that the Duke had taken no pleasure in telling her about Courtnay’s debt. He had in fact done her a great service and Isabella was going to have to eat some very humble pie. She picked up her pen again and began write:
Dear Michael (she began, after fifteen minutes of wondering if she could still address him so informally),
I wish to apologize for the way in which I reacted to your kind advice last night. I can only attribute it to still feeling rather defensive about my embarrassing behaviour in Bedfordshire (which I also wish to apologize for).
Thank you again for your kindness, I have taken very seriously all that you have told me about our mutual friend. As you are already acutely aware, I am not very gifted at finding husbands and so have decided that a life of gainful employment beckons.
Your friend (if you will have me),
Isabella Peregrine
Isabella put down her pen after twenty minutes, still dissatisfied but sure that nothing she wrote would ever be to her satisfaction. The letter took on the right tone of grovelling without going overboard, she decided, and also offered an olive-branch of friendship. The last letter she needed to write…Isabella bit her lip, uncertain of the course of action she should take. A note from the Viscount Court
nay, which had arrived that morning, lay crumpled to her left. Isabella picked it up again and scanned through the apology that the Viscount had sent, for his behavior towards the street urchin on their last meeting. He had written wishing to be assured of her attendance at the Ruxbridge’s ball, which was to be held that evening. Isabella picked up her pen, tempted to write a blunt letter informing him that she wished him to the devil, but refrained. Instead she wrote:
Dear Lord Courtnay,
I will be attending the Ruxbridge’s ball later this evening with my sister and her husband. I wish to discuss a matter of great importance with you.
From,
Isabella Peregrine
Deciding that this was deliberately obtuse enough, Isabella called for a footman to deliver her notes.
“Please send Sarah up to my bed-chamber before you leave,” she instructed him as he left the room. Sarah was her sister’s lady-maid and as Isabella had decided that as this was to be her last ball of the season, she wanted to arrive in style.
Michael crumpled up the letter which his butler had silently handed him and threw it down on the table before him. What did she mean when she said she would be pursuing a life of gainful employment? He was so furious at the thought of her as a governess, at the mercy of some unknown family’s whims, that he pushed his seat back from his writing desk and stood to leave.
“No need to stand on my account your Grace.”
The only person who was capable of inserting such dripping sarcasm into addressing him as “Your Grace” was -
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