Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  Lady Swenton, on the other hand, represented all that was wrong in English Society. For more than three weeks, Isolde’s mistress had openly flaunted her situation. It bothered Isolde beyond reason when she overheard the baroness making disparaging remarks regarding her husband’s absence. During the tedious hours of watching a disaster develop, Isolde’s only moments of enjoyment had been the periodic appearance of Sir Carter and Lady Lowery at the evening events. Sir Carter always made it a point of claiming Isolde’s hand for one of the sets, and even Thornhill had taken up the cause. It was glorious to know the recognition of such distinguished gentlemen.

  Of course, the baroness never took note of Isolde’s solitary state. Lady Swenton danced often and held the attentions of several “suitors,” which had created quite a stir among the ton’s gossips. Isolde overheard Thornhill telling Sir Carter, “I am prepared to escort my wife and her sister to Kent. Lady Swenton’s actions are beyond the pale.”

  “Although he wrote to say otherwise, I had thought Swenton would rush his return to his wife’s side,” the baronet admitted.

  Thornhill growled, “Bloody hell! Morse means to claim Satiné’s hand again. He is determined to have my wife’s sister in his bed.”

  Sir Carter leaned closer for privacy, but Isolde heard enough to know the gist of the baronet’s words. “To hear the ton…Morse has already…Lady Swenton.”

  Thornhill argued, "That fact cannot…the baron’s wife is rarely…according to the duchess.”

  “I fear the baron will…Lord Morse to a duel.”

  “Heaven forbid!” Thornhill exclaimed louder. “Falkenberry’s heir is an excellent swordsman.”

  Isolde’s eyes instinctively searched the dance floor for where Lord Morse waltzed Lady Swenton about the room. The man’s hand rested too intimately upon the baroness’s back, and his eyes devoured Lady Swenton’s décolletage. She wished for some means to convince her mistress of the disservice the baroness executed against the one man who had offered Lady Satiné true affection, but the girl appeared set upon destroying both hers and Lord Swenton’s reputations.

  When the music ended, Morse directed Lady Swenton’s steps toward the open patio doors and the dark privacy of the balcony. Isolde gathered her fan to follow, but Sir Carter caught her arm. “Wait,” he whispered in her ear.

  “But…” she began her protest, but a slight shake of the baronet’s head stilled her.

  “Watch,” he cautioned. “The game has changed.”

  *

  Satiné slid her hand about Lord Morse’s proffered arm, but she had taken less than a half dozen steps before an opposing figure blocked her way. “Pardon me, Morse,” a familiar voice said authoritatively, “but my niece does not require fresh air. Lady Swenton will join her family instead.”

  “Uncle Charles!” she hissed in protest.

  “None of that now, Child,” her uncle declared. “We have not seen each other in many months. A reunion is in order.”

  Lord Morse’s hand remained upon her lower back, which gave Satiné the courage to respond. “I am no longer a child, Sir,” she argued. “I am a married woman.”

  Her uncle’s eyes darkened in that way she rarely encountered as his ward, but in a manner Satiné recognized as his rising ire. He leaned closer to speak in private. “From what I have witnessed this evening you treat your husband with disrespect,” he whispered sharply. “Remove your hand from Lord Morse’s arm, bid the gentleman a good evening, and walk proudly with me across the dance floor to where your sister and Thornhill await.”

  “And if I refuse?” she ventured.

  “Then know I am not above bringing more scandal to your door by throwing you over my shoulder to carry you from the room.”

  Pointedly, Satiné hesitated. She knew her uncle would act upon his threat: Her Uncle Charles made no false claims. Petulantly, she released Lord Morse’s arm. “Thank you for the company, my Lord.” Satiné reached for her uncle’s arm.

  “May I call upon you tomorrow, Lady Swenton?” Morse said defiantly.

  “Yes,” she answered in the same breath as her uncle said “No.”

  Ashton bowed to Morse. “My niece will see to my company,” he said in explanation. Then he led her away from the man. Satiné dared not turn for a parting glance to Lord Morse: She could not risk Charles Morton’s indignation further. He would likely jerk her forcibly into place. She thought, At least, he can no longer ignore me.

