Griffith waited, knowing that Miss St. Claire would continue, because no one could possibly think that explanation sufficient on its own. The twisted mass unraveling before him boggled the mind. How could a man become so entangled in a single mission that his entire being, his every thought and motive, wrapped itself around it like a tree growing around a hatchet that had been left embedded in its trunk?
“You are a powerful man, Your Grace. If you chose to, you could revive the Apothecary Act. My father knows this. He told Isabella that if she could get you to do so, he would let me marry the man I love when he returns from war, despite the fact that he is an officer.”
Griffith lifted a brow. “Having you become a spinster is preferable to having you marry an officer?”
One shoulder lifted and settled as the lines around Miss St. Claire’s mouth grew deeper. “War is dangerous. Who’s to say I wouldn’t become one of the camp followers if I married an officer of war? Father is terrified I’ll join the wives who travel with the camps and put myself in the line of fire.” She cleared her throat. “I’m not here on my behalf, Your Grace. I intend to marry Arthur with or without my father’s blessing. There isn’t much he can do about it. But Isabella can’t quite understand that I gave up craving my father’s attention long ago and contented myself with the fact that he wanted me to remain safe.”
She stepped away from Griffith and started for the door. “But you deserved to know, Your Grace.”
That was it? Griffith gave in to the frustration churning through him and ran a hand over his face. “How is she?” The question came out rough and broken, ripped from him without permission. Because, while all of the things Miss St. Claire had told him were things he wanted to know, all he really cared about was whether or not Isabella was happy.
Miss St. Claire stopped in the doorway to the room. Her maid stood awkwardly behind her, eyes cast downward for the most part but sneaking occasional glances up at her mistress and then Griffith. “She is trying to rediscover who she is, I suppose. She cried a lot, those first days, but the plants calm her. She goes to the park a lot.”
“Which park?”
Miss St. Claire glanced over her shoulder. “All of them.”
Chapter 32
A splash of color near Isabella’s feet caught her eye, and she squatted to see a clump of bright red flowers marching around the base of a sprawling bush. Had she seen flowers like this in the garden area? She probably wouldn’t have noticed them if she had. The formally laid-out portion of Kensington Gardens was a beautiful riot of color and pattern. As a whole it was absolutely breathtaking. It was difficult to look at any of the plants individually, though.
But here, in the wilder area of the gardens, the little red flowers stood out, allowing her to easily see the softness of the stem and the silkiness of the petals. In contrast, the bush limb jutting out over the cluster of flowers was rough and hard, the green leaves looking harsh. That both could exist in nearly the same place was one of the things Isabella found so fascinating about plants.
The murmur of voices reached her from a distance, and she took a last longing look at the little red flowers.
She slid her hands to her knees, prepared to push herself up to a more respectable standing position. As she stood, her gaze rose until she could see over the top of the bush.
Then she immediately dropped back down so she was sitting on her heels. When did Griffith find time to take a stroll through Kensington Gardens? And though she’d yet to meet him, the man with him looked similar enough to be identified as his younger brother, Lord Trent Hawthorne.
As much as she didn’t want to see Griffith, she couldn’t take the chance that he would turn down this particular path and find her hunched over in front of a bush.
It was possible, if she moved quickly, that she could get around the next bend and start making her way to where she’d told the carriage to meet her. Armed with a plan, she stood again and felt a sharp tug before hearing a series of small cracks. The jutting limb, which had earlier made such an interesting juxtaposition to the little red flowers, had several skinny twigs branching off it. Twigs that tangled easily in curls that brushed against it.
She turned to her maid, who stood three feet away looking bored but resigned. It was the same expression she’d worn through every other park, garden, and square Isabella had dragged her to.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
The maid cocked her head to the side, showing the first sign of real interest she’d shown in a while. “It’s an unusual look, miss. If you’re wanting to really claim the effect, I’d suggest adding a few more. Perhaps one or two with a leaf attached.”
It was hard to tell if the maid was joking or not, but the picture she’d painted inspired a sputtered laugh from Isabella. “We’ll just walk on, shall we?”
But she’d neglected to realize how much ground two energetic, long-legged men could cover in a short amount of time. Griffith and his brother had not only seen her but were standing within easy speaking distance.
“Isabella.”
She’d missed his voice, resonating from his broad chest and wrapping around her like a blanket. “Your Grace.”
His eyes widened, and she could see the hurt her deliberate use of his honorific had caused. But she didn’t have the right to call him Griffith anymore. Not when she’d walked away from him so completely the last time she’d seen him.
“Miss Breckenridge.” His voice had roughened. “May I present my brother, Lord Trent Hawthorne.”
She gave a curtsy. The other man, who looked like a smaller, more carefree version of Griffith, grinned at her. “Miss Breckenridge. I’ve heard a lot about you. May I say that the tales haven’t done you justice? You’ve no need for ornamentation, but I’ve rarely seen a woman wear it so well.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and Isabella fought the urge to start yanking at her hair to get the twigs out of it.
