by Sandra Heath
Her lips parted. “My earrings? You managed to retrieve them?”
“I relieved certain uncouth gentlemen of their ill-gotten gains, yes, and I will return them to you before you leave.”
She lowered her eyes. “I am truly sorry that I did not wait in the lane as you requested, but we thought we heard the footpads returning, and I am afraid we took fright.” Oh, how handsome he was, and how much at sixes and sevens she was set by his smile and the softness in his voice.
“Please do not apologize, Lady Isobel, for it is quite understandable under the circumstances.”
She was startled, for this was the second time since arriving here that she had been taken for her cousin. “Your Grace, I am not Lady Isobel, I am Elizabeth French.”
He stared at her and then drew perceptibly back, running his fingers through his blond hair. “Not Lady Isobel?” he repeated.
“No.”
“I appear to have made an error,” he murmured.
“A simple enough error.”
“Or the error of a simpleton,” he said, almost as an aside. “It’s just that when I saw you go into the inn, and then saw how…”
“Yes?”
“It—er—doesn’t matter, Mrs. French, for the fact remains that I have confused you with Lady Isobel.”
His reaction made her curious, for of what consequence was such a mistake? What difference did it make whether she was Isobel or not? The only difference that sprang immediately to mind was that Isobel was unmarried and eligible, but that could hardly be the reason for his response, for below-stairs gossip told of his intention to marry a lady in America. So, why was he so disturbed about having taken her for her cousin? “Is something wrong, Your Grace? Does it matter that I am not Lady Isobel?”
“Matter? No, of course not,” he replied, giving her a quick smile, but avoiding meeting her eyes for more man the most fleeting of moments.
It was plain to her that it did matter, and equally plain that he did not intend to explain why.
He smiled again, and she could almost feel the change in him, for where he had been open and warm before, he was now reserved and almost cool. “Please allow the footman to conduct you to the grand chamber, Mrs. French, for if Alexander and Lady Isobel are not already there, I am sure they will join you shortly.” Inclining his head, he stepped deliberately aside for her to pass.
A little bewildered, she nodded and then gathered her skirts to step from the staircase and walk toward the footman, who had withdrawn to a discreet distance while she and Marcus talked. The footman bowed to her and then continued to walk across the vast hall toward the far end, where double doors studded with iron were set in a tall stone archway.
She glanced back, and saw that Marcus remained where he was. His gaze was upon her, and he did not look away as she looked back. Then the footman opened the double doors, and she stepped into the brightly lit chamber beyond. The footman closed the doors behind her.
* * * *
The grand chamber, which had originally been the priory refectory, was magnificently furnished with a suite of seventeenth-century Flemish furniture upholstered with Beauvais tapestry. Dark-green velvet curtains were drawn across the high windows, and the original stone walls had been paneled to match the hall. There were several Boulle cabinets, various tables and chairs, and more highly polished suits of armor, as well as a display of dueling pistols on one wall and a collection of fencing foils on another. Wheel-rimmed chandeliers were suspended from the high-beamed ceiling, and there was an immense stone fireplace where once the monks’ meals had been cooked.
Isobel was seated on a chair close to the fire. She wore a yellow-and-white-striped silk gown that looked perfect with her dark chestnut hair, and there was a pale green shawl over her arms, so that once again she looked very light and summery for such a raw and inhospitable January night. She did not observe Elizabeth enter, and was smiling up at something Alexander was saying.
He stood nearby with his back to the fire. His indigo coat was burnished to purple by the flames behind him, and the flickering light caught on the diamond pin in his neckcloth as he turned slightly toward Isobel to say whatever it was that made her smile.
Then Isobel saw Elizabeth approaching, and quickly snapped open her fan. “Hello again, Elizabeth. How lovely you look. Lavender becomes you very well indeed, does it not, Alexander?”
“Yes, it does,” he replied, coming toward Elizabeth and taking her hand, drawing it palm-uppermost to his lips.
She was still a little distracted after her encounter with Marcus, and it must have shown in her expression, for he looked at her in concern.
“Is something wrong?” he asked quickly, cupping her hand in both his.
“Wrong? No, of course not, it’s just that strange coincidences would appear to be the order of the day at the moment.” She explained about Marcus.
Alexander stared at her. “You mean that Marcus Sheridan is your Sir Galahad?”
“Yes, and he managed to regain my earrings for me. I still cannot really believe it. I was just about to come down the staircase when in walked the very gentleman who had come to my rescue in Kensington! It really is quite remarkable.”
Alexander gave a pleased and slightly disbelieving laugh. “First of all he spots me in Grantham, and now this. You’re right, coincidence does indeed seem to be the order of the day.” Smiling, he conducted her to a chair opposite Isobel, who immediately leaned forward almost conspiratorily.
“What is our host like, Elizabeth? I am most curious to learn about him, for I have been hearing servants’ whispers. First of all, is he as devastatingly handsome as I am told?”
“He is,” replied Elizabeth, glancing across at her and wondering again why Marcus had been so concerned to learn of the mistaken identity. “What gossip have you been hearing?” she inquired.
