“The cause of what?” Isabella filled her plate in slow methodical movements.
“The papers.” Freddie held up a sheet and waved it in the air. “Haven’t you seen them?”
Isabella sat at the table and reached for the paper in Frederica’s hand. “And how could I have seen them if they’re down here? Snuck down and looked at them before dressing? I’m sorry to tell you I don’t care what’s going on in London society enough to do that.”
“Well, that’s good.” Freddie snatched the paper back. “You can just continue not caring, then.”
Now Isabella really wanted to know what was on that paper. As much as she hated to admit it, her curiosity could be piqued as well as anyone’s, and after four weeks in London, she was fast learning that no one knew how to pique curiosity like the cream of English society. It was as if they had nothing better to do than try to make everyone else wonder what they knew.
And drat it all, it was working.
She snatched the paper back and turned so that Frederica couldn’t reach it again.
The first article in the society column was about Isabella. And it wasn’t very nice.
“A mystical coquette sent to London to fell the men not caught in Napoleon’s cannon fire?” Isabella looked up. “That’s rather harsh.”
Frederica nodded toward another paper on the table. “That one says you are the bane of every mother of an unwed daughter.”
Isabella winced.
“And there’s a comic in that one that shows you dangling five men by puppet strings in front of St. George’s.”
“Truly?” Isabella dug through the papers to find the comic. That sounded like it might actually be funny.
She found it and snickered. The drawing of her was very flattering, but then again, her ridiculously fashionable and symmetrical features were what had gotten her in this position in the first place. The men in the puppet strings looked besotted, while the parson standing to the side of a columned façade was trying to placate a horde of crying girls in white gowns.
A giggle bubbled out of Isabella’s lips, a bit of panic making it sound brassy to her own ears. It was actually quite funny, if one looked at it from an objective standpoint. Of course, she wasn’t objective, and the idea that she was affecting so many people was distressing, as was the fact that until recently they hadn’t even really been people in her mind.
“What could you possibly find amusing?” Uncle Percy stormed in and began banging plates around as he fixed his breakfast. “If this nonsense continues, we won’t be able to convince them it’s in their best interest to be on my good side.”
Isabella set the paper down carefully, trying to contain her irritation at her uncle. “And how many men have you promised my hand to in return for a vote?”
“None. At least not in so many words.” He dropped into a chair. “Nonsense, I tell you.”
“It’s rather odd, don’t you think, that they’ve all decided to print such a story on the same day? I’ve been moving about in society with my—” she glanced down at the paper to make sure she got the wording correct—“‘brood of besotted admirers’ for weeks. Why now?”
Uncle Percy stabbed his fork into a potato and left it standing there while he pointed a thick finger in her direction. “Because you reached too far. I told you to leave the duke alone. But you had to commandeer his attention last night.”
“I did no such thing.” Except she had. Sort of.
“Isabella was trying to help me.” Frederica shuffled the papers around, bringing them into something of a stack. “I’m afraid I get a bit tongue-tied around the duke, and I know how much you want to . . . to—” she glanced in Isabella’s direction—“secure his cooperation.”
“If you wish to retain the duke’s attention—and you would be wise to do so—you should stay far away from your cousin.” He retrieved his fork and pointed it in Isabella’s direction. “And if you don’t want your admirers to scatter, you’d best stay far away from the duke. No one wants competition the likes of him.”
She would love to have stayed far away from the duke, but she couldn’t bear to see Frederica suffer under his attentions. And she was suffering. Trying to have any sort of flirtation with the duke when she knew Arthur was alive and in London was driving Frederica to Bedlam. She could think of nothing to say to the duke aside from asking after his family, and in the unfortunate incident last evening, she’d snagged Isabella to save her from a conversation about the quality of his shoes.
“I spoke to him briefly last night. Surely that was not enough to elicit such a response.” The truth was she’d spoken to him for much longer periods at other events since their strange walk through the park trees. Twice she’d distracted the duke so that Frederica could slip out and see Arthur in the gardens outside the home hosting the evening’s event. And on one very memorable occasion she’d sought a dark corner for a moment’s reprieve only to find the corner had already been occupied by the duke.
She’d meant to leave right away but somehow found herself staying through half a dance set, discussing nothing of more importance than the ratio of green dresses to blue and how even together they couldn’t compare to the number of white ones.
“I’ve heard rumors of your being called a coquette at the club, but this is the first it’s been in print.” He stabbed a piece of ham. “You’ll have to be more careful.”
Isabella choked on air. She would have to be more careful? What would he have her do? And were people really referring to her as a coquette outside of the papers? Guilt crept up her neck and whispered in her ear that she had no right to be outraged by such an accusation when she was, in fact, being the very definition of a coquette by flirting with such a number of men but not allowing anything further to develop.
She stabbed at the food on her plate. Just because she was one didn’t mean she liked having it pointed out. And it wasn’t as if she’d chosen such a role. Well, she had, but only because there’d been no other choice.