“Isabella.” Griffith stepped forward. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you around.”
“I’m socializing with trees these days.” She gestured to her nature-enhanced hair. “As you can see.”
“It’s a good look for you.” He reached forward and pinched one curl between his fingers and let it slide through. “I like the red. And the earrings.”
She hadn’t powdered her hair since the Apothecary Act had been abandoned. Her mother’s jewelry had also been dug from the bottom of the drawer where it had been stashed. It had been nice seeing her natural hair in the mirror. It felt even nicer that he approved of the color as well.
It felt too nice.
He dropped his arm. “I won’t ask if you’ve reconsidered, though should you ever decide to, my request stands. But you don’t need to confine yourself. I would like to see you. I would like to dance with you. But should you wish me to refrain from attending any event so that you may attend in peace, you need only send word and I will send my regrets.”
And this was exactly why she couldn’t let him know of Uncle Percy’s plans. Already he was trying to sacrifice for her. And she couldn’t live a life with him knowing their entire marriage had been based on a similar sacrifice.
Why, oh why, had she thought all aristocrats were cold and unfeeling people she could use and leave at her will? Hadn’t her loving mother come from the same group of people? Tears threatened to choke her, and the last thing she needed was for him to see her cry.
“If you would excuse me.”
She whirled and fled down the path, her maid scurrying behind her. She didn’t know which way she was going, but it was away from Griffith, and that was all she needed at the moment.
By the time she stopped to get her bearings, she could see nothing but trees and grass, meandering paths, and a scattered handful of fashionably dressed people strolling along. Until she saw something she recognized, she was just going to have to walk and try to look as if she knew what she was doing.
Light sparkling through the trees told her she was nearin
g some sort of water. If it was the Serpentine, she’d gone a long way in the wrong direction. Clear into Hyde Park instead of back to the carriage at the edge of Kensington Gardens. She was near the edge of the water, and it would be a simple thing to skirt the edge of it and enter the expanse of Hyde Park. The area was devoid of London’s elite. All she could see were sheep. And a few deer at the edge of the forest.
Throwing propriety to the wind, she crossed to a large tree and sank down to sit at the base of it.
Her maid squeaked but didn’t say anything. Isabella thought about telling the other woman she might as well sit down and get comfortable because Isabella didn’t intend to leave anytime soon. This spot, this moment, felt more like home than anything she’d felt in a long, long time. Not since her week in Hertfordshire had she felt anything resembling the peace she did now.
The peace went beyond the idyllic setting. It was bone deep, heart deep. Sometime during the last few days, strolling through parks and quietly slipping into various squares, she’d accepted that God forgave her for what she’d done. That knowledge and acceptance had brought the overwhelming peace only Jesus could bring.
It hadn’t brought happiness, though.
But she deserved to be unhappy, didn’t she? Who could say how much unhappiness she’d caused? Had any of those men actually developed feelings for her? It was hard to say, since she’d never let herself consider them much beyond whether or not she could get them to keep visiting her.
And then there were the ladies. Like Lady Alethea and Miss Newberry. What had she done to their futures? Their happiness?
But if she were forgiven, if she truly accepted that Jesus had taken her sin as far as the east was from the west, that meant it could no longer impact what God decided she did or did not deserve.
It didn’t mean she was happy. It didn’t mean she’d be happy anytime in the near future, because the fact was that what she’d done had consequences, and they made her sad.
But as she looked across the field of happily grazing sheep she knew that one day she’d be fine, and eventually, she might even be good.
Griffith leaned his shoulder against a tree. She’d been sitting there watching the sheep for nearly half an hour. What was she thinking about? He couldn’t see her face, but she seemed peaceful, like a country milkmaid taking a break in the middle of the day.
“I’ve seen more trees today than in the rest of my life combined.” Trent leaned his back against another tree trunk and crossed his ankles as he watched Griffith watch Isabella.
“Your talent for exaggeration has developed well.” Griffith didn’t bother reminding him that they’d grown up in the wooded hills of Hertfordshire.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Wait until she leaves and make sure she gets to her carriage safely.”
Trent laid his head back against the tree. “Does that mean tomorrow we’ll be scouring the parks again?”
“I don’t know.” It was a fair question, but not one Griffith could answer. Ever since he’d learned what was really keeping them apart, he’d been conflicted.
“I’ve got one chance left, Trent, and it’s something I might not be able to accomplish.”
His brother scoffed. “What does she want? Napoleon’s crown jewels? Talk to Prinny. He may loan them to you when they get here from France. I’ve heard the treasures are coming out of Paris by the boatload.”
“I don’t think she wants anything.” And that was the problem. If she wanted something from him, he could do it. Buy it, make it, trade for it—whatever it took. But she didn’t actually want anything except for him to be free of her uncle’s potential schemes.
“Nothing is pretty easily obtained.” Trent held out his empty hand, palm out. “You can borrow mine if you need to.”
One side of Griffith’s mouth kicked up. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Have you prayed about it?”
