by Tamara Gill
Her apology only made him feel more wretched. “Don’t be sorry, anything but that. I certainly do not need your sympathy. It’s of my own doing that she’s become the woman she has.”
“Why do you say that?” Isolde clasped the seat as they rounded a corner faster than they ought.
“Because it’s true.” He ran a hand over his jaw and then realized in his haste to find William, he’d only half finished his dressing. His shirt hung open and the lapse of a cravat only made it look worse. At least he’d grabbed his jacket from the back of his desk chair before hightailing it out the door. “We’ve not had the marriage she hoped for. I pushed her away, and she sought entertainment and friendships elsewhere.”
“You weren’t to know that she would leave Lord William anywhere. For all that has passed between you and the duchess, I’m certain that there must be some other explanation for what’s occurred. Leonora was never so careless.”
He scoffed, knowing how mistaken Isolde was. “You would be wrong. You only have to see her to know she’s not competent enough to walk straight, nevertheless look after a child. I should never have trusted her.”
“If you cannot trust the mother of your child, whom can you trust?”
The carriage turned again, and they rode along the embankment for a short duration before rocking to a halt in front of an alehouse, gin-laden drunks slumped against its walls.
Merrick didn’t bother waiting for his tiger, but jumped down and started toward the door to the inn, Isolde right behind him. He paused at the threshold. “You cannot come in. It’s not fit for human occupancy, never mind a duke’s daughter.”
Isolde crossed her arms. “I’m more than capable of looking after myself.”
“All the same,” he said, trying to placate her, and by her raised brows it was a battle he was losing. “I would prefer you stay here. I’m going to ask if anyone’s seen William or the duchess earlier this morning.” When Isolde didn’t make a move to do as he asked, he did what any sensible gentleman would do—he begged. “Please, Isolde. I don’t need anything to happen to you as well as my son.”
At his words she sighed and stepped back. “Very well, I’ll wait in the carriage, but if you’re too long, I’m coming in after you.”
He nodded and went into the inn. The moment he crossed the threshold a cloud of gray smoke, mixed with the sickly flowery scent, met his senses. Opium. Merrick headed for the bar and caught the eye of the barman, a burly man with arms the size of Merrick’s legs. The man gave a nod of greeting and slowly made his way over to him, serving his customers as he went. The time ticked by agonizingly slow, and Merrick had the overwhelming urge to shout at the man to hurry the blasted up, but the thought of William and that this man may know what Leonora had done with him, made him hold his tongue.
“Bruce,” he said finally when the man poured him a brandy and slid it across the bar.
“Your Grace, whatever have we done to have the honor of your presence?”
Merrick slid a gold coin across the bar. “Has the duchess been in earlier today? She’s left my son somewhere this side of London.”
The barman’s eyes flared before he frowned. “Aye, she was in, but came in with that gentleman friend of hers she’s always about with. Can’t say I saw a boy with her, though.”
“Did you happen to serve her? Maybe you heard where she’d been?”
The man grinned. “That’ll cost ye another pretty coin.”
Merrick handed one over without delay. “Where?”
“It’s walking distance from here. You’ll not get a carriage down the laneway. Turn left when ye leave here and make another left at the first opportunity to do so. A few doors down may be the premises you’re looking for.”
Merrick left his drink and headed toward the door, wondering if he’d ever see his son again. Down in this part of town, there were no rules. Children went missing all the time, never to be found again. He couldn’t allow his son to be one of them.
“I’ll keep an ear to the ground about ye boy, Your Grace.”
Merrick turned, surprised by the gesture. “Thank you.” He threw open the door and strode toward the carriage. He wrenched the door open to tell Isolde of his next move, only to find it empty. He slammed it shut, turning about and looking to see if he could spy her anywhere. He cursed, not seeing one dark strand of her pretty hair. He’d not thought the day could get any worse, and yet it just had.
