Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  Isolde sighed heavily as if exhausted. “As I shall have the evening free, I plan to retire early. I find walking and executing my duties without the use of my arm is completely exhausting. It throws off my balance so.”

  Mrs. Ridley came to join Isolde. “I have set the water for a fresh pot of tea for the mistress. She ain’t one to eat much before she goes out. Perhaps some dry toast, as well.”

  “I hear,” Pauley said with the authority of a house servant, “ladies rarely eat before their gentlemen friends.”

  Sally corrected, “A woman’s lack of an appetite is because of the lack of facilities, Foolish Man. Women in ball gowns cannot address their personal needs.” She giggled when Pauley blushed thoroughly.

  The footman straightened his uniform. “I have no need for knowledge of fine ladies’ private customs.” He stormed away while Sally giggled again.

  Isolde watched with the interactions with interest. She would add enough of the opiate to both the vinaigrette and to Lady Swenton’s tea to keep her mistress in bed all evening.

  *

  “What means this nonsense?” Lady Swenton’s voice rose sharply. “How can it be Sunday? Certainly this is some sort of hoax you practice!”

  “It is no deception, Ma’am,” Sally assured. Isolde looked on; she would not permit the maid to suffer on her account. If necessary, she would confess her actions and risk Lady Swenton’s ire. “You have slept through two nights.” Without Isolde’s knowledge, the baroness had consumed some of the laudanum the girl hoarded in order to “calm her nerves” prior to attending the party. Lady Swenton’s self medication had mixed with what Isolde had added to the girl’s tea, which was more than enough to do the deed.

  Lady Swenton’s eyes narrowed. “And you made no attempt to wake me?”

  Sally shot a pleading glance in Isolde’s direction. “Your lady’s maid attempted to wake you upon several occasion, but you shook off her efforts. I witnessed Sally’s devotion, Baroness. We thought you simply exhausted after the turmoil of late.”

  “It is true, Ma’am.” Sally nodded enthusiastically. “I summoned Miss Neville to assist me. She attempted to wake you also.”

  “I do not recall either of your efforts.”

  Isolde spoke sweetly. “Yet, you spoke to us each time. It was as if you were roused from your slumber. Each time you insisted we should permit you your rest.”

  Lady Swenton’s scowl deepened. “Lady Sanderson and Lady Kelley must think me an ill acquaintance. I missed the masquerade and yesterday evening’s ball.”

  Sally confessed, “The ladies called on Saturday, but Miss Neville convinced them you were called away on family matters.”

  The baroness asked suspiciously, “What type of family matters?”

  “I intentionally kept my statement vague, Ma’am. I held no knowledge of what confidences you had shared with the ladies. I thought it best if you design an excuse your new acquaintances will believe.” Isolde carefully schooled her expression to one of blank emotions.

  “I suppose you are correct,” her mistress said while deep in thought. “I must convince them with an excuse that does not appear as a direct cut.”

  Isolde turned to leave. “I shall ask Mrs. Ridley to send up a tray.” As she exited, she could not quite smother her smile. She imagined the baron being quite pleased by her ingenuity. Together, they had managed to create a “story” to cover Lady Swenton’s illness onboard ship. Of course, Isolde held no intention of sharing her success with the gentleman. She was not exactly proud of the lengths to which she had gone to prevent Lady Swenton from betraying her marriage vows.

  *

  Monday evening found her shadowing Lady Swenton at a ball at Lady Cowper’s home. It was too soon to provide her mistress another dose of the laudanum without drawing suspicion in her direction. It would be difficult to do so because of timing, but also because Lady Swenton had continued to limit her food and drink consumption. Three slices of toast and a few bites of potatoes had dwindled to a half slice of toast twice daily. Isolde wondered if Lady Swenton’s body could withstand much more deprivation and how a little laudanum would affect someone so thin.

  The crowd pressed the side of the ballroom, waiting for the opening strings of the first set. Lord Morse had hung off the left shoulder of the baroness while they conversed with Viscount and Lady Sanderson and Lady Kelley. Isolde recognized how Morse sneaked peeks of the petite Lady Swenton’s gown’s low cut neckline. “I mean to claim the first set.” Morse captured the baroness’s hand and placed it upon his arm.