“Every day.” Every moment. Griffith wasn’t sure there was an hour he’d been awake when some part of him hadn’t been crying out to God for a way to fix this dull ache in the middle of his chest that refused to go away as long as there was a chance that Isabella could be his.
Trent shrugged. “Then do the next thing and let God take care of the rest.”
Such a simple concept, but so very difficult in practice, even if Griffith knew his brother was right.
“If I marry her, we’ll probably have children,” Griffith murmured.
“That’s the natural order of things.” Trent laid an arm around Griffith’s shoulders and turned him back up the path.
“Your chances of becoming a duke will decline.”
Trent grinned. “All the more reason to get busy doing what you’ve got to do.”
Griffith let his gaze linger on Isabella as his mind wandered. He was fairly certain that he knew everything now, or at least enough to approach Isabella about whatever concerns were keeping her away. But it wouldn’t do to simply make things right for a day. He needed to make sure that every last bit of this situation was settled so that they could move past it and never return.
“All right, then.” Griffith adjusted his coat and rolled his head back and forth, trying to relieve the tension in his neck. It was time to take a more active role in this whole apothecary business and learn what politics were really taking place. Only then could he make sure it went away. “Let’s go see a doctor.”
Chapter 33
“We’re going out tonight.”
Isabella pulled a twig from her hair and frowned at her cousin in the mirror. Her day had not been going well, and the last thing she wanted to do was get dressed back up and go see the same people who had witnessed her strolling back through Kensington Gardens with twigs in her hair. From now on she would be staying with the public parks, despite the fact that they made her maid nervous.
“You are free to go wherever you wish.” Isabella yanked at another twig, wincing when it didn’t dislodge from the coiffure as easily as the first had.
Frederica crossed her arms and frowned. “No. You’re going with me. I had my maid prepare your dress so you’ve nothing to do but get cleaned up and then drop the gown over your head.”
It was going to take a little more effort than that, but Isabella was impressed with Freddie’s initiative. She sighed and began plucking the pins from her head. If she was going to go out, they were going to have to start over on her hair. “Where are we going?”
“A ball.”
“No.”
Isabella would do many things for her cousin, had in fact agreed that two people wasting away in the house was two too many. And since she could do nothing to rouse her uncle—or at least wasn’t willing to do the one thing that would rouse her uncle—Isabella had agreed that she would get out of the house every day and attend at least two events a week with Freddie.
She wasn’t doing a ball, though.
“Mr. Boehm is a merchant.” Frederica picked up the brush and began stroking it through Isabella’s hair. “What are the chances that you’ll see any of your former suitors there? Balls are fun, and you need to remember that or you’ll needlessly avoid them forever.”
Balls were fun. When she wasn’t having to spend the whole evening being calculating and manipulative, she enjoyed the dancing and the energy that could only be found at a ball. And a ball given by a merchant? Obviously the attendees would all be rich and powerful men, but would the aristocracy come out in great numbers for a merchant’s ball?
Isabella allowed a small smile to tilt her lips and crease the corners of her eyes. It felt strange on her face, but good. “Very well, then. We’ll go to a ball.”
“Mr. Boehm must be a very rich merchant,” Isabella growled.
Freddie had the grace to look a bit ashamed at having tricked her into coming to one of the most attended and exclusive balls of the entire Season.
Isabella drained her glass of punch in a single swallow before glaring at her cousin. “I just saw the
prince regent on the other side of the room.”
“He looks nothing like you thought he would, does he?”
He didn’t. And Isabella had actually been a little surprised, given the types of events her uncle had been dragging her to, that this was the first time she’d seen the country’s acting ruler. But she was seeing him now. Along with several hundred of his closest titled and wealthy friends.
“Perhaps I’ll go outside.” Isabella cast a glance out the wide windows. “St. James’s Square probably looks lovely in the moonlight.”
“And you’d look lovely to any lingering robbers.” Frederica hooked her arm with Isabella’s. “No, I’m afraid I must insist that you stay with me until it’s time to leave.”
Isabella sighed. “Very well. But I’m not dancing.”
With a shrug, Freddie took the last sip of her punch. “That is your choice.”
So far none of her old pursuers had asked her to dance, even though many of them were in attendance. It could have something to do with Isabella clinging uncustomarily to a shadowed corner.
As she put down her punch cup, Freddie said, “We should at least say hello to Miss Newberry.”
“Why?” Other than Frederica and possibly Griffith’s sisters, there hadn’t been a female in London who seemed inclined to actually befriend her. Granted there had been a few, Miss Newberry included, who had been nice when removed from the rest of their friends, but none had gone out of their way to do more than that.
Freddie sighed and stepped forward, her arm still linked with Isabella’s. “Because it will get you out of this corner. Come along.”
They greeted Miss Newberry and exchanged pleasantries, but polite topics were quickly used up and the woman moved on, leaving Frederica and Isabella exposed to the rest of the party attendees.
“Miss Breckenridge!”
An Inconvenient Beauty Page 30