by Lavinia Kent
“By ‘here’ you mean with me.”
“In these circumstances, yes. I did not see her as the type to be happy being kept. It seems somehow dishonorable.” He caught Mark’s eye. “But then I am not a duke.”
“She is happy. I did not force her. This is what she wants.”
“If you say so, Your Grace.” It was clear that Douglas held a different opinion.
“I could not let her just go off on her own. It was duty to do the honorable thing and care for her.”
“And this is honorable?” Douglas shut his mouth. It was clear he knew he had said too much.
“What else could I have done? Her employer beat her. I could not leave her in such a situation or risk what might happen if I just let her wander off on her own. And it’s not like I could marry her.”
Douglas pinched his lips together and did not reply.
Mark turned away and strode to the window, pretending that he was not staring down the street looking for her. “I will go out, to my club. You can wait here, as you take such an interest, and let me know when Bella returns.”
Drawing his lips even tighter, Douglas nodded.
Pulling his coat together, Mark turned and stalked from the room.
Was Bella unhappy? The thought once planted began to root and grow. Damn. He’d let himself believe that she was just missing Joey. He was doing everything a protector was supposed to do—and more. She could not be unhappy.
He refused to feel guilty about not giving her the letter of recommendation and letting her go off to find new employment. This situation was better for both of them—not just for him.
The street was quiet as he exited and he could not resist one final glance down it.
Where was she?
“And so I married Lord Richard.” Annie bit into a cake and settled back into her chair, comfortable in her own parlor. “He courted me, made me believe that I was all he had ever wanted, that he was ready to displeasure his brother by marrying me.”
“His brother?” Isabella asked.
“I would have thought you would know. I was betrothed to Lord Richard’s elder brother, the duke, practically from birth. It was such an old-fashioned thing and my parents never mentioned it so I assumed it was forgotten. Nobody betroths their children anymore. But then, shortly after you left, my father started making noises. He started to think it would be desirable to have me married off and to a duke.”
“You have lost me.” Isabella reached out for a cake and sank her teeth into the scrumptious morsel. Chocolate cream exploded into her mouth. She leaned her head against the back of her chair, curling her feet up beneath her. Tea with cakes and crumpets, a comfortable chair, the release from keeping perfect posture at all times—oh, she had missed this. It might not be the wisest way to be spending her time, but she needed these minutes of being her old self, of pretending that the world was right.
“I was prepared to be courted by the brother. I had not decided if I would marry him, but then at our first dinner at his house I met Lord Richard—and lost my heart. He was everything I had ever wanted. He could have been the hero in one of the dramas we wrote as children. And it was not just his appearance, although he can still make me breathless with a look, it was him. He was kind and strong and noble and— I could go on for hours. If you read my diary from that time you would see that I spent pages discussing just how perfect he was.”
Isabella grabbed another cake. She was sure she could order them from Mark’s cook, but they would not have the same magic that they had in this moment. “If he is so perfect, why do you seem so unhappy now?”
Taking two more cakes, and eating one with great speed, Annie answered. “Just before our son was born, I found out that he’d lied to me—not about who he is. It would be easier if that had all been a lie. No, he lied about wanting me, about loving me. Apparently his brother, the duke, has decided to never marry—some nonsense about losing the only one he could ever love. Oh, I know I sound cold, but his desires were no reason to do what was done to me. The duke went to my father and explained the situation, assured him that my son would still be the heir to the duchy and that a proper settlement would, of course, be made upon my marriage to Lord Richard. If they had just told me, I would have understood and could have decided what to do.
“But instead Lord Richard seduced me, convinced me that I was the true love of his life. I was with child when we wed, sure that all my dreams had come true. He let me see heaven and then . . . I almost lost the child when I found out.” Annie’s words trailed off into gentle tears.
“That is horrible, but how do you know that he didn’t love you? Doesn’t love you? Just because he was acting at his brother’s behest does not mean he does not love you.”
Annie lifted her eyes and stared at Isabella. The deep pain she felt shone in those eyes, as did a knowledge far deeper than her years. “I know. Trust me, things were made clear to me. I would tell you all, but it would serve no purpose other than to make us both angry. And besides, if you have not married there are details that I should not be sharing.”
“I may not be married, but I can assure you that there is nothing you could say that would shock me, Annie.”
Annie pulled her feet up under her, following Isabella’s example. “Did you know that I am not Annie anymore? My husband does not like it. He prefers Georgiana or Georgie. Annie does not fit with his idea of what Lady Richard Tenant should be called. When he first called me Georgie I took it for affection. Now I just think he does not care what I like.”
“I’ve become Bella instead of Isabella. I haven’t decided how I feel about it. Most times I do not mind, and in the dark of night it can be wonderful, but it does feel like being molded, turned into something I am not.” Isabella licked at the cream on the edge of the cake. The wonder of the afternoon was fading as reality intruded.
“That is exactly it. It makes me feel that who I am, who I was, is not good enough. I wish I could go back to who I was before.”
