“Wait!” The word tore from his throat.
She paused, but did not look at him.
“I’ve made mistakes,” Marshall said in a rush. He felt like he was drowning, thrashing to keep his head from going under. “But there are no more secrets now, Isabelle, I swear it. We can truly make a new start. Listen to me, darling.” He swallowed. “This isn’t how I imagined telling you, with me injured in bed and you angry, but it doesn’t matter. I love you.” He laughed softly. “I’ve always loved you, but I was too stupid to realize it. That’s why it hurt so much before. But none of that signifies now. I love you, Isabelle, and I swear I’ll do anything and everything within my power to make you happy.”
He paused to take a breath.
She remained impassive. “Are you finished?”
Marshall’s jaw went slack. He’d failed. He stared disbelievingly at the woman he loved more than life itself, the woman who was about to walk out of his world forever. He shook his head. “I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, his entire being thrumming with yearning.
She twisted the knob and opened the door. Then she turned her head slightly so he could see her beautiful profile. “I love you, too,” she said dully. “But it will pass.”
• • •
The door closed with a soft click. She met Caro and Naomi on the landing and paused to greet her younger friend. The dowager duchess reached a hand toward her. “Isabelle … ” the older woman began.
Isabelle blinked. She realized it was the first time in ages — perhaps ever — she’d heard her own name on her former mother-in-law’s lips. Suspicion had her backing away almost immediately. What did the witch want now? Something inside raised a voice. No more, it said. This ends.
Caro’s lips turned upward. Horns springing from her head would have looked more natural than a smile. “I want to thank you … ”
Her words trailed away as Isabelle stared blankly at her, a deliberate, stupefied expression devoid of recognition. She continued to regard the woman quizzically until, finally, the color drained from Caro’s face.
“Oh,” Caro said in a small voice. “I see.”
She fled down the stairs. Naomi gave Isabelle an anguished look before following her mother.
Caro’s change in attitude, which once would have seemed a miracle, was no longer of any consequence. Giving her the cut direct was not the gratifying experience Isabelle could have hoped for. What Caro thought of or said about her no longer mattered.
Nothing did.
She’d spent the hours after the greenhouse in a kind of numb haze, scared out of her mind that Marshall was going to die. When it became apparent that he would not, the shock wore off, giving her opportunity to ruminate on all she’d learned.
The unfortunate truth was that Marshall Lockwood had stolen her life, Justin Miller’s, and Thomas Gerald’s. If she’d been in the convict’s shoes, she would have wanted to shoot Marshall, too — and the only surprise was that it was not Mr. Gerald with the violent streak, after all, but his lover.
Before seeing Marshall today, she’d already determined not to marry him. She was furious. But then something happened in the injured duke’s room.
The more she’d railed against him, the angrier she’d become — not at him, but at herself. The longer he attempted to explain away his actions, the more she couldn’t believe she’d ever fallen for his flimsy veneer of honor.
And then, suddenly, there was nothing. He’d taken everything from her — her trust, her love, her respect — and showed it all for the rubbish it was. All the feelings she’d had for him, good and bad, were simply gone.
She returned to her own room and sat in a window seat overlooking the rose garden.
The gaping emptiness where her heart used to be terrified her. If she could just feel something, anything, it would be better than this nothing.
She blinked rapidly. A woman in her position should be weeping at the injustice of her lot right about now. Her eyes remained dry. She just couldn’t muster the emotion needed to cry. There was simply nothing left.
• • •
At the sound of the sharp rap on the door, Marshall perked hopefully. But he realized a split second later that it couldn’t be Isabelle. That was a man’s knock. His spirits plummeted again.
He was not surprised when Alex Fairfax came in. He was not surprised by the man’s perplexed expression. And from the instant he’d realized there was a man at the door, he’d fully expected the first words out of Alex’s mouth.
“What happened?”
Isabelle’s brother looked down at the bedridden duke with frank curiosity. There was no malice or vitriol in his expression or tone, only bewilderment. “When I saw my sister ten minutes ago,” Alex continued, “she told me she was ready to leave. Her trunk is already packed. What happened, Monthwaite?”
Marshall breathed a humorless laugh. “I happened,” he muttered. “I ruined everything with her when I was thirteen years old and every day since.”
Alex raised a questioning brow. “Have you taken laudanum again, man?”
“I’ll have the bank draft for her quarter million drawn up.” A great weight pressed down on Marshall’s chest. He blinked heavily. “If she ever needs anything more, anything at all … ”
He was not expecting the sobs that suddenly shook him, great, racking sobs that protested a life without Isabelle.
When he opened his eyes to apologize, he was alone.
Chapter Twenty
A minuscule adjustment of the small, concave mirror beneath the specimen stage flooded the glass slide with light. Marshall carefully rotated the microscope head until the blurred image of pea roots sharpened into focus.
He examined the thread-fine structures for any sign of wilt. Finding no evidence of decay, he jotted a few notes before removing that slide and replacing it with a cutting from the stem of the same plant, one of his hybrids from Bensbury. The sample showed neat, regular cell walls, with none of the discoloration or deterioration associated with wilt.