  Suddenly, the crowd parted, and Baron Swenton stood before the group. Isolde swallowed the gasp, which had sprung to her lips: The baron resembled an intrepid paladin, dark and forbidding and excessively handsome. She had never been so happy to see anyone. Surprisingly, their eyes met and held, and a warm liquid pooled between her legs.

  “I think it best, Morse, if my wife and I enjoy the first set. You understand, old Chap: Lady Swenton and I have spent too long apart.” Although the baron’s tone was congenial, Isolde could detect the rage boiling beneath the polished surface.

  Morse thought to object, but Lady Kelley claimed his other arm. “I suppose you must tolerate me, Morse,” she said with a smile. “Lord Kelley prefers his cards to his wife.”

  Morse smartly released Lady Swenton, but not before kissing the back of her gloved hand in parting. “Come, Lady Kelley,” he said with feigned enthusiasm. “I am not so boorish as to deny a handsome woman.” They walked away, followed closely by the Sandersons.

  “You will honor me with the first set?” The baron extended his hand to his wife.

  Lady Swenton shivered, but she replied, “I am pleased to have you return safely to us, my Lord.”

  The baron’s lips thinned, and the muscle in his jaw twitched. “I doubt pleased is the correct word, my Dear. Now, come join me before we make a spectacle.”

  Fortunately, the baroness did as her husband had asked. They walked off together, while Isolde released the breath she held. A part of her heart walked hand-in-hand with the man she would never know. She wondered if Lady Swenton experienced even a flicker of excitement with her husband’s appearance. With shameful regret for the foolish feelings she was slow to disguise, Isolde assumed it was likely dread upon the baroness’s countenance, rather than the eagerness Isolde felt.

  *

  “You are a day early,” his wife whispered as he walked her toward the dance floor, her hand upon his arm. John had been more than upset when he had arrived at Thorn Hall in the mid-morning hours to discover his wife had created more havoc–so much so that her uncle and Thornhill had abandoned her at John’s home in London. To make matters worse, he had raced to Town to find his wife out among the ton.

  “I am sorry my anxiousness has disappointed you,” he said bitterly. He set her in the line and assumed his position across from her. “Smile, my Dear. Pretend you have missed me.” John wished to roar at the injustice–at having made a colossal error, but he attempted to follow Sir Carter’s latest advice. The baronet had been at Thorn Hall, having escorted Simon Warren, who had come to Kent for a visit, to the manor. The boy was the Lowerys’ ward and a favorite playmate to Sonali Fowler, the duke’s daughter. “Surprise Lady Swenton and pretend to enjoy the Season as much as your wife,” the baronet had suggested.

  John had entered Lady Cowper’s home with resolve in mind, but he had taken no more than a half dozen steps into the room before he had overheard the first of the whispers regarding his life: “His mother was some sort of actress.” and “I recall when Lady Fiona left the previous baron. It was a great scandal.” and “If he thinks to reclaim his wife, Lord Swenton must eliminate Morse with a gun.” His wife had obviously shared his family business with the worse of the ton, and all John’s reason had escaped; only his training as a member of the Realm had kept him civil.

  His eyes instinctively had sought the rim of the ballroom, where he knew she was waiting and watching. When their eyes caught,
Miss Neville had presented him an encouraging smile. The gesture calmed his rage, and he had breathed more evenly. From the distance, the lady appeared to be wearing some sort of sling about her shoulder. He directed his statement to his wife, although his eyes held a few seconds longer upon her companion. “It appears Miss Neville has met with some sort of mishap.”

  Lady Swenton passed him during the first cross. With a snort of disapproval, his baroness said, “Silly girl! I never thought her so clumsy.”

  John knew immediately his wife spoke an untruth. He had witnessed how easily Miss Neville adapted to the rise and fall of the sea. The lady was anything but clumsy. He wondered what had occurred: He was certain of his baroness’s involvement in whatever had plagued her companion. Perhaps he should have tarried longer at Thorn Hall, but when John had discovered his wife’s intentions again to ignore his wishes, he had departed immediately for London.

