His eyes misted at those words: ‘that woman loves you.’ "How do you know she has any care for me?"
Ianthe laughed and winked. "Because she never put a knife in your gut. And we all saw the way she looked at you last night. Even if she does not realise it herself, she cares for you deeply. She is your wolf's mate, Alick, nothing will change that."
"So, let us assume Isabel has a plan to search her father's Mayfair house for the letters. What do you want to do, Alick?" Hamish asked. The captain would bow to the wishes of his sergeant.
There was only one course of action open to him. He promised his Izzy-Cat he would never let her fall and he'd be damned if she would take this mission without his support. Even if he couldn't be inside the fancy house, he could loiter on a street corner or do anything to let her know he was there.
"We bloody well hightail it to London. Izzy-Cat is going to need an escape plan to break free one last time. Someone has to catch her if she climbs over the walls." His wolf shook off the mist that shrouded its mind and the grin returned to Alick's face.
26
Isabel
* * *
The next morning, Isabel woke and stretched her arm out under the blankets. Her seeking hand found only cool, smooth, undisturbed sheet. She had slept alone, without a sentinel to guard her slumber and bereft of Alick's large body curled around her. A cold icicle stabbed through her chest. Never before had she considered the impact of her actions on others. All her life she did as she wanted, without thought or care about another. Now she desperately wanted to explain to Alick why she had turned her back, why she had walked away, and why she hoped for his forgiveness.
Isabel slipped from bed and walked to her window. Kneeling on the seat, she placed a hand flat on the glass and stared at the short sweep of bright grass that ran to a high wall. The entire Mayfair property was encircled by grey stone, with iron gates standing at the front and back entrances. Implacable stone guarded their privacy from the bustle of daily London life. It was also the final barrier to overcome between Isabel and her new life beyond.
Perhaps she should have sent a secret message to Alick, and let him know of her plan. But whom among her father's staff could she trust? Any note, no matter how sincere her request that accompanied it, would pass through her father's hands before it left the estate.
That was when another horrible thought occurred to her: How would she find Alick? Just yesterday they had discussed that it was time to move on and return to their regiment. Then the duke had summoned Isabel, declared their marriage a farce and said Alick's role was done. She had finished the job her father started by ripping out his heart and throwing it to the ground.
The hunting lodge would once again be empty, her new friends and family gone. She had no way of knowing where Alick might go. He could still be in Oxfordshire or anywhere else in England. What would he tell them of her actions? That she’d revealed herself to be the heartless harpy all of society thought her to be?
A sob welled up in her throat. While beyond the wall people went about their daily lives, she was alone, trapped in her old existence.
No. A deep breath steadied her nerves and resolve. Mrs. Ferguson was a very resourceful woman with friends she cared about. Alick would narrate events to his family and Isabel prayed that Aster would see the hidden meaning in her parting message. She had to believe that, or the despair at what she had done would overwhelm her.
A plan took shape in Isabel's mind. Tonight she would search the hidden safe and, papers or not, she would escape. Then it was only a matter of time before she would be back in Alick's arms. She knew his regiment; she had only to learn where they were stationed and she would find Alick. Or she could pay a mage-blooded seeker for a finding spell to guide her way back to the man she loved.
Ready to face the day, she turned to her wardrobe and flung open the doors. What would a demure and dutiful daughter wear? Something fashionable but restrained, nothing too gaudy. A flash of colour caught her eye. The orange silk gown she had worn the night she met Alick. The maid must have packed it when removing her clothes from Oxfordshire. A smile played over her lips. This time, the highly impractical gown would be escaping with her, since it made her a gerbera in a vat of milk. Hardly the most poetic description ever uttered to a woman, but it meant the world to her, given it came from her taciturn warrior.
Clothes selected, she was about to dress herself when she remembered a noblewomen did not perform her toilet alone. No, she would have to wait for the maid to dress her like a porcelain doll. Isabel tossed the dress over the screen in the corner and waited. If only she had an atlas, she could fill the time plotting out the route her future adventures would take.
Some time later, dressed and coiffured, she descended the stairs and found the small breakfast room empty except for a footman pressed against a wall. He jumped to action on seeing her and pulled out a chair. All the mollycoddling was making her grumpy. She could dress herself, hold her own chair, and she could most certainly pour her own cup of tea. Give her a bow and a knife and she could even hunt dinner and peel the potatoes to accompany it.
As she reached out her hand for the pot, the footman snatched it away with a horrified look on his face. Isabel closed her eyes and counted to ten. It was either that or throw her dainty cup against the wall, and such an action might alert her father to the fact she wasn't as subdued or tamed as he believed.
When she opened her eyes, her tea was poured and had the requisite amount of milk, and the man now hovered at her elbow like a worried mother hen.
"That will be all, thank you." She waved a hand at him before he took it upon himself to butter her toast and feed it to her. Or worse, masticate it for her.
As she chewed her breakfast, things she had once never noticed now came into sharp relief. Like the number of staff her father employed for just the two of them. Men stood around impersonating occasional tables, waiting for someone to pass by or require their assistance. It was quite ridiculous; there were so many tasks they were capable of performing themselves.