…
Isolde watched a steady stream of misbegotten drunkards walk farther along the docks and turn down the alley. Laughter sounded, along with the banging of a creaky wooden door. She looked down at her lavender gown and cringed. She didn’t meld into the location at all and instead stuck out like the woman of wealth she was.
Reaching into the carriage, she opened the compartment beneath the seat and pulled out a plaid blanket, draping it over her head and shoulders. It masked her in some way, not a lot, but it would have to do.
She walked toward the alley, ignoring the command from the driver to stop and wait for His Grace. Standing at the corner, she noted the worn stairs that led down into a darkened street. Taking a fortifying breath, she climbed down quickly and passed door after door, some with men asleep on their thresholds, others with women and children, sitting, waiting, for what, Isolde could only imagine.
She gave some coins to the children who asked, looking about for the one boy who was lost among them. A man stumbled onto the street before her, and she stopped, watching as he turned in her direction, his eyes unfocused and red-rimmed.
“Aye, you’re a pretty one. I have some coin aye, and a wall ready and willing to support ye while I have me way with ye, pretty lass.”
Isolde stared, unable to speak as the drunkard’s words made her stomach churn. She needed to think, and fast. “Right at this moment there is a gun being pointed at you by my companion. Don’t bother to look, you’re too far out of your wits to see him in the shadows,” Isolde said, when he cast a look toward the alley. “But I would suggest, if you do not desire your brains to be splattered against the wall at your back, to let me pass.”
The man grinned, stumbling a little. “Ah, come on now. I’ll not take too long.”
“Step any closer toward me and you’re dead.” He stopped at the steely tone of her words, his eyes narrowing in consideration.
A movement behind him caught her eye, but she didn’t react. Her only defense was bluffing, and if he thought for a moment that what she said was untrue…well she didn’t want to venture what that would mean for her.
The blaggard grinned. “Aww well, mayhap I’ll see ye again to have me fun with ye.”
Isolde glared, wishing she really did have a gun to remove such a vile creature from the earth. He walked past her and headed back the way she had come. Isolde watched him until he was out of sight, and then turned to see what had moved farther along the alley.
Almost luncheon, the sun was finally overhead, which helped in lighting the alleyway a little. But with washing hanging over her head, all the makeshift structures, and general chaos, it was still hard to see anything. A pile of rubbish beside the door that the man had exited moved again, and she peered closer, only to see a small boy huddled beneath the mess.
“William?”
He looked up with tear-stained eyes, his face marred from the grimy street. Without thought for herself, Isolde pushed the broken bits of crates, material, and food scraps away and pulled out the frightened child.
He threw himself against her, clutching desperately to her neck. “Shush, all is well. We’ve found you. Come, your papa is searching for you desperately.”
“Mama left me.” His little body shivered, and he started to sob in earnest. Isolde rubbed his back, feeling the chill of his skin through his coat. She wrapped the blanket about him as best she could and turned toward where the carriage was stationed.
“Shush darling. You’re going home now.” Isolde started up the stairs, coming to the top of the street just as
Merrick ran down the alley.
“William!” The duke threw his arms around them both, kissing the boy’s cheeks and murmuring apologies all the while.
“We should go, Your Grace,” she said, when his tight grip enabled her.
The use of his title seemed to pull him from his relieved daze. He stepped back, taking William into his own arms. “I apologize, my lady. I was overcome.”
Isolde smiled, turning him toward the carriage. “It’s perfectly fine, but I think we should get Lord William home and seen to by a doctor. He’s awfully cold.”
Merrick nodded. “You’re right. Let’s go.”
They bundled into the carriage, their driver pulling away quickly, and it wasn’t long before they were crossing London Bridge once more. The tension, the fear of having lost William, was now replaced with a simmering anger Isolde could read as clearly as a book on Merrick’s face.
