The viscount’s frown lines deepened. “I would say six months the rightful time for a woman who betrayed your family name. I doubt I would have performed so dutifully.” Stafford’s gaze probed John’s. “Do you not wish to know what Lexford, Godown, and Sir Carter have discovered? Did Godown not turn over his title to a former governess? Was not Mercy Nelson’s brother destitute? Did not Lady Lowery’s previous husband have a hand in extensive art thefts? Was not Lady Worthing’s father renowned for his debauchery? It would appear none of your Realm friends have given a fig for what others considered good ton. Surely you care nothing for Society’s opinions. In such a matter, I would present those who thought me ill-bred the direct cut.”
John favored the viscount with a returned frown. “You think I should travel to Ireland to claim the lady?”
A bewildered smile crossed the viscount’s lips. “Bloody hell, by the time you reach Ireland this time of year, you could easily be closer to nine months in your mourning period before you speak your plea to the lady.” He laughed easily. “By the way, did you not consider the idea of the lady being Irish more damning in Society’s opinions than the concept of a year of mourning a woman who loved another?”
John laughed also. “That particular fact seemed inconsequential in York. The Irish hold a strong presence here. You should keep that fact in mind when you choose a mate, Stafford, especially if you mean to make Maryborne Manor your home.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As if Lady Luck meant to test his patience, Lord Stafford’s words had proved more than a taste of irony. The viscount had remained at Marwood for a sennight for the storm’s ferocity had been slow to relent. In many ways, John had been sore to lose Adam Lawrence’s company for John had thoroughly enjoyed the quick-witted viscount’s company. They had hunted until the snow had become too deep, even for the game. They had fenced in the upper gallery, played several highly contested games of billiards and cards, and had spent hours in congenial conversation.
During those days, the viscount had spoken often of his relationship with his father, the Earl of Greenwall. “I am an expert at vexing him,” Lord Stafford had declared, but John had heard the voice of a man desperately requiring his father’s approval. The viscount’s tone held the familiar longing John had experienced with Lady Fiona.
He cautioned, “Perhaps the earl has his reasons for his distance. I am not excusing Greenwall’s indifference, but I recently learned the hard lesson of judging my mother’s actions.”
Stafford scowled. “All the earl must do is offer a simple apology.”
John chuckled. “You could offer the first one, Stafford.”
The viscount feigned a wound to his heart, but John suspected his words had struck a chord. “Tell me of your Irish miss,” Stafford quickly changed the subject, and John had accepted the ruse for what it was; moreover, he enjoyed dwelling upon the many merits of Miss Neville.
That had been in mid January of the new year. He had arrived in Liverpool the first week of February after what sometimes felt an impossible journey across Derbyshire and Cheshire. Once in the port city, it had taken him a week to secure transportation across what had been a stormy Irish Sea. He had booked a small cabin upon a ship set for Dublin. “What if Miss Neville has accepted another?” his foolish heart had asked as he watched the waves from a spot upon the starboard side. He answered his greatest fear with a whisper. “You will return to Marwood and begin anew.” It was less than a hundred miles across the open water, but the ship had stopped at two Welsh ports before crossing the Irish Sea. It was the reason he had accepted the extra cost of the cabin. The ship did not leave until late afternoon and with the additional ports of call, they would not arrive in Ireland until the following day.
Much to his relief, John discovered, unlike England, Ireland’s weather was more temperate. Despite the wind being cool and damp, as quickly as John’s feet had touched solid ground, his heart had become lighter. Isolde’s image drew him onward. He had spent one night in Dublin only because it was more practical to set out for Leinster in the morning’s light, especially with a hired driver and coach of which he held no knowledge, but John had known no sleep. Isolde was near, and he meant to look upon her beautiful countenance once again.
In midday his let carriage had rolled to a halt before the simple manor house reportedly belonging to Eoghad Neville. His eyes searched each of the windows for a glimpse of her fiery hair, but only the slight shift of the drapes at a second storey window had indicated anyone knew of his arrival. With a sigh of resignation, John disembarked. As quickly as his feet touched the ground, part of him wished to return to the coach’s shadows and to make his escape before he had made a complete fool of himself, but his need to know for certain whether she would accept him controlled his steps.