The duke entered the room just as she finished her meal. She plastered a smile on her face and reached for the coffee pot. The duke took coffee first thing, not tea, and a dutiful daughter would pour for her father. "Good morning, Father. Did you sleep well?"
"Very well, thank you." He took his seat and flicked open the paper as she filled his cup.
Isabel chewed her lip wondering what to do next. She had no experience in playing the demure daughter. Normally she spent her days plotting how to outrage society and force her father to acknowledge her. Or looking for opportunities to supplement her income by pawning the jewellery her peers misplaced. What did her contemporaries do all day? Should she adjourn to her parlour and embroider something?
The duke looked up over the top of the newspaper. "Linwood will join us for dinner tonight. Just a quiet affair for the two of you to become acquainted before the ceremony tomorrow."
Her heart plummeted to the ground as she retook her seat. "Tomorrow? So soon?"
The top of the paper folded down and he narrowed his gaze at her over the headlines. "Yes. After all, society will be told it happened over a week ago. And once you are settled in Linwood's household, Walter can announce his engagement. His nuptials will be the affair of the season and we have much to plan."
"Of course, Father. As you desire." She sipped her tea, needing the moisture to swallow the words or she would choke on them. How on earth would she survive a boring dinner with the dull Earl of Linwood without stabbing him to enliven events? Already her body rebelled at the lack of activity and no outlet to express herself. She longed to yell, run, and perhaps pummel her fists against Alick before he held her down and—
"Are you listening, Isabel?"
"Sorry, Father, I was thinking of instructions for the housekeeper about dinner tonight. I do so want to make a good impression with the earl." Better another lie than telling him she was thinking of the wild, heathen things the Scot did
with her body.
"Quite a remarkable transformation," he muttered and then returned to his daily news. Isabel was forgotten, once again.
She huffed. Perhaps she should go shopping for an outfit the same pattern as the wallpaper. Her father made her feel as though she blended in with her surroundings. Just as her fingers curled around her knife, she reminded herself she would be away by the next morning. She could do this; she simply had to consider it a covert mission that required patience and subterfuge. It was a shame that neither was a quality she possessed in any great abundance, but she would find a way to endure.
Isabel decided the best course of action was to throw herself into the role, and spent the day either in her parlour looking suitably vacant or discussing the menu and centrepiece for the table with the housekeeper. All the while she kept glancing at the clock, counting down the hours and minutes until she could escape. The thought of returning to such a sheltered existence for the next fifty years made her contemplate weapons and alcohol.
She sighed with relief when the clock announced the time had come to dress for dinner. At least the tedious process gave her something to do. It took two maids to scrub and scent her body, then they fussed over her clothing. Isabel nearly lost her patience when it came to her hair. Arranging her long tresses in an artful cascade of curls seemed to take hours. At long last they placed a simple headband of pearls atop her head and declared her perfection.
The perfect ornament perhaps. Destined to sit on a shelf and look decorative but not designed to have a practical purpose. Her hands itched to shatter the illusion and scatter the shards of this life around her. Only a few more hours to go. She could tolerate it, knowing what awaited her beyond the confines of the wall.
Taking a deep breath to centre her thoughts, she descended the stairs and entered the parlour. Within were her father and the earl, her supposed new husband. Both men turned as she approached. Instead of the warm greeting she would have found in the little lodge from Alick's family, these men appraised her with narrowed gazes.
She dipped her knees in a small curtsey. "Father, Lord Linwood."
From under her lashes she took in the man the duke thought would make a most excellent prime minister for the right king. Of slightly less-than-average height for a man, the buttons of his waistcoat pulled tight over his stomach. A florid complexion showed that his love of food was met by an equally robust appetite for liquor. Drooping eyelids were counterbalanced by the slump to the corners of his mouth and even his thin nose was unremarkable. In his late thirties, he at least still possessed a full head of hair.
Isabel struggled to find anything about him to compliment, apart from his title and fortune. For the ton, that was all a man needed to possess to be considered most handsome. But not for Isabel. Her body yearned for a warrior who exuded raw power and who contained a savage wolf.
To Isabel's eyes, unlike the full vibrant specimen that Alick presented, Linwood was a poor sketch of a man well suited to appearing in caricatures in the newspapers. She suspected her heart's husband could sneeze and this cowering lump would run and hide behind a sofa.
"Lady Isabel," Linwood said. Then, having completed his appraisal of the wild filly, he took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles.
His lips were wet and clammy and she bit her lip to stop the shudder working its way down her spine. Alick's kisses were hot and dry, like how she imagined the Egyptian desert. Perhaps they could go there after India? They could ride camels and sleep out under exotic tents—
"Isabel? Lord Linwood asked you a question." The Duke of Balcairn interrupted Isabel's imagined adventures.
She gave a faint smile and did her best to look earnest by copying a look she once saw a dog give when hoping for a bone. "I am so sorry, my lord. Events of the last few days have quite fatigued me. I do beg your forgiveness—may I ask you to kindly repeat the question?"