The little voice in her ear whispered again that she’d known it was the wrong choice to make even as she’d quietly agreed to her uncle’s scheme. As she’d pretended her mother’s excitement was her own, that her uncle’s invitation was exactly what she’d been waiting for. Her mother was expecting Isabella to secure her future this Season, and she would. Just not in the way Mother expected.
Not in the way that was right.
She slumped in her chair, wishing her parents hadn’t spent so much time drilling Bible verses into her head while growing up. Despite the fact that she hadn’t opened the book since coming to London, she kept remembering verses about trusting God and having an upright heart. Not in detail, but in small snatches and phrases. Enough to remember the basics of what the Bible said.
It hurt more than a little to go against the teaching, knowing she was disappointing not only her parents but God as well.
But God wasn’t on the verge of losing His home, and He wasn’t there to help shear the sheep or assess which ones should be slaughtered or sold. She hadn’t seen Him come down and miraculously heal her father so that he could take care of all of those things. And by the time her parents found out what Isabella was actually doing, they’d be too happy about the outcome to be mad at the method.
“I won’t marry him, Father!”
Isabella broke out of her reverie to discover the conversation had continued without her.
“You’ll marry him if I say you will!” Uncle Percy banged on the table.
The sound seemed to echo repeatedly through the house until everyone realized someone was knocking on the front door.
In silent agreement, the argument stopped. No matter that they’d probably been heard by all the servants and one or two neighbors—now that someone else was in the house, they were going to be on their best behavior.
Eating stopped.
They all turned to watch the door to the breakfast room.
And then chaos erupted.
“You! Who g
ave you leave to enter this house?”
“Arthur! Whyever did you come? I thought we agreed.”
“You agreed? You’ve been seeing him? When?”
Arthur Saunderson stepped into the room, his light brown hair pulled back into a queue at his neck, emphasizing his deep-set eyes and long, narrow nose. Some part of Isabella’s mind—the part that wished she could be removed from the scene, most likely—had a vague pang of sympathy for any children Frederica and Arthur would have. They were rather doomed when it came to prominent facial features.
Arthur’s lips pressed together, and he took a deep, chest-raising breath through his nose. “I couldn’t wait any longer, Freddie. He’s bound to learn I’m in London sooner or later.”
“Please hear him out, Father.” Frederica clasped her hands together at her throat.
Uncle Percy jabbed a finger in Arthur’s direction. “You aren’t supposed to be in London. You’re supposed to be dead.”
And that declaration was enough to bring all the tongues to a halt.
“Well,” Arthur said quietly, shifting to stand at attention. “I’m not.”
“I see that.”
No one said anything as Uncle Percy tucked back into his breakfast.
Freddie stood and slid around the table. “Would you like some breakfast?”
“No he would not.” Uncle Percy looked up with a frown. “He’s already departed.”
“Not until you hear me out, my lord.” Arthur cleared his throat. “I love your daughter, sir. And I’m a lieutenant now. I can provide for her.”
He frowned. “She doesn’t need you. She’s got a duke near to offering for her.”
“I don’t want the duke. And he’s nowhere nearer to offering for me than the prince himself.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “Darling, the prince regent is married.”
She arched one eyebrow. “Then he won’t be offering for me, will he?”
“And what happens when you run off to war again?” Uncle Percy slammed his fork down, his eyes wide and a bit frightening, deep grooves bracketing his mouth like arrows to his pointed chin. “She ends up right back in the house—only she’d be no use to me then, bringing along a passel of children and noise to disrupt my life. That’s assuming she doesn’t follow you off to war and get herself killed because the men who pass for doctors there are more interested in hacking off body parts than practicing medicine.”
Frederica frowned. “The war won’t go on forever, Father.”
He grunted. “We’ve been at war with someone my entire life, girl. Trust me. He’ll be away more often than not.”
“Then Isabella will marry the duke and I’ll go live with her.”
Isabella nearly groaned at being hauled into the mess.
The idea nearly sent Uncle Percy over the edge. His sanity looked to be a very tenuous thing. “She will do no such thing! She will be returning home to that forsaken sheep farm where they will all probably die of some dread disease because they have nothing but an apothecary to help them.”
They didn’t even have one of those in her actual village, but Isabella found herself wishing she could return to that forsaken farm sooner rather than later.
The butler stepped back into the room. “My lord?”
“What?” Uncle Percy banged a fist on the table, causing the dishes to jump and tea to slosh out of his untouched cup.
Osborn cleared his throat and extended a thick white envelope. “This just arrived. Delivered personally by the Earl of Blackstone’s footman.”
Finally, something that would distract her uncle. Whatever was in that letter, Isabella hoped it was good. They couldn’t take any more distressing news this morning.
The smile that crept across his face, though, didn’t bring Isabella any comfort. It made her stomach threaten to abandon what little breakfast she’d eaten.
“Leave us, Lieutenant Saunderson. Napoleon didn’t stay put, and neither will you. I’ll not talk to you now.” He knocked the stiff parchment in his hand against the table and stared down the soldier.
Eventually, at Frederica’s pleading, Arthur left with a promise to return soon.