“Oh, simply that he intends to sell this estate and then return to America to marry.” Isobel’s green eyes were wide as they turned toward Alexander. “So you see, your friend Marcus cannot possibly have designs upon me.”
Elizabeth looked quickly from one to the other. “Designs upon you? Why do you say that?”
“Well, when Alexander met the duke in Grantham, it seems inquiries were made concerning my status, and Alexander is convinced that such interest as to whether I was married or not might indicate an intention to pay court to me.”
Alexander colored a little, remembering how offended she had been when he’d mentioned it. “Well, it seemed like that at the time,” he muttered.
“Unless your friend intends to have two duchesses, then it cannot possibly be so,” replied Isobel.
“He didn’t mention anything about a future wife in America. In fact, when I come to think of it, he wasn’t very forthcoming about anything and was actually a little secretive. No doubt all will be revealed, for our presence is going to be foisted upon him for several days I fear.”
Isobel nodded, wafting her fan to-and-fro. “Yes, I fear so too,” she murmured, concealing a satisfied smile. She studied Elizabeth for a moment, wondering why she was so flustered at the discovery of who their host was. She was more than a little ruffled, almost as if she had been caught out in something. But what? If it had not been that Elizabeth had quite definitely not known the identity of her gentleman rescuer, Isobel would have suspected her of a brief dalliance behind Alexander’s back. Oh, if only that were so, for it would assist greatly in salving her own conscience, which was becoming a little guilty.
The doors opened again, and McPherson entered with a silver tray upon which stood a crystal decanter and several small glasses. The decanter contained a pale golden liquid, which he poured into the glasses the moment he had placed the tray on a table.
Alexander accepted his glass, and looked curiously at the drink. “What is it, McPherson?” he asked.
“It is a liqueur that has always been made here at Rainworth, Sir Alexander, and it has always been the tradition to take a glass before dinner.”
Elizabeth sipped her glass. It was sweet and slightly herbal, as if made from the flowers and young oak leaves of Sherwood. She reflected that it was very sad that Marcus should apparently be considering selling an ancestral home that was so full of tradition.
They were still drinking the liqueur when Marcus joined them at last. He was very elegant in black velvet, with a pale blue satin waistcoat and a sapphire pin on the knot of his starched cravat. Lace frills spilled from the front of his shirt and from his cuffs, and he looked quite graceful and distinguished as he executed a stylish bow.
“Please forgive me for not having been here when you arrived, and for being rather late now. I trust that McPherson has been attending to your needs?”
Alexander grinned at him. “You are forgiven, my friend. Come, allow me to introduce you to Lady Isobel. Mrs. French I believe you already know.”
Marcus’s blue eyes were turned very briefly toward Elizabeth. “Yes, we’ve met,” he murmured.
Isobel extended her hand, smiling up into his eyes. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”
“And I yours, Lady Isobel,” he said, raising her hand to his lips and returning the smile. “I am already acquainted with your parents, at least I was some years ago, but I do not believe that you and I have ever met.”
“I doubt that we did, sir, for when last you were here I would have been confined to my schoolroom.”
“Please do not remind me of how time marches ever onward, Lady Isobel,” he replied, smiling again, then turning to accept a glass of the liqueur from McPherson, who had waited discreetly by the table.
Alexander resumed his place before the hearth. “I trust that the farm fire was extinguished without too much damage?”
“It was caught in time. There was a danger of losing a barn and all the hay stored there, but we managed to douse the flames before they took too great a hold. The loss of a hay store in weather like this would have been a serious blow.”
“It would indeed,” murmured Alexander.
“How was your journey here? I trust the snow did not cause you any problems?”
“We were fortunate, I fancy, but now we are foisted upon you for several days at least.”
“It is no imposition, I promise you,” replied Marcus. “No doubt we will be able to find sufficient diversion. With luck we will be able to enjoy my grandfather’s montagne Russe.”
Isobel sat forward with interest. “A Russian mountain? What is that?”
“It is a specially built slope, very high and steep at one end, with a long descent that is made in a sleigh that holds four people. My grandfather spent several years in St. Petersburg, and discovered these slopes there. He was so taken with them that on his return he had one built here, but unfortunately there is not always sufficient snow for it to be properly employed.”
“It sounds very exciting.”
“It is. We may also be able to demonstrate our skating skills, or lack of them, on the lake. I will have a suitable area cleared of snow.”
Isobel clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, I do love skating, even if I do keep falling over. I went on the Serpentine the day before we left London, and I enjoyed it very much indeed. Aunt Avery was not best pleased with me, as you may imagine, for she considers skating to be a very unladylike pastime, but then she does not approve of many things. She even frowned a little when the Duke of Devonshire introduced L’Echange at his ball.”
“L’Echange?” Marcus looked inquiringly at her.
“It’s a new cotillion, and has become all the rage in London. It’s a little shocking,” she added, lowering her eyes.
“I am all interest, Lady Isobel,” he replied. “You must promise to teach it to me before you leave.”
“I will do so gladly, sir.”
“I look forward to it.”
Her green eyes were speculative. “Perhaps you will be able to take it back to America with you,” she murmured.