  Thornhill and Velvet watched their approach and Satiné knew a twinge of regret at having disappointed her uncle. Ashton bowed to the duke and duchess, before extending his hand to Thornhill. “It feels a lifetime since I have last seen you. You appear well.”

  “As do you, Sir. Please say you will join us at Briar House. My duchess is most anxious for you to observe how much young Edward has grown.”

  “I gratefully accept,” Ashton said good-naturedly. He caught Velvet’s hand to draw her closer before placing a kiss upon the duchess’s forehead. “You are beaming with happiness,” Uncle Charles declared. “No one who looks upon your countenance could doubt how marriage to the duke suits you. You are magnificently beautiful.”

  Satiné bit the inside of her jaw rather than to protest her uncle’s words. Charles Morton was her guardian. He should be praising her, not Velvet. Even though her marriage was not a brilliant success, she was not a failure.

  Velvet caressed their uncle’s cheek. “You appear tired, Baron. Have you assumed too much in service to Mr. Pennington? I shall not have you taking to your bed with exhaustion.”

  “My employment with the Home Office is most satisfying,” he assured. “It has kept my thoughts from more trying matters.”

  Satiné snarled, “Meaning me.”

  Uncles Charles refused to release her hand when Satiné attempted to pull away. “Yes,” he said coldly. “You have brought several gray hairs to my head.”

  Before Satiné could respond, Thornhill suggested, “Perhaps you and Lady Swenton wish some time alone. The duchess and I will remain until after the supper hour. Miss Neville will remain with us.”

  “But I…” Satiné began.

  However, her uncle spoke over her. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness. Satiné and I have much to learn of each other’s recent past.”

  With that, Uncle Charles led her from the room. Other than a nod of farewell, Ashton had not permitted her the opportunity to bid her new acquaintances a proper parting. In silence, they had boarded his waiting coach. Satiné had refused to provide him the explanation for her actions. In truth, she could not define her reasons.

  The dark shadows of the coach’s interior spoke of the stark certainty in her uncle’s steely countenance. “I pray all at Chesterfield Manor are well. Even upon the Continent, I heard of the effects of the near famine upon the land.”

  Ashton pulled his eyes from the passing street traffic to rest upon her countenance, and Satiné attempted not to squirm. “We have weathered the worst. Mr. Breeson is a fine steward.”

  Satiné frowned until she recalled the one-armed man the Earl of Berwick had recommended as a replacement for the elderly Mr. VanDoran, her uncle’s former steward. “That must be a relief,” she said softly. “Have you seen Lord Yardley and my twin?”

  “Not for several months. The earl and countess stayed with me when I first returned from the Continent, but with her much anticipated lying in, Cashémere and Lord Yardley returned to their estate. When the weather is more conducive to traveling, I mean to call upon the Wellston twins.”

  Satiné said with more bitterness than she intended, “I am certain Cashémere is as magnificently beautiful and as beaming with happiness as is Velvet.”

  “It is what each of us wish for you, Satiné.” The sadness in his tone tugged at her heart: She had always striven to please him–to earn his devotion.

  “Lachlan Charters robbed me of that particular opportunity,” she countered acrimoniously.

  He expelled a heavy sigh. “Charters robbed you of you
r freedom, but only for a few days within what is obviously a privileged life. Can you not concentrate on all the other days you were loved and adored? Can you not accept Lord Swenton’s devotion and make a future?”

  They had arrived at Briar House, and she was grateful for the delay of her response. Rather than to speak her fears, Satiné had gathered her reticule and gloves to permit an unfamiliar footman to assist her to the curb. Without looking to where her uncle followed, she mounted the main steps to release the knocker. Mr. Horace answered the door immediately, and she stepped into the lighted foyer. “You recall the duchess’s and my uncle?” She gestured to the man behind her.

  Mr. Horace bowed properly. “Certainly, Lady Swenton. Welcome to Briar House, Baron.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Horace. The duke and duchess mean to remain at the ball until after the supper hour. Lady Swenton and I thought to enjoy a bit of conversation in Thornhill’s absence.”