She looked at William and realized the little boy had fallen asleep, his head on Merrick’s leg, his father’s hand idly stroking the small child’s hair. He looked so sweet and innocent and so much like Merrick with his dark locks that had just the slightest curl to them. The little boy wiggled a little to make himself more comfortable. A pang of jealousy shot through her that she did not have the one thing she longed for most, a baby of her own. How lucky Merrick was to have a son. At least she’d been able to help reunite them safely and without incident. A huge relief for everyone involved.
“What will you do about what happened today?” she asked, worried that Merrick looked ready to murder someone over this morning’s events.
“There is not much to be done other than to keep William from any more outings with his mama.” He sighed, the strain of the situation written all over him. His eyes looked haunted, dark shadows stark against his skin, his clothing even more rumpled and now dirty from holding his son who looked like a poor street child. “I’m not sure how to carry on, in all truth.”
“Talk to her, Merrick. Help her. I think she may be in need of it, if what you say is true.”
He looked away and back to William. “I will try, but I cannot promise any more than that. Leonora stopped listening to me years ago, if she ever did.”
Isolde watched as he, too, shut his eyes. A longing to go to him, to allow him to enfold her in his arms once more near broke her resolve. He was a man with everything anyone would ever dream of: a title, money, lands and estates all over England. He was married, with a child and one on the way, but right at this moment, she pitied him and his gilded life. For all he had, there was one thing it seemed he did not. Happiness. And without that, life was no life at all.
Chapter Nine
Over the next few days, Isolde didn’t see Moore or Her Grace at any of the events she attended. She hoped Merrick was able to help the duchess in some way, make their life more congenial and, above all else, safe for William and the child who was on the way. For, after what Leonora had done to William, there was nothing anyone could say about the duchess that would sway Isolde in what she now thought of the woman—that she was of unsound mind and required help.
Tonight she was to attend Vauxhall Gardens and sample all its delights. Ever since she’d been on the crux of adulthood she’d wanted to attend a ball in the Gardens, and now, finally, she was going to. The outing was just what she needed.
Her mother had refused to allow her to go prior to her betrothal to Moore, but now, as a woman well past her first blush, and with the assurance that Lord Kinruth and Anne would chaperone her, the duchess had finally relented.
She’d purchased a crimson gown of sheer cotton mull, embroidered with heavy red cotton thread in satin stitches and French knots, and a black domino for warmth that she fully intended taking off as soon as they arrived.
When the Kinruths arrived to accompany her, she was surprised to see Lord Wardoor sitting in the open carriage, the seat beside him empty, her name all but imprinted on the red velvet cushion.
Isolde tried not to see the reoccurring theme that had sprung up between the four of them. To the ton, it looked as if Lord Wardoor was courting her, and she was agreeable to the situation, but something about the man gave her pause. He was affable enough, but from what she understood of his life, it was dissolute, at best. He was certainly a man who would have to earn her trust.
The journey was short, and soon they were turning into the park, traveling toward the Temple of Comus, which she could just make out through the trees.
“We have a pavilion that’s close to the Italian Walk this evening. It should be grand, Isolde.”
Lord Kinruth laughed at his wife’s words, patting his stomach. “Are you trying to tell us that after the meal, we should walk off all the wonderful food and wine?”
Anne threw him an innocent glance. “Never. That’s what the dancing is for.”
Lord Wardoor nodded in agreement, keeping his direct gaze locked on Isolde. “I agree. Dancing tonight will be a must.”
They rocked to a halt, and she smiled her thanks as Lord Kinruth helped her down. The pavilion had a long, rectangular table within it, covered in a white linen tablecloth and an array of flowers and seasonal fruit. The tableware sparkled in the candlelight and gave the small room an air of elegance not normally found outdoors.
Music punctuated the still night as other groups of revelers headed toward their own destinations for the evening. Isolde took her seat and looked about, noting that the class distinctions were quite noticeable here. The pavilions held the wealthy, the upper ten thousand of London, while the people gathering around the orchestra, waiting for the dancing to commence, their gowns less ornate, their hair without adornments, were of the lower class. And some, by their antics, their cloying of the opposite sex, plied their trade each night within the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall.