He pursed his lips. Perhaps he was a man used to being listened to? It wasn't her fault if he seemed so bland her mind drifted. Even the wallpaper looked more appealing by comparison.
"I said, would you like to attend the theatre tomorrow night, after matters are put to bed, as it were?" He winked at her and leered at the same time, just in case the innuendo wasn't obvious enough.
By monumental effort, she managed to keep her face from screwing up or her stomach from revolting at the mere idea. "That would be quite lovely."
"Shall we go through to dinner?" The duke didn't wait for a response, but strode through to the next room, assuming they would follow.
Linwood held out his arm and Isabel rested her fingertips on his sleeve as they trailed behind. The enormous dining table could seat twenty or more with ease. Tonight one end was laid out with a scant three settings.
Isabel waited for the footman to hold out her chair and even kept her hands to herself while he snapped out her linen napkin and draped it over her lap. Fortunately the two men were content to ignore her and discuss politics and the war. It was all couched in careful tones, but her ears picked up an inflection here or an emphasis there that revealed the undercurrent to their conversation.
For her part she kept quiet, except when asked a direct, and often facile, question. Like, would she prefer to decorate the parlour in her new home with stripes or chintz? She thought either would end up slashed to ribbons if this were really her life, but instead smiled. "I think perhaps stripes. They are strong and masculine and would remind me of you, my lord."
Linwood grabbed his wine and took a deep drink, his greedy gaze never leaving Isabel's exposed décolleté. "I say, your grace, quite a miraculous transformation the brute wrought. But I hear he's not even human but one of those filthy Unnaturals. She's not damaged, is she?"
Damaged? Her fingers curled around the cutlery in her hands. Surely she could stab him just a little? Nothing fatal, of course—she wanted adventure, not a one-way trip to the gallows. But the man was completely insufferable, pompous, and in desperate need of deflating.
Her father raised his glass. "The dog did his job. I've not had her examined, but you can see that she is now broken to saddle and ready for you to take over the reins."
The earl huffed. "Is she… clean? I wouldn't want to catch something from that dog."
"You are perfectly safe. I have the reassurances of a mage," the duke said.
Isabel stared at her plate and kept her silence. No father would speak of a daughter in such a way. Every disgusting word of betrayal he uttered made it easier to forge ahead with her plan to discover if evidence of his treachery still existed. She would show both men she was no docile broodmare, but still the spirited filly who could lash out with her hind feet.
Linwood grunted and his gaze swept over Isabel. "Do you think he took her like a dog does its bitch?"
Isabel dug her nails into her palm to stop her reaching for the knife by her plate. The man's haughty tone and belief he was something better than Alick made a rage stir in her gut. She loved both sides of him, man and wolf. Then her mind imagined Alick's broad chest pressed to her naked back, one hand holding hers against the wall as he used his foot to nudge her legs apart. A flush spread over her skin.
"I think that is quite enough, Linwood. You are embarrassing Isabel and there are some things gentlemen do not discuss," her father said, and ended the sordid questions.
Excruciating minutes ticked by and dinner passed. Finally Isabel could excuse herself, leaving the men to brandy and cigars in the duke's study.
Linwood whispered, "Until tomorrow." Then in a horrendously forward move, he pressed a wet kiss to her lips.
Isabel returned to the parlour and rinsed out her mouth with sherry, then read for an hour before heading up to bed. Once again, the maid undressed her like a large doll and brushed out her hair. Then it was plaited for sleeping.
"Will there be anything else, my lady?"
"No, thank you." She waited until the door snipped shut before pacing her room. How long would the men talk? Anticipation curled in her
stomach and she couldn't sit still. The minutes ticked by. One hour became another and still there was no sign of Linwood leaving. There was also the issue of how to gain entrance to her father's locked study; her plan hinged on correct timing.
After two hours, Isabel toed off her slippers and crept down the stairs in her bare feet. She didn't need a candle to light her way as she knew every inch of the house by heart. That made it easier to avoid the roaming footman; his flickering light preceded him like a ghostly premonition. The duke thought his presence throughout the night would deter criminals loitering outside, looking for easy pickings. Which it did, but this burglar was already inside the house.
She pressed her ear to the study door, listening for snippets of conversation. Most of their words were either too muffled or made no sense. She caught a reference to the Isle of Dogs and the West India docks. Then her straining ears caught one word made her freeze. Forge. The man Alick and his comrades sought. The French vampyre and leader of the shadow men.
Footsteps approached and she scurried into a nook, hiding behind the marble bust. Both men emerged and walked to the front door. Waiting until their attention was on the view beyond the door as they said their goodnights, Isabel crept into the open study. The window seat had storage underneath and she lifted the top, squeezed in amongst ignored blankets and surplus pillows, and lowered the lid.
Footsteps returned and crossed the floor to the desk in front of her hiding place. Isabel held her breath in case it echoed within the confined space and gave her away. The steps retreated and a soft thud and click came as the study doors were closed and locked.
Layers to Peel Page 23