He released the knocker and waited impatiently for someone to release the lock. “Yes, Sir?” The thick Irish accent of the elderly servant spoke of strong ancestry.
John peeked over the woman’s shoulder to the interior. “I am Baron Swenton, I would speak to the elder Mr. Neville.”
The woman motioned him in from the damp weather before accepting his hat, coat, and gloves. “Would’en you be waitin’ in the parlor, my Lord?”
John smiled a secret smile of amusement. “That would be most gracious.” Yet before he could follow the servant, a noise upon the stairs drew his attention, and John looked up to discover his dream standing upon the landing.
He had told himself his proposal would be the honorable thing to do after his taking exquisite liberties with the woman; however, this journey had nothing to do with honor and everything to do with his heart. His body sang in recognition, every impulse zinging with the desire to rush to her and catch Isolde up in his embrace. “Miss Neville,” he said upon a rasp and bowed.
John noted her lips forming his Christian name, but a shake of her head had cleared the lady’s gaze. “Lord Swenton. I held no idea you meant to call upon us.” The look of welcome in her eyes eased John’s heart, and he smiled.
“But you knew I would come eventually.”
Her eyes held his in a tender embrace, as if she could read the void in his soul. “I received a lengthy letter from Lady Lowery after the events at Brighton.”
“I see,” he said as he moved forward slowly. John would be grateful not to relive the pain of those hours in the seaport again. He wished to replace each of those moments of terror with the scent and feel of the woman looking down upon him. “It was good of the baronet’s wife to serve as my courier.”
“Isolde.” A stern voice from above halted John’s steps. “Do you not think it appropriate, Daughter, to escort our guest to Padraic’s study?” Despite his reprimand, the man smiled upon Miss Neville, and John hid his protective stance behind a second bow.
Miss Neville turned to rush to the man’s side. Catching the gentleman’s hand, she made the introductions. “My Lord, my father Mr. Eoghad Neville. Papa, may I give you the acquaintance of Lord Swenton?”
“My benefactor.” Her father’s eyes spoke of understanding of John’s purpose. “I suppose you should come up, Young Man. I imagine you have business of which to speak.”
“Yes, Sir.” John felt as if he had been called to task, but a glance to Isolde told him she was worth any cantankerous words he could endure from her father, and so he had followed father and daughter into a comfortable study. Mr. Neville did not look back, but Isolde had shot John two quick glances over her shoulder, and both had held an inviting smile. God, she was beautiful, and John had been starving for her company. The light danced in the fire of her hair, and he had to remind himself to breathe.
A younger version of her tawny-headed father stood upon their entrance. Mr. Neville released Isolde before gesturing to the man awaiting an introduction. “Baron Swenton, my eldest son Padraic. Paddy, this is Lord Swenton, the gentleman who financed my recovery and Isolde’s time in Newcastle. As I can think of no other reason why such an illustrious Englishman wou
ld call upon us, the baron means to call in his debt.”
John had begun his bow, but the elder Neville’s words had caught him off guard, he stumbled into a small table, tipping over a vase. Catching it before it hit the floor, John straightened to find a scowl upon the elder Neville’s countenance. “I assure you, Mr. Neville, my mission is one of a more personal nature.” John returned the vase to the table.
“More personal than money?” Neville asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Papa!” Isolde chastised. “You are not to bam Lord Swenton. The baron knows nothing of your love of jest.” Her words in his defense were a welcoming balm to John’s battered heart.
John’s shoulders relaxed. “Under most circumstances, I would welcome your levity, Sir, but I suspect you are well aware of my purpose in calling upon your household unannounced.”
“Likely, I do, Young Man.” With a sigh of resignation, the elder Neville said, “Isolde, please excuse yourself. Your brother and I have business of import with Lord Swenton.”