  He caught the hand of the opposing female in his set and turned her to the opposite corner and then waited until he met his wife again in the form. “How is the boy? I did not think to call in at the nursery when I arrived at Swenton Hall.”

  Satiné stiffened. “The child returned to Kent with the duke and duchess,” she said so softly John had strained to hear her over the music and the din of voices.

  He waited for the next pass before he suspiciously asked, “Why would Thornhill assume the care of your child?”

  His wife giggled nervously. “Surely you of all people know how much Thornhill prefers to assume he knows best. In your absence, the duke and Ashton made the decision.”

  Thankfully, they parted to complete the form, which provided John a moment to swallow the first words he thought to say. When they came together again, he said, “We will discuss what occurred in more detail when we return to Swenton Hall. This is not the place or time.”

  She replied tersely, “We spend a great amount of time in ‘discussing.’”

  John leaned closer to perversely whisper, “If you wish, we can instead spend our time in my bed.”

  The baroness blushed thoroughly, but as he had done earlier, Satiné had hesitated in her response. Finally, she admonished, “Is that all of which men think?”

  John retorted, “It would not be an issue if you performed your wifely duties as expected of a bride.”

  *

  The evening had not improved John’s temperament. He and Satiné had stood dutifully together, but they rarely spoke to each other. John had held conversations with several of the young recruits he recognized from the Home Office. The men were testing their positions in Society, and he could not say he approved of the men’s choices of company; but he had understood the need to prove oneself. The crowd at Lady Cowper’s ball was not first tier ton. True, the titles were evident, but not the quality.

  Satiné, on the other hand, had spoken softly to Lady Sanderson and Lady Kelley. What John knew of the women, they were far from loyal wives. Rumors said Lord Morse had practiced affairs with both. Therefore, John had not provided Morse the opportunity to approach Satiné. He was not certain which he despised more: Morse’s smooth seduction of married women or the belief his wife would succumb to Morse’s attentions if John had not interfered.

  Finally, at night’s end, he escorted his wife and Miss Neville home. Instead of calling in at his room, John had silently followed Satiné to her quarters. Closing the door soundly behind him, he waited in the entrance, hoping she would welcome him into her bedroom; but his wife ignored his presence. She reached for the bell pull, but John caught her hand. “I will assist you.”

  She swallowed hard. “As you wish, my Lord.” Satiné presented him her back so he might release the lacing on her gown and corset.

  When his fingertips stroked her shoulder blade, she froze. “I shan’t hurt you, Satiné,” he said roughly. “When will you learn to trust me?”

  “You do not know trust either, my Lord.”

  He turned her to face him, and she clutched the gown to her body in a protective gesture. “Can you not see when you work against me, I am left no other option.” John held her at arm’s length so as not to frighten his wife. “I understand your desire for company. For friends. And I am willing to spend a bit more time in London, but only another fortnight, Satiné. Until the last week of April. Then we will return to York. I pray you will set your mind to this compromise.”

  “If I refuse?” she whispered.

  “Please do not make a decision just yet. We will use the fortnight as a courting period. I realize we do not know each other well, but our joining is important to me. I wish us happy. We have battled enough.”

  “And tonight?” Her eyes skittered away toward the bed.

  John recognized her hesitation. “If I were courting you,” he said evenly, “I would plead for the privilege of a kiss.”

  Like a frightened bird caught in a trap, Satiné shivered. “I would hold no objections to a kiss,” she ventured.

  John swallowed his desire as he gathered her to him. “I mean to make a nuisance of myself. I will court one of London’s most beautiful women.” He leaned closer to brush his lips across hers–to tease her softly before he claimed her mouth.

  Satiné still clung to the cloth as he nudged her closer, the back of her hands rested against his chest. John would have preferred her to release the gown and to wrap her arms about his neck; however, he accepted what Satiné willingly gave. When she did not respond, John dutifully withdrew. “Until tomorrow,” he said softly. “I thought we might ride along Rotten Row in the morning. If I recall you are quite the horsewoman.”