“Do you? I am never sure,” Isabella answered. “I know that things were simpler then, and that I was happy, or at least more content most of the time, but I like who I’ve grown into. Going through hard times has made me mature, made me be less silly. I think I am a better person now than I was when last we met.”
“Do you? I’ve spent most of the last years on Lord Richard’s estates with my son. I did feel happy and worthy while I was there. I could spend all day playing with my baby. It is only here, in London, where I feel I serve no purpose.”
Isabella leaned toward her. “Then why don’t you go back to the country? Does your husband demand your presence here?”
Annie—or rather Georgie – laughed, but not happily. “I long to go back. And no, I think Lord Richard would rather I left. We barely speak—except that I am always talking, but he never hears so that does not seem to count. It is clear he is uncomfortable with me in the house. I believe that is why he is hardly ever here. But, and it is a big but, I have decided that I want another child, and that does seem to necessitate us both being in the same location—even if it means I must leave my sweet baby in the country for a few months. Now, enough about me. Tell me what you have been doing. I know you are trying to avoid the subject, but this is I. You can tell me anything and I will not tell anyone. I may talk a lot these days, but I have never revealed a secret. Come now, I have told you all but the most intimate details of my life.”
Could she do it? Isabella had never talked to anybody about what happened, not a single soul. Her sister had been there at the end and must have some idea—and Lady Smythe-Burke knew that something had happened—but Isabella had never actually said the words to anyone. “Do you have any sherry to go with the cakes? Or is that too forward a question? I think I need more than tea if I am going to talk.”
“Let me call for it.”
They were silent for a minute, a good silence that filled the space by itself. How had she survived so long without a girlfriend to talk with? Th
ese few minutes had filled her with a warmth that ran clear down to her toes.
Annie—Isabella could not think of her by any other name no matter how she tried—poured generous glasses when the sherry arrived and lifted hers into the air. “To us, may we always be able to talk—no matter what.”
“To us,” Isabella said, mirroring the gesture. Then she put the glass down.
She was going to do it. With all that had happened today and in the last week she needed to.
“I killed Foxworthy.” There, it was out.
Chapter 20
Annie stopped her glass halfway to her mouth and stared. “You stabbed him? I wouldn’t blame you, but I don’t believe you.”
“No, no—or at least partly no. I didn’t stab him. I pushed him and he fell and split his head open, but I assure you he was most dead.”
“But he was stabbed. Everybody knows that. The knife was left sticking right out of the middle of his chest.”
Pulling a large swallow into her mouth, Isabella let it sit and burn for a moment. “I know—I have heard that—but I was there. There was no knife involved.”
“Perhaps you just thought he was dead. Maybe you didn’t kill him.” Annie sounded hopeful.
“No. I have wished that myself, but he was dead. I have no doubts about that.”
They were silent again and this time it was not wonderful and full.
The wind whistled outside the window and Isabella turned, shocked at how late it had gotten. She should be going, but who was there to miss her? Mark would not come by until late, probably very late, with the coronation little more than a day away. But now there was Duchess. “I should be going.”
“Nonsense. You have just begun to talk. I will not grill you about why you killed Foxworthy. I know your brother was trying to force you to marry him—and I know what a toad he was. I would imagine that he forced you to it.”
“If only all the world were as understanding as you. I did not mean to kill him. It was an accident, but as you do not wish to talk about the intimate details of your marriage, so I do not wish to remember that time. How it happened would not matter. I killed him and that really is the end of the situation.”
“It certainly is not the end. You have barely begun your story. I don’t even know yet where you went or what you were doing. You must tell me more—at least a little.”
Isabella glanced out the window again. A stiff wind was growing. The thought of going out and calling for a hack to take her back to her empty house was not pleasant.
“I’ve been in service. Can you believe that? I’ve been a governess, a companion, and most recently a baby nurse. Did you ever imagine to see me with a baby?”
“Actually I did.”
Annie’s words caught in Isabella’s throat. She’d always assumed the same. It was other people’s children she’d had a hard time picturing herself with, not her own.
Suddenly Annie leaned forward, a grin spreading across her face. “I’ve the most wonderful idea.”
Isabella remembered that expression well. “What?” she asked with some trepidation. Annie’s plots did not always end well.
“You can be my companion. Richard was just saying that he wished I had somebody to talk to so I wouldn’t bend his ear so constantly. Who could be better than you?”
“But I don’t want to stay in London. As long as I am here I fear that somebody will find out about Foxworthy. And—”
It was so hard to explain the rest of her situation. Confessing to murder should have been the hardest part of this, but somehow it was even harder to tell Annie that she was now a courtesan—even if she was a duke’s mistress.
“Well, that’s perfect. Nobody is talking about Foxworthy anymore. I can’t believe anybody even cares. And as soon as I am with child then we can move back to Richard’s country estate and spend our days sitting in the garden or walking by the lake. And if you have experience being a baby nurse and a governess so much the better. Oh dear. That did not sound like I meant it to. I would never consider you a servant, Isabella.”