“Yes, Papa,” she said obediently, but as she exited, Isolde warned, “Paddy, you are to be the reasonable one.”
John watched her go; his eyes had longed to look upon her for many months, and he was half tempted to follow her.
The younger Neville asked, “Is this stand up business or sit down business, Father?”
The elder Neville lowered his weight into a nearby chair. “Baron Swenton does not appear to be the type who is easily intimidated by two Irishmen; therefore, I suspect this is sit down business.”
Padraic Neville motioned John to a seat. “Join us, Baron. I am anxious to know your purpose.”
John sat tentatively. He had imagined several scenarios, but none that matched the reality of having the acquaintance of the irascible Eoghad Neville. “Thank you for accepting my intrusion,” John said as he glanced about the room. More nervous than he had ever recalled being, he cleared his throat. “As you are aware, Miss Neville was in my employ when she served as Lady Swenton’s companion in both Vienna and upon our return to England.”
“I am aware you possess a wife, Sir,” the younger Neville said dryly.
“Possessed,” John corrected. “Lady Swenton has passed.” Isolde had mentioned Lady Lowery’s letter. Had she not shared Lucinda Lowery’s news with her family? If so, was it because she wanted no one to know of their connection beyond Isolde being his wife’s companion or had she hidden her dreams from the world, as had he?
*
Prior to Stafford’s arrival at Marwood Manor, John’s uncle and his Aunt Edith had made a return to York, and it had been one of the most pleasant times John could ever recall. The visit had been another step in healing John’s troubled soul. He and his uncle had ridden out across the countryside, and it had pleased John to hear Honesdale praise John’s forward thinking regarding the new forge, as well as his plans for better roads, but more importantly the conversation had brought him a taste of family. His aunt had fused over his health and had instructed John’s cook on several hardy meals for a bachelor household. It had been a new reality for John had felt completely comfortable with his mother’s family. “Be aware of a special shipment arriving on your birthday,” Uncle Farrell had declared as he had departed for Warwickshire, and good to his word, a wooden crate had arrived two days before John’s late November birthday.
“Thirty and no prospects,” John had grumbled when he thought upon the day. He rarely marked the passing years, but as this one was a milestone, Honesdale’s generosity had brightened the otherwise gloomy day. Within the crate were two more of Lady Fiona’s paintings and tucked in a small box stuffed between the two frames were another dozen letters sent to Honesdale from John’s mother. “I selected a few of my sister’s missives, which I thought you would enjoy. The others are open to your perusal whenever the inclination strikes you. My prayers remain, as always, for you to know God’s blessings, Johnathan.” In truth, the only blessings for which John had ever prayed had been for a family of his own, and of late, the naming of Isolde as his wife. Today, he would pronounce his hopes for the world to hear.
“As my daughter and I have been in Ireland a wee less than eight months, I am confused as to when you found time to lose a wife,” the elder Neville accused.
John knew this would be the sticking point of his proposal. “Lady Swenton passed some seven months prior.”
“Do you not mourn your wife?” Padraic asked.
John swallowed his apprehension. “The truth is not a pretty story.”
“But I would hear it,” Isolde’s brother assured.
“Lady Swenton had become dependent upon laudanum. In an opiate-induced fantasy, my wife plunged to her death from the tower of a medieval abbey.”
“And?” Neville probed.
“My lady had run off to Brighton to reunite with her lover, a foreign prince, by whom she had beget an illegitimate son, a child I agreed to claim as mine, before the prince arrived at the threshold of my Yorkshire home to demand the child’s return. When she had traveled to Brighton to beg the prince to resume their alliance, Lady Swenton was carrying my child. It is my belief my lady meant to foist my child upon her lover.” John held the younger Neville’s gaze and said a prayer Isolde’s brother would understand how John could no longer “grieve” for a woman who had shamed her husband.
Padraic said empathetically, “It would seem Lady Swenton brought notoriety to your door.”
“Yes,” John said simply. “I know I have no right to assume Miss Neville would consider…”
“You wish to ask our permission to marry Isolde?”