At least the location was suitably named.
A liveried footman poured her champagne and she took a sip, seeing that not all the chairs were occupied within their little room. “Are there more guests to arrive?” The question died on her lips when Moore and Her Grace, accompanied by another couple Isolde didn’t recognize, joined them. She fought not to wince at Lord Barkley, who stumbled into their dinner with reddened eyes and a disheveled cravat, taking a seat beside the duchess, as if by right.
Lord Wardoor leaned toward her. “Don’t let Lord Barkley alarm you, my dear. He’s drunk, to be sure, but you’re among friends. No reason to pale. Your skin is fair enough already.”
“The northern climes are a more accurate assumption on my skin tone, my lord.” Isolde smiled and bid the new arrivals welcome while listening to Anne rattle on about the festivities she had planned for the night.
Isolde fought not to fidget as the intense gaze of Moore bore down on her from across the table. Taking a sip of champagne, her cheeks burned as she caught him staring. He was all casual elegance, leaning back against his chair without a care in the world, but beneath the facade was a man who was in no way shy of hiding what he was obviously thinking. His gaze flicked to her lips, and she inwardly swore. What on earth did he think he was doing! Was he as foxed as Lord Barkley?
She took another sip of champagne, hoping the fruity drink would cool her discomfort. It did not. The Duchess of Moore barked out a loud laugh, and Isolde jumped, almost spilling the contents of her drink down her gown. And soundly inappropriate, Her Grace leaned over, pulled Moore toward her, and kissed him on the lips.
Lord Wardoor coughed, meeting her eyes quickly. Her friend Anne was less circumspect and gaped at the duchess with absolute shock.
Isolde took in Lord Barkley’s reaction to such an open display of affection and read nothing but amusement in the gentleman’s visage. For a man who was supposedly having an affair with the duchess, she would’ve thought the opposite reaction more likely.
That the pair were possibly making fun of Moore, showing him the fool they believed him to be, irked. Merrick didn’t deserve such disrespect, and certainly not from his wife. All told, he was a good
man, kind to his tenants and staff, and loved his child. He certainly took an interest in his offspring that many gentlemen never bothered doing. Many women had sought to capture his heart and become his duchess before he married, so why Leonora treated him thus, after she had tricked him into giving her his name, eluded Isolde. The duchess’s disdain for her husband made no sense. She narrowed her eyes as Her Grace finished the kiss and turned back to face them all, grinning.
Thankfully, the first course of leek soup was placed before her, and Isolde turned her concentration to the dish, hoping the dinner would end soon and she could escape to dance. To be seated at table with two people with whom she didn’t want to socialize was uncomfortable, at best.
And perhaps she was wrong in her assumption that Moore detested his wife. It was, after all, a rumor the ton had made up, due to their supposed loveless marriage. But Moore had allowed the kiss and so, perhaps, their marriage wasn’t as bad as everyone thought it to be. It was possible everyone was wrong. It had been some days since the incident with William; maybe Merrick had taken her advice and was trying harder to save his marriage and help his wife through her affliction.
She stared down at the creamy green soup, and an overwhelming urge to cry consumed her. It was wrong to allow the past to hurt her still, and yet it did. After seeing the duchess these past weeks in town, Isolde concluded that Leonora was, in fact, wholly to blame for what happened on the eve of her wedding. She ate a spoonful of soup. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. The letter she’d left, her amusement at being caught, and Merrick’s horror… How even now she liked to crow that she’d acquired Moore’s hand in marriage and Isolde had not. It fueled a long simmering anger to life, and Isolde took a deep calming breath. How dare she be so cruel? So selfish? So fake?
Lord Wardoor placed his napkin on his lap, pulling her from her thoughts. “You seem to like the soup. I’m so glad. I’ve taken great care with the menu tonight.”
Isolde met his gaze, surprised by the fact. “Have you hired this pavilion tonight, my lord? I thought Lord Kinruth had secured it for us.”