“But I am one—or at least I was. Now . . .” She pulled in a deep breath. “Now I am the Duke of Strattington’s mistress.”
Annie laughed. “Oh, what nonsense. You almost had me believing you. But you, you would never do such a thing.”
Isabella sank back in her chair. Life could always take you by surprise. “You believe that I killed Foxworthy with little more than a raised eyebrow, but you don’t believe that I am Strattington’s mistress? Whyever not?”
“Well to start with, if you’ve been in service how would even meet a duke? I’ve never known baby nurses and dukes to mingle, or is that the newest fashion?”
“Actually you’d be surprised how many young men seem to make their way to the nursery with a roving eye. It’s something to keep in mind if you ever do have that child you long for. But, as it happens, I met him on the road to London. Travel can relax many of the normal boundaries.”
Annie leaned forward again. “You mean you really are a duke’s mistress? How absolutely wonderful. That is even better than running off with a handsome footman.”
“You are being silly—and this is my life. There is nothing wonderful about the situation I have found myself in.” Well, there were plenty of wonderful points, but she was not going to discuss those with Annie.
“I am sounding like a silly fool,” Annie said. She leaned back and hooked a foot around a leg of the chair. “I hate that I’ve become this way. Ever since things went wrong with Richard, I chatter and indulge in silly gossip, things I never used to care about.”
Isabella made no comment.
“But you must stay for dinner. There is something else I need to talk to you about. I am sure your duke won’t be back until late and—”
Suddenly the door to the hall swung open wide. “Well, well, who is this, my dear sister? I did not know you had a guest.”
Isabella’s eyes widened as the Duke of Hargrove strode into the room. He stopped and stared at her a moment, the strangest smile playing about his mouth. She could only hope he had not seen her at one of the inns they had stopped at. Mrs. Wattington had pointed him out to her once, but why would he have noticed her?
Mark resisted the urge to count the strokes of the clock. It was late, too late, and Douglas still had not sent him notice that Isabella had returned. He glanced at the cards he held, almost certainly a winning hand, and dropped them on the table, making his apologies. It was too hard to concentrate when he was worried.
And angry.
Isabella had left him. The cold conviction was growing deep in his chest, a small knot becoming ever tighter. It was a ridiculous thought. What possible reason could she have to leave? He gave her everything she could possibly want.
But the feeling would not leave.
He kept seeing her stoic face when she’d first climbed into his carriage on the way to London, her shock when he’d made his proposal. He didn’t know what it was she wanted, but it was not what he offered. He remembered her dreaming about that country cottage, with husband and family. That was something he could never offer—even if he wanted to. Yes, he gave her everything, but at the price of her happiness.
“You are looking glum—and that was not well done.” The Duke of Brisbane spoke from behind him.
“I am sorry.”
“A man of our stature always finishes the hand. To throw your cards in implies that you cannot afford to lose. It can lead to all types of mistaken conclusions—and it is just bad manners.”
“I was winning. I just lost my taste for the play.” He turned to face Brisbane.
“That is even worse. If you are winning you must finish the hand to give others the opportunity to regain their losses.”
“But I would only have taken more of their money.”
Brisbane raised a brow and gestured to two empty seats. “Do you have time for a drink? Tomorrow night will be filled with all the pre-coronation balls and soirees—and then the n
ext day . . . Did you ever see your costume?”
Mark could not suppress a shudder at the thought. “Yes.”
“I imagine yours are at least somber, if not black. The joy of mourning. I am going to look like a peacock. I don’t think even our grandfathers wore such colors with their long powdered wigs. We will look like a parade of tropical birds as we stroll along to Westminster.”
“That’s a polite way of putting it.”
“That is part of the art of being a duke—saying exactly what you think, but without giving offense. Unless, of course, you mean to. That is a far different story.” Brisbane draped a knee over the armchair, but somehow still retained the appearance of upright posture.
Mark drew a long swallow of the offered brandy. The warm burn down his throat was reassuring. At least some things had not changed. He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “It was so much easier when I was mere mister. Who wants to worry about what one says all the time?”
“I think you were doing it before and just didn’t realize it. A duke is actually far freer to say what he wishes, he just needs to say it in the right way.”
“I am not sure that I take your meaning.”
“If you wish to say something irregular, unpopular, or off-putting, you merely need to inject your voice with enough authority or disdain. If you look down upon someone and peer at them as if they are dirt, you can say whatever you wish. The only one this does not work with is the king.” Brisbane pulled out his monocle and swung it in easy loops. “And, of course, you should get a quizzing glass. Ever so valuable.”
Mark was about to answer when Brisbane suddenly straightened. “Damnation. You are about to meet one of the few great inconveniences of being a duke. The father with unmarried daughters. Beware, no matter what he says it will lead to a situation where you will be forced to converse with one of his daughters. And, I am afraid, Milton’s daughters all look like the horses he so values.”
“Brisbane, it is so good to see you.” Lord Milton approached, holding out a hand.