  “Of course, Sir. I will send for tea and some port. Would you care for refreshments, Baron?”

  Her uncle’s eyebrow rose in question, and Satiné shook off the offer. “Just the tea and port,” the baron instructed. “I have sent my carriage around to the mews. The duke has extended his hospitality.”

  “I will see to appropriate quarters immediately, Sir. Lady Swenton, I believe the green drawing room is available.”

  Satiné nodded her understanding and then turned toward the aforementioned room. She certainly had no desire to continue her conversation with her uncle, but she knew Ashton would not relent. The room had a cozy fire to settle the night’s chill; yet, a shiver ran down her spine. “I suppose this will provide us the necessary privacy.” She sat casually in a nearby chair before wrapping a shawl from the back of the chair about her shoulders.

  “Are you chilled?”

  She admitted, “It is rare that I know warmth.”

  Her uncle’s assessing eyes skimmed her body before he frowned. “You are quite thin. Did not the allowance I provided adequately meet your needs?”

  “I took ill upon the ship,” she said in hopes of deferring his scrutiny.

  His scowl deepened. “Was the sea so rough? In our crossing, you appeared to take well to the rolling motion of the deck.”

  Satiné’s mouth twisted as if in pain. “I contracted measles on the second day at sea. Lord Swenton and Miss Neville tended me to keep the captain and the crew from learning of my illness.”

  “But you are recovered?” he asked with concern.

  “Stronger each day,” she declared, although Satiné knew she exaggerated the truth. It bothered her to tell her uncle a canard.

  Uncle Charles closed his eyes in silent relief. “And the boy?”

  She had been furious the day she had realized she was with child. For one black moment, Satiné had considered ending her own life. “So Lord Swenton has spoken of my bastard child?”

  “Who taught you to speak thusly? Certainly not I!” Uncle Charles said incredulously.

  “Pretty words will not change my social status,” she said fiercely.

  A reprieve in the form of the tea tray arrived, and both she and her uncle chewed on their thoughts. When the maid disappeared behind a closed door, he said, “Tell me of the boy and of his father.”

  “There is not much to tell.” She poured her tea, without cream or sugar. It was a bitter mixture, but the liquid’s warmth felt good as it spread through her veins. “He is a dark haired child of some two months of age.”

  An unquestionable restlessness crossed her uncle’s countenance. “I am certain both Velvet and Cashémere could bend my ear with every detail of their babies; yet, I wish to know the child my darling Satiné has borne.”

  What could she say? Because she could not bear the rejection of the child’s father, she had purposely avoided the boy. “You shall see for yourself tomorrow. You may praise Rupert, as well as Edward.”

  “Will you speak to me of the child’s father?”

  “I would rather not,” she said honestly. “He does not know…”

  Silence filled the empty space between them. “Lord Swenton has offered you an honorable solution, Satiné.”

  Her heart was pounding so hard, she could barely breathe. “Lord Swenton is all that is honorable; yet, I cannot…”

  “Cannot what, Satiné? Cannot love Baron Swenton?” A tear formed in her eye’s corner. She could not explain to her uncle how she feared loving anyone. Not even Henrí. And especially not Rupert. “It is not necessary to love the person one marries. Can you respect Lord Swenton?”

  Her lower lip trembled, just as it did throughout her childhood when she had displeased her beloved Uncle Charles. She mumbled, “The question should be can Lord Swenton respect me?”

  Chapter Ten

  Isolde reluctantly returned to Briar House with the duke and duchess. She had no idea what to expect upon her arrival, and, in truth, she had been hard pressed to leave the company of Sir Carter and his wife, who had invited the baronet’s assistant to join them for the supper hour. Mr. Henderson, the third son of the Earl of Johnseine, was very congenial, but what Isolde had most enjoyed had been the lively conversation. She had appreciated how both Sir Carter and Mr. Henderson sought her opinions on the issues facing the Irish people, especially the administration of prisons, public health, and the extensive poverty plaguing her homeland.