Each specimen he scrutinized was healthy, despite the plant having grown in soil known to be contaminated with the disease. Damnation, I think I’ve done it. He’d have to grow a new generation of plants to be sure his hybrid was truly wilt-resistant, as well as ask some colleagues to check behind him by growing plants from his seeds. Hornsby would certainly help, he thought. A weak sense of satisfaction slogged its way through his mind, but it was too feeble to take hold and bloom into any kind of positive emotion.
He stepped unsteadily back from the microscope and reached for the glass of scotch that had become omnipresent in recent weeks. Finding it empty, he limped across the conservatory to where a decanter stood on a table. As he poured, the door opened to admit his mother. He grimaced and concentrated on filling his glass.
“There you are.” Caro’s brows drew together in a worried frown. “You’ve spent too much time cooped up inside; you’re looking rather wan, dear. And you’re losing weight. Now that you’re a bit more mobile, wouldn’t you like to get outdoors? I’m sure Naomi would be happy to walk with you, or you could ask a friend to join us here.”
“I’m not asking anyone to Helmsdale to stroll with me while I convalesce.” He greedily swallowed a mouthful of liquor, willing it to dull his senses more quickly.
“You’re drinking too much,” Caro said in a fretful tone. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’ve got to take better care of yourself. You’re behaving just like the first time — ” Her mouth shut with a snap of her teeth.
Marshall laughed bitterly. “Go on, say it. Just like the first time I parted ways with Isabelle, you mean? Is it supposed to be easier to have one’s guts turned inside out and stomped into the ground the second time? Does one become inured to the sensation?”
“Lord, son, you’re drunk.” Caro shook her he
ad and tsked. “It isn’t even noon yet. You must get a hold of yourself. This cannot continue.”
His eyes roved the face of the woman who had given him life. Pleasant memories floated across his vision, of stories before bed and birthday dinners and time spent together in the garden. But they were all many years past. Caro had never learned to relent control of her children’s lives to them as they matured. Pity washed over him, tempered by his weariness of dealing with her ceaseless interference. “You can’t stand that we grew up, can you?”
Her eyes clouded. “I haven’t the foggiest notion what you mean. Watching my children grow into adulthood has been the greatest joy of my life.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She pinned him with an arch look. “And if one of you would make me a grandmamma before I die, my work will be complete.”
His jaw tightened. Anger coursed through his veins, setting his hands to trembling. Scotch sloshed over the rim of his glass and across his fingers. “You cannot be serious!”
She strolled to the glass wall and looked out over the expansive parkland, now ringed with trees displaying vibrant gold and orange foliage. “Of course I’m serious. All women of a certain age want grandchildren.”
He rubbed his eyes. Maybe he had been drinking too much. “You did everything in your power to separate me from Isabelle. I don’t believe for one instant that grandchildren crossed your mind. We might have had a nursery full by now, but for you!”
She turned and huffed. “You still don’t understand. For your sake, Marshall, I’m sorry she’s gone, but I can’t say I wish it were different. She was never the proper choice. Somehow, I seem to have failed to educate you when it comes to the importance of marrying a female of our class, a noblewoman of good breeding and character. Someone like Lucy.”
His eyes narrowed and he stalked forward, dropping his glass beside the microscope. Halting in front of her, he looked down with a disgusted sneer. “Hear me now, and hear me well. You don’t get a say about my life. My marriage was my own to handle, not yours. And what you did to us is unforgivable. Frankly, I don’t know if I will ever not despise you for what you took from me. I hope it was worth it.”
Caro swallowed. Her eyes slid down his face and chest.
“Mother.” Slowly, she raised her fearful eyes to his again. “I have an unfulfilled promise to keep.”
The color drained from her face and she quailed visibly. He gave her a toothy, ruthless smile. “I promised I would deal with you later, if you recall. Later has arrived.”
She raised a brow and firmed her lips, but voiced no reply.
Marshall clasped his hands behind his back and straightened. “This is my decision. Because the divorce into which you wrongly manipulated Isabelle and myself resulted in her expulsion from society, it is only fitting that you endure a similar fate.”
Caro gasped, stricken. “You can’t do that!”
“I just did.”
She raised her chin. “What if I refuse? You can’t lock me away like a prisoner. I shall go to town as I see fit.”
“Fine.” Marshall threw his hands wide. “Go to town. You’re right, I can’t stop you. But,” he said, raising a finger, “I can cut you off.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.
“Just try me,” he ground out. “At this point, I’d really like to see you do that.”
Caro’s face went ashen. “How long do you intend to keep me here?”
Marshall shrugged. “I haven’t quite decided. It took Isabelle three years to regain some degree of society.” Caro staggered backward. “We’ll start with a year,” he declared. “Next September, then, we’ll see where things stand. If you’ve behaved yourself out here, maybe I’ll let you come back to town.”
“But what about Naomi?” Caro asked. “You can’t mean her to miss next Season.”
“Aunt Janine will keep an eye on her until I’m back from South America. Grant will be in town in the spring, too. She’ll be perfectly well cared for.”