“Perhaps.”
“You are returning there, aren’t you?”
“Have you been lending your ear to below-stairs whisperings, Lady Isobel?”
She flushed a little. “Yes, I fear so, and so has Elizabeth. Is it true that you mean to sell Rainworth and then return to marry an American lady?”
For a moment Elizabeth thought he would not answer, but then he nodded. “Shall we just say that there is an element of truth in the gossip, Lady Isobel?”
“Doesn’t your intended bride wish to come here to England?”
“She has no desire at all to come here.”
“But she will be your duchess, so surely—”
“Both she and her family are staunch supporters of their country’s independence, Lady Isobel, and such things as titles do not particularly interest them.”
Elizabeth lowered her glass. “Are such things of equal uninterest to you, sir?” she asked quietly.
His eyes met hers. “Why do you ask that?”
“Because by selling Rainworth and then removing to America, you will be effectively bringing the Dukes of Arlingham to an end, will you not?”
“That is a matter for my conscience, Mrs. French.”
“That I cannot deny,” she replied, sipping her liqueur again.
A light passed through his eyes, and he looked away from her once more.
Isobel had no intention of allowing the matter to drop. “What is the lady’s name, sir?”
“Miss Constance Bannerman.”
“And where does she reside?”
“Boston.” He turned almost with relief as a footman came to inform them that dinner was now served, and then he quickly offered Isobel his arm. “Shall we go in, Lady Isobel?”
She accepted, and they preceded Alexander and Elizabeth from the room.
Elizabeth whispered to Alexander. “He’s very cagey about it all, isn’t he?”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“I wonder why?”
“The Lord alone knows.”
* * * *
They dined very handsomely indeed upon roast chicken and a feather-light apricot tart, and Marcus put himself out to be the perfect host. He was full of amusing and witty anecdotes about America, and kept them fully entertained throughout the meal, although Elizabeth could not help but notice that he made no mention at all of Miss Constance Bannerman or her family. She was quite sure that if it had not been for Isobel’s direct inquiry, he would not have referred to his bride-to-be at all, which made his interest in Isobel’s marital status all that much more curious—troubling even. Why had he asked whether she was married or not, when all the time he was planning to take an American bride? It cannot have been an idle question or Alexander would not have sufficiently remarked upon it to mention the matter to Isobel herself. And then there were the puzzling confusions about which lady actually was Isobel… The more Elizabeth dwelt upon it., the more mystifying it was, especially as Marcus was not paying Isobel any particular attention now, but divided his interest equally between all three guests, except perhaps that he did not speak to Elizabeth herself quite as much as the other two. To Elizabeth he spoke only when spoken to.
After the meal they adjourned to the grand chamber once again, and Isobel lost no time in reminding Marcus that he wished to be taught how to dance L’Echange. Pointing out that the new cotillion required two couples, she also drummed Elizabeth and Alexander into dancing as well.
She was an adept teacher, talking Marcus expertly through the figures, and showing him how at the end they changed partners. Oh, how she demonstrated it. With a whirl of her yellow-and-white skirts, she twisted across the floor into Alexander’s arms, reaching up to kiss him briefly on the lips before turning brightly back to Marcus again.
“There,” she said, “is it not a rather shocking measure?”
“Very shocking indeed,” he concurred, his glance sliding a little thoughtfully toward Elizabeth, and then back to Isobel once again. “I can well imagine that London society’s
rather jaded appetite finds such a dance very diverting.”
“Oh, yes, there was much flirting and so on at the Devonshire House ball,” replied Isobel, still all innocence.
“Let us go through it all again, so that I may be absolutely sure of everything,” he said, reaching out to take her hand and resume their first position.
Isobel was only too willing to repeat the exercise, and made no demur at all.
Step-by-step they proceeded through the cotillion again, but this time, as Isobel whirled prettily across into Alexander’s arms, Marcus stretched out to take Elizabeth’s hand, drawing her swiftly into his own embrace, and kissing her on the lips.
He held her close, and for a moment his fingers twined in the warm hair at the nape of her neck, then he released her. “Keep your wits about you, Mrs. French,” he whispered, “for there is skullduggery afoot, and it is at your expense.”
She stared at him, startled by both the way he had kissed her and the words he had said, but already he had turned away as if nothing had happened. For the remainder of the evening he hardly said anything more to her, and when the ladies elected to retire for the night and leave the gentlemen to spend as long as they liked talking of old times, it was Isobel whom he escorted to her room, giving Elizabeth a courteous but very bland good night.
Chapter 11
The snow clouds had dispersed the following morning, and the day dawned upon an England that was completely blanketed in white. Few could remember such snow before, and nearly every lane and highway was blocked, bringing the entire country to a standstill. Even the sea froze in places, a phenomenon that was unheard of so far south of the Arctic. There was nothing anyone could do but endure as best they could, and it was a prospect that was viewed in entirely opposite ways by the two lady guests at Rainworth Priory.
For Isobel the next few days were, literally, a heaven-sent opportunity to further her cause with Alexander; for Elizabeth they were set to be an uncomfortable experience she would rather have foregone.