Uncle Percy’s smile didn’t dim as they listened to Arthur’s footsteps fade away. He ran a finger lovingly along the top of the parchment. “Girls, you are to pack your bags. We’re leaving London for a while.”
Chapter 13
“You are my brother, and I love you.”
Griffith looked up from the ledger on his desk to see Miranda standing in the doorway of his study. “Thank you?”
She released a sigh and rolled her shoulders back. “Of course.”
He rolled his quill in his fingertips, waiting for her to continue. It wasn’t a very taxing trip from her house to his, but there didn’t seem to be much reason for her to make such a trip in order to tell him something he already knew, even though they rarely mentioned it. “Is that all?”
“No. Mother isn’t going to be happy that I’m doing this, but you don’t deserve to be ambushed on a blind side.”
“What are you talking about?” Griffith set his quill aside and stood as Miranda took a step into the room. The idea that his mother was hiding something disturbed him. She’d been honest to a fault with him since his father had died. What could possibly be so horrible that she would try to protect him from it now? “What is wrong?”
Miranda’s eyes widened. “Oh! I didn’t mean for you to think anything was wrong. It’s nothing like that. You’re giving a party.”
Years of practice kept Griffith’s face devoid of surprise. As a young duke he’d learned early on that people would try to shock him into action or make him think he didn’t know enough. Now he mulled over Miranda’s statement in his mind, looking at it from every angle.
It still didn’t make any sense.
“Are you well, Miranda? Is the baby making you ill?”
“Yes, a little. Mostly in the afternoons, though, which is rather convenient, when you think about it.”
Griffith didn’t want to think about it. He really didn’t. With a gentle hand he guided Miranda to one of the chairs near the fireplace.
His lack of response, however, didn’t deter her from going into detail about how the midday malady allowed her to accomplish her morning tasks and still go out in the evenings, for at least a little while longer.
Ryland entered without knocking. “Did she tell you? I’ve already made arrangements for us to stay with Anthony and Amelia. I’ll not have her becoming overtired by a misplaced sense of responsibility for this event. We’ll travel back and forth as needed.”
“He, however”—Miranda pointed one angry finger at her husband while rubbing her other hand over her middle—“is very inconvenient. There is no reason why I cannot help Mother.”
“Aside from the fact that she doesn’t want your help.”
“If I don’t help she’ll have him tied to a chair in the drawing room while the ladies take turns passing through for inspection.”
Griffith liked to think he could normally determine what was going on with only a portion of the information, but this was something he couldn’t quite follow.
Mother was giving a party, apparently, although Miranda had first said that Griffith was giving one. It had something to do with him, though, because Miranda was concerned for his well-being, and Ryland seemed to be in at least a bit of agreement.
“Whatever Mother is planning”—Griffith kept his voice even and slow, like when he talked to the animals at his estate—“I’m afraid I cannot be a part of it. I need to take a short trip back to Riverton. I shall be gone but a week. We can return to looking at this situation then.”
With any luck they’d have all regained their senses and learned how to actually deliver a piece of apparently important news.
Ryland looked at his wife. “I thought you said you told him.”
“I did!” She shifted in her chair. “But then we started talking about the baby.”
The sm
ile Ryland gave her as he brushed a hand through the curls at the back of Miranda’s neck made Griffith feel intrusive. Should he be witness to such an obvious gesture of love? He never remembered his father giving his mother little touches, but he did recall the shared smiles.
Ryland’s attention soon turned back to Griffith. “You’re having a party.”
“So Miranda said.”
“Your mother has sent out the invitations. In some cases she’s delivered them personally.”
A heavy lump began to form in Griffith’s throat. His quiet week at Riverton, his plan to find a way to think and pray through everything, was in definite danger. “The party is at Riverton?”
“Yes.”
Griffith turned to his sister. “And she wasn’t going to tell me?”
Miranda shook her head. “No. She didn’t want to give you a chance to tell her otherwise. She already has a speech prepared for your argument that she has her own house in which to throw a party. There’s even an answer if you are bold enough to tell her she’s no longer mistress of Riverton.”
“She isn’t mistress of Riverton. No one is.”
“Tell that to Mother.”
As much as Griffith wanted to, they all knew he wouldn’t. His mother had been encouraging him to host a house party in the country for years, claiming it was the fastest, easiest way to cull the best of the lot.
In the past the excuse had been to find husbands for his sisters. Now that everyone else was settled, the intent could only be his own matrimonial bliss.
“How many ladies has she invited?”
“At least a dozen. She wouldn’t let me hold the list, but I did spy Miss St. Claire’s name.” Miranda paused a moment before grinning like the impish younger sister she was. “And Miss Breckenridge’s.”
She could tease him all she wanted. He wasn’t worried on that front. “Miss Breckenridge would never tear herself away from all of her suitors to retire to the country for a week.”
Miranda scoffed. “She will if it will land her cousin a duke.”
Ryland leaned on the back of Miranda’s chair and pierced Griffith with his grey gaze until Griffith wanted to punch the duke in the face just to get him to stop. “You could stop your mother easily enough, you know. Just ask Miss St. Claire to marry you. You’ve already decided it’s going to be her.”
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