Her brother’s words sounded very much of an accusation. “It would be my dearest wish,” John admitted. “If you desire for me to wait the full year of mourning, I will return to York without speaking my piece; yet, know this, on the day following the required year, I will again be standing upon your threshold and asking the same question as today.”
Padraic kept the floor, but John could feel the elder Neville’s scrutiny. “Perhaps you should explain what you are prepared to offer my sister, which would offset the rumors likely to surround your joining.”
John’s mind searched for the words, which would sway the younger Neville. “My title dates back some six hundred years. If we marry, Miss Neville will know the recognition of King George III for I possess a trusted position in the Home Office in addition to my barony. As such, Miss Neville will hold great sway in Society. Previously, Miss Neville has voiced her position on the trials facing the Irish people to several of my associates. Your sister may champion any of a dozen just causes and have the ton follow her lead. My closest associates number among England’s most influential families.
“My estate is sound and profitable. I have recently contracted for several improvements to better the lot of my tenants, including new roads and a forge. And according to my man of business, my fortune ranks among the elite of England.”
Neville leaned closer. “All you say is well and good for the business side of marriage, but I wish to know of your feelings for Isolde.”
John chuckled ironically. “Miss Neville is all of which I can think.”
“Did you not believe the same of Lady Swenton?” Neville asked skeptically.
John swallowed hard again. Evidently, her father had expected John’s eventual call upon his household and had prepared his objections. “Two of my friends had married the late Lady Swenton’s sisters, and I had convinced myself Satiné was as excellent as her siblings, but Lady Swenton proved otherwise; yet, our marriage’s failure was as much my fault as hers. I knew not how to assist my wife to wellness, and she knew not how to love anyone but herself. We were poorly matched.”
“And you consider Isolde of superior quality?” Padraic questioned.
John smiled knowingly. “Your sister, Mr. Neville, is the most remarkable woman of my acquaintance. I am aware if I stray from the reasonable, Miss Neville will never hesitate to tell me so, and I have never known a woman of such high
intelligence.”
Padraic glanced to his father. “Sounds as if Izzy has beaten you in a game of chess, Baron.”
John’s heart lightened. “More than one game.” He turned to Isolde’s father. “I realize you do not wish your daughter so far from her childhood home, but know I would never deny her return to Ireland. In fact, I can afford for her to visit regularly, and in York, there are many of Irish ancestry: Miss Neville will not know the sting of those who would not approve. My neighbors will welcome your daughter with open arms, and my title will protect her otherwise.”
The elder Neville removed his spectacles to clean them. “I do not suppose you to be Catholic.”
John shook his head in the negative. “But I hold no objections to marrying in the Catholic Church. All I wish is to know Miss Neville as my wife.”
Padraic stood. “I will ask Mrs. Fitzroy to prepare you a room. We have many negotiations, but first you should speak to Isolde. Do you have other questions for the baron, Father, before I direct him to Izzy?”
“Many,” the elder Neville admitted. “But none of which Isolde is likely to consider important.”
*
Isolde had impatiently waited for her father’s conversation with Lord Swenton to end. It felt an eternity since she had last looked upon His Lordship’s rugged countenance. She had been in Kyna’s chambers, playing with her eldest brother’s two sons when she had heard the carriage’s approach upon the graveled road. Distracted by the noise, she had peered out the window to note Baron Swenton’s sturdily formed body disembarking from the carriage. Without explanation to her brother’s wife or the protesting boys, Isolde had rushed from the room to be where he was. “He has come,” her heart had repeated with wild abandon as she had raced through the familiar passageways.
She wished in hindsight she had shared the news found in Lady Lowery’s missive with her family, but at the time, Isolde had worried whether her father would think Lord Swenton of the nature of an ogre for the baron had permitted his wife to plunge to her death while saving his long-time friend’s life. However, even without Lady Lowery’s explanation of how Lord Swenton had done everything within his power to save his wife, Isolde would have recognized His Lordship’s anguish at having failed Satiné Aldridge.
Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor Page 39