  “I possess no mount,” she protested, but her tone spoke of pleasure.

  “I will see to the details. You are simply to dream of riding with the ribbons of your bonnet flaying behind you.”

  *

  He had waited nearly an hour–until the house had turned to its beds before he tapped upon Miss Neville’s door. John required answers, and Satiné would provide him only half-truths. Unfortunately, he had not thought of how the lady might appear when she answered her door: a wrapper over her nightrail, bare feet, flaming red hair braided and draped over her shoulder. John’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Lord Swenton?” she whispered.

  “I should have thought you had sought your bed.” The muted light from the wall sconces invaded the darkness. He glanced over her shoulder to where the counterpane had been turned back. “I must know what has occurred in my absence,” he said in explanation. His eyes returned to her countenance.

  She protested, “Someone may see.”

  John shook off her objections. “The household is asleep.”

  Miss Neville hesitated before opening the door wider. John slipped into the darkness. “Wait here,” she instructed. “I shall light a candle.”

  The moon provided John a silvery show as Miss Neville moved about the room. Finally, the flint provided the spark for a paper roll and the lit candle. From where she turned to face him, the lady asked, “What do you require of me, my Lord?”

  It was John’s turn to pause. His body still clung to the hope of knowing a woman’s soft curves this evening. “I wish to know what occurred at Briar House to drive my wife to Swenton Hall.”

  She warned, “The story will not portray the baroness in a sympathetic manner.”

  He admitted, “I did not expect it would, but I would know it all.”

  Miss Neville gestured to the chairs before the empty hearth, and John accepted the invitation. When she joined him, the lady wove a tale he could never have predicted: She spoke of Ashton’s arrival, of Thornhill’s declaration of returning to Kent, of her rescuing Edward Fowler, of Ashton’s escorting Satiné to a hotel, of his wife’s uncle making plans to remarry, of Lady Swenton’s suggestion that she remove to Swenton Hall, and of the baroness’s house calls, as well as of the exposing of his family’s secrets.

  “I assumed it was so,” John confessed. “I overheard the whispers when I entered Lady Cowper’s ballroom.”<
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  Miss Neville said empathetically, “I wish I held the means to keep the pain from your countenance.”

  Without considering his actions, John caught the lady’s hand, and warmth shot up his arm. “Your sacrifice on behalf of Master Fowler does not surprise me,” he said softly. As if of its own accord, his finger traced a circle upon Miss Neville’s wrist. “Yet, it grieves me you have suffered in any form.”

  The lady swallowed hard, but he heard the hitch in her breathing. The knowledge he affected her was a heady realization. “It was nothing beyond what any of the duke’s servants would not have done, Sir.” She watched his finger’s movement, as did he, and John felt the familiar tug in his groin.

  He recognized the second Miss Neville thought better of his actions. She slowly slid her hand from his grasp, and John permitted her withdrawal. “I must protest, my Lord,” she said on a rasp. “I shall not become your mistress.”

  John should have assured her he held no such thoughts; however, he was too honest to speak an untruth to this particular woman. “I understand, and I would never press you into the role; yet, it was exquisite to know not every woman finds me repulsive.” He stood to end their conversation. “You should know I have made the decision to court my bride. I have promised Lady Swenton we will remain in London for another fortnight.”

  “And then?” she whispered into the stillness, which rested comfortably between them.

  John ran his fingers through his hair. “In truth, I possess no idea; however, I must make an honorable attempt to save my marriage. Not to do so would fracture the man I wish to be.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Good to his word, John had escorted Satiné about town: the theatre, long rides in the park, Vauxhall Gardens, museums, and evening entertainments of her choosing. Although he despised each moment, he had promised his wife he would customarily bring her to Town to enjoy the happenings, but nothing he offered appeared to impress his baroness. She had not complained, but his baroness had made no move to respond beyond what proper manners required. He had bit his tongue more than once to keep from speaking a vinegary retort.