  “Hardly proper supper conversation,” she had remarked in self-effacement when she realized she had monopolized the discourse.

  “Not at all,” Mr. Henderson assured as he assisted her to her feet. “I found your perspective enlightening.”

  Sir Carter added, “As did I. Mr. Henderson and I must speak more often to those who have flooded our English docks. How may we address domestic security if we know nothing of those who seek English ties?”

  When she and the Thornhills had been admitted to the duke’s townhouse, Mr. Horace had informed them Baron Ashton and Lady Swenton had retired. “I should call in with the baroness,” she said softly to the duchess. “Often Lady Swenton does not sleep well.”

  The duchess nodded her agreement, and Isolde scurried away. The Thornhills had kept their thoughts regarding Baron Ashton’s unexpected appearance to themselves. Unlike the Lowerys, who sought her company, the duke and duchess viewed Isolde as a servant and not privy to their private musings. It was a sobering balance to maintain her position in a world in which Isolde possessed little experience.

  Without knocking, she slipped into the baroness’s quarters. Isolde had expected to find her mistress in bed. Instead, Lady Swenton stood unclothed, examining her body before a standing mirror. Remaining half-hidden by the partially opened door, Isolde placed her fist to her mouth to prevent her gasp. She had never seen anyone so thin, even the poorest in her village would have appeared healthy in comparison to the baroness. Lady Swenton’s newest gowns had successfully disguised the girl’s sylphlike appearance.

  Tears rushed to Isolde’s eyes. She could do nothing but encourage Lady Swenton not to ignore her health. Quickly she tapped on the door and called softly, “Baroness? Are you awake?” She hid behind the door as if she had not observed her mistress’s investigative inspection in the mirror. “May I bring you something to eat? You missed a delightful supper spread at the ball.” Isolde said a silent prayer for a quick resolution to the Swenton’s separation. Perhaps the baroness would attempt to please her husband: Isolde could not imagine any man finding a woman of so gaunt an appearance appealing.

  From the other side of the door, she could hear the baroness scrambling into bed. “Come.”

  Isolde eased into the room a second time. “I apologize if I woke you, Lady Swenton.”

  “I thank you for thinking of me,” the girl said dutifully.

  Isolde ventured, “Might I sneak down to the kitchen and make you some tea and toast. It would be no bother; I know for a fact Thornhill’s cook keeps a pot of water warming on the hearth.”

  As Isolde expected, the baroness shook off the of
fer. “My uncle and I enjoyed tea and port upon our return to Briar House.”

  Isolde thought, Tea, but no cakes or bread and butter. “Is there anything else you desire before I retire?”

  “No. I suspect my uncle shall expect me up early. I shall make a point of joining him in the morning room. We created many beautiful memories while breaking our fasts at Chesterfield Manor.”

  Isolde smiled weakly. “I am certain Baron Ashton will enjoy having his niece close once more.”

  *

  John had hoped he could depart for London by week’s end. The message from Baron Ashton had come as a Godsend, for John knew he could not abandon his estate and his people while they suffered from the recent year without a proper growing season. There was too much to be done to race off after a foolish woman.

  The longer he remained from Satiné’s side, the more he realized the mistake he had made. When he returned to London, John planned to speak honestly with Sir Carter and Pennington regarding a means from his predicament. He would not abandon his vows immediately, but he meant to become more aware of his options if Satiné made no concession for the success of their marriage. “Please God,” he said as he climbed into his still empty bed. “Permit Baron Ashton to bring reason to my wife. I do not believe I can continue to fight with Lady Swenton. I would much prefer to fight for our marriage.”

  *

  Baron Ashton’s presence had altered the atmosphere of the household for the good. Lady Swenton had regularly gone beyond the ordinary to please her uncle, and it did Isolde’s heart well to observe the return of the amiable girl she had known briefly in Vienna. During outings to museums and afternoon musicales, Ashton and his niece sought each other’s company, chattering on of past acquaintances and family, as if they had never parted.

  “Do you recall that day on the high moorland when the mist rose up so quickly we were nearly trapped?” her uncle said in reminiscence.