The light in Caro’s eyes dimmed. She seemed to collapse in on herself as her shoulders slumped and her head drooped. For a woman as self-important as his mother, there was nothing worse he could do than render her useless. But when it came right down to it, that’s exactly what she’d already made herself.
• • •
A week later, Marshall started back to town. With the expedition sailing in less than two months, he couldn’t waste any more time rusticating. His leg was strong enough to support his weight without a cane most of the time, and Caro’s attempts to change his decision about her exile at Helmsdale were becoming tedious.
He stopped to stay the night at David Hornsby’s home before the final leg of the trip to London. His colleague met him with his typical air of being one drink shy of blindingly drunk. And yet, as usual, he managed to defy reason and speak coherently when they repaired to the library after supper to discuss the herbarium.
Marshall tapped his thumbnail against his teeth while Hornsby showed him the architect’s proposed design. He listened with only half an ear as his friend pointed out the building’s features and the layout of the various gardens that would surround the facility.
“’M thinkin’ of a water garden,” Hornsby slurred. “It’d go ’bout here.” He jabbed at the plan. “Now, what do you think about a pagoda for a folly? Or a temple? Or would a mock ruin be more picturesque?”
Marshall shook his head, endeavoring to focus and catch up with the conversation. “Pardon?”
“Over here, look.” Hornsby gestured to a rectangular area on the plan. “Maybe a rose garden. I’ve always liked yours at Bensbury — do you s’pose you could help with the herbarium’s?”
Marshall cringed at the mention of the Bensbury rose garden, a brutal reminder of his failed courtship of Isabelle. When he squeezed his eyes closed, he saw her on the backs of his lids as she’d looked the night of Naomi’s party, all rumpled, delectable female — soft in his hands and generous in her affections. And she’d needed him then, every bit as much as he’d needed her. But she doesn’t need you anymore.
“Are you all right?”
Marshall cast an agonized look at his friend’s red-rimmed eyes.
“You don’t look well, old man.” Hornsby gestured to a chair. Marshall fell heavily into it and rubbed his eyes. A moment later, Hornsby pressed a glass into his hand.
Marshall took a sip, but the alcohol made his stomach churn. He’d had his fill of overindulgence.
“A bit of bad luck,” Hornsby sank into the chair across from Marshall and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Being shot, and all, I mean.”
Marshall scoffed. He’d hardly given the shooting any thought, beyond the frustration it had caused him in moving about. The pain in his leg paled in comparison to the empty ache in his chest he wasn’t sure would ever go away. Not this time.
But riding close behind it was the guilt he felt for Thomas Gerald, now floundering around in London, looking to rebuild his life. His young love, Sally Palmer, would return to Australia — as a convict this time. The woman had poisoned his horse, abducted his sister, and attempted murder. It had taken the weight of Marshall’s influence to save her from the gallows. He couldn’t help but pity the anguish Thomas must feel at losing her. Indeed, he could empathize all too well.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Hornsby said, pulling Marshall from his thoughts, “what was all this about poisoned horses and whatnot? Not that I would expect a stupid journalist to get anything botanical correct, but something in the report in the paper struck me as off.”
With his elbow propped on the arm of the chair, Marshall rested his forehead against his fingertips. He was exhausted and loathe to discuss recent events yet again. Nor was he particularly interested in Hornsby’s drunken insights, which probably sounded more sensible in
his addled mind.
The portly man clinked the decanter against his glass as he refilled his beverage. “Why don’t you tell me? What happened all those years ago?”
Marshall raised his head to meet a surprisingly penetrating gaze. Hornsby’s esteem for him would come crashing to earth when he heard the truth, but what did it matter? The pain of losing Isabelle had dulled his response to everything else. Losing the regard of someone like David Hornsby would not even register.
He shrugged and related the story of his father’s ailing mare, and his desire to help induce her foaling. “I cooked up the medicine. Thought I’d used juniper berries. Thomas Gerald fed it to the horse, because she wouldn’t let anyone else approach her. A short time later, her womb ruptured, and she and the foal died. Later, I discovered I’d made a dreadful mistake, and used yew instead of juniper.”
Hornsby grunted. “Yew is nasty business.”
Marshall nodded in agreement.
“However,” Hornsby raised a finger, “as I suspected, you’re completely mistaken about that mare’s demise.”
Marshall’s eyes snapped to his face. “What do you mean?” His words were clipped. “I was right there in the stable when she bled to death.”
“Well, that’s jus’ it.” Hornsby took a long swallow of his drink before continuing. “Yew is deadly stuff, but it don’t cause bleeding, old man — it stops the heart. If you don’t believe me, we can pay a visit to Jeremiah Brodrip, a sheep farmer lives just down the way. He lost several of his flock to accidental yew poisoning this summer. And I tell you, Monty, there was no blood or anything like what you’re talking about with that poor beast all those years back. C’mon, Monty, this is basic stuff. Surely, you know what’s what here.”
Marshall stared, stupefied, at his half-inebriated friend. “I … You’re right. Huh.” Suddenly, he felt cut loose, ungrounded. Everything he’d believed about this one wretched incident was wrong. “It was so sudden, so violent. The screaming and bleeding started seconds after Thomas gave her the medicine. I was so sure it was my fault.”
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