Regency Rumours

by Louise Allen

  I thought I had better tell you—because of him asking for you by name. Perhaps I am worrying too much and he is just what he said. Or slightly mad. But I must confess to being anxious.

  ‘Mama, do we have any relative who is, or was, a sea captain? Or any relative who is estranged from the family?’

  ‘A sea captain? Or someone estranged? Goodness, no, I do not think so. In fact I am certain. Why?’

  ‘Oh, Jane met someone who said something that puzzled her. She must have misunderstood.’

  ‘No doubt she did. I cannot help but think that living so secluded as she does cannot be good for her.’

  Isobel folded the letter, then opened it again. The mysterious man had been asking for her and then he was found with the children. Annabelle. Lady Faversham’s words came back to her like a curse, even though it had been almost a month since they were uttered. You will be sorry for this. Very sorry.

  She could not possibly know and Isobel had seen neither her nor Giles since that night. And yet Annabelle was Isobel’s only weak spot, the only secret she was desperate to keep. She tried to tell herself it was pure fancy, yet she could not be easy in her mind.

  Three days later there was another letter. It began, Do not leave this lying around, for I cannot write in such a way that would disarm suspicion if your mother reads it and yet convey my anxiety adequately. The strange man is still hanging around the neighbourhood—and still asking questions about us. When you were here, how long you stayed, what happened to Ralph, how old the children are—he has looked at the parish registers, I am certain, for Mr Arnold found him right by the cupboard where they are stored and it was not locked.

  He is very subtle about it, which, I confess, worries me most of all, for it seems professional somehow. It is only by piecing together bits of gossip that I can see a pattern in his questions, for he never interrogates the same person for long. I have spoken to the few servants who were with us that year and who know the truth so they are on the alert. I cannot see how he would approach Dr Jameson, who, besides, would never say anything.

  Can you make any sense of this, dearest Isobel? I vow I cannot. I have hired two of the Foster brothers—you recall what a size they are—and they patrol the house and yard at night and one of them is always with the children by day. It is doing dreadful things to Nathaniel’s vocabulary!

  It would not take much effort for anyone to find out where she had spent that year after Lucas’s death—they had made no secret of it at the time, quite deliberately. Isobel’s refusal to allow any friends or relatives to visit had been lamented by Lady Bythorn to all her circle and had been attributed to hysterical grief followed by a sad decline. The very openness of her mother’s complaints seemed to disarm all suspicion that there was anything to hide and Isobel’s reluctance to socialise since her return had contributed to the diagnosis of a melancholic temperament.

  ‘Jane is unwell,’ she said to her parents, the letter tight in her hand. ‘I must go to Hereford.’

  ‘Now?’ Her father put down the copy of The Times he had been muttering over and frowned at her. ‘In the middle of the Season? All that way?’

  ‘It would take me only twenty-four hours, even if I go by the Mail, but if I might take a chaise, Papa, I could do it in less time and more comfortably.’

  ‘Certainly not the Mail,’ her mother said firmly. ‘And a chaise? Oh, dear, you know how those things bring on my migraine and they do your father’s gout no good at all.’

  ‘I can go with Dorothy, Mama, there is no need for either of you to disturb yourselves. If we leave before luncheon and take a basket with some food we can go right through to Oxford for the night with only stops for changes—and there are any number of most respectable inns where I could find a private parlour.’

  It took almost an hour of wrangling to convince her parents that she could not possibly abandon her friend when she was unwell and worried about the children. That, yes, of course she would come home just as soon as she could and not miss the Lavenhams’ ridotto which promised to be the event of the Season. And yes, she would take the greatest care on the road and not speak to anyone unless absolutely necessary and certainly no gentlemen.

  It was only then, as she organised her packing, that the apprehension churning in her stomach turned to real fear. If she was ruined, then that was just too bad, although she was very sorry that the disgrace would distress her parents. But for Annabelle to be exposed as an illegitimate child would destroy all her prospects as well. And what of Jane? There might be penalties for allowing a false record to be entered in the registers. Would it even cast a shadow over little Nathaniel’s legitimacy?

  It had to be Lady Faversham behind this, for surely Giles would not do anything to hurt her, however angry she made him. It was only as she climbed into the chaise and waved goodbye that she realised she had no idea what she could do when she reached Hereford. But she could not sit in London while her child was in peril and leave Jane to face whatever this was alone.

  ‘You were right—Geraldine’s up to something and she’s planning to go to Hereford of all places.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ Hereford. Giles put down his knife and fork and stared at Jack Carstairs over his half-eaten breakfast. His mother’s lover had arrived at his Albany chambers without warning and seemed decidedly put out.

  Since the confrontation at the Leamingtons’ ball Giles had been at pains to avoid Isobel. It would do her reputation no good to be seen with him and it seemed he could not trust himself to keep his hands off her. There were two things he could do to protect her: stay out of her way and make certain his mother did her no harm.

  Before Jack’s arrival, it had occurred to him after a night of tossing and turning that the best way to circumvent Geraldine was to discover where Isobel was vulnerable. He was certain there was something, something more to her past than the simple loss of her virginity to her fiancé.

  Unable to sleep, his remedies had been either a cold bath or distraction. Shrugging into his robe he had taken a candle and pulled the Peerage off the shelves. He might as well start by getting the family straight: Isobel’s family, the Jervises—no, after ten minutes he could see nothing out of the ordinary there.

  Then, on impulse, he looked under Needham. The current viscount was a half-brother of Lucas who had drowned in January 1797. He looked at the other entries for the same name. The Hon. Ralph Needham decd. Lucas’s other half-brother, he worked out. And he had died on the same day as Lucas, Giles realised, flicking back to check. Married Miss Jane Barrymore, by whom issue Nathaniel and Annabelle. Twins born posthumously in September 1797. Longmere Manor, Gaston, Hereford.

  Hereford rang a bell. Isobel had mentioned it with a note of longing in her voice and then, when he would have questioned her about it, for the area was unknown to him, she had abruptly changed the subject.

  Giles had stared at the entry, working out the relationships. Ralph was Lucas’s younger half-brother. That was a close connection to Isobel, but what did it signify and how could it harm her? Lucas and I were lovers, she had confessed. But what of it? She had been betrothed to the man. He ran a finger over the close-packed black lines of type, half-formed ideas worrying at the edges of his mind.

  Giles dragged himself back to the present and the other man. He had taken Carstairs into his confidence to a degree, putting it to him that it was in Geraldine’s interests if they could stop her embarking on a destructive feud with Lady Isobel.

  ‘I’m certain. But I’ve no idea why, she won’t tell me. Threw the coffee pot at my head when I wouldn’t go with her. Damn it, Harker,’ Carstairs said, pulling out a chair and sitting down, ‘I’m not trailing half across the country in support of one of her vendettas and I told her so. Told her you wouldn’t like it, either. Is there any fresh coffee?’

  ‘Hicks! Coffee for Mr Carstairs.’ Giles picked up his own cup and frowned into the dregs. They held no answers. ‘Any more letters?’

  The other man nodded. ‘She
’s been getting letters daily that have been pleasing her inordinately, as I told you, and then this one arrived and she said, Hah! I’ve got the little hussy now and ordered her woman to pack and sent her footman out to hire a chaise.

  ‘Thought you ought to know, because I’m pretty certain it has some connection with Lady Isobel. Or, at least, something to do with you. When she got these letters she’d stare at that portrait of you over the fireplace with such a look in her eyes. Brrr.’ He shuddered theatrically and peered at Giles more closely.

  ‘How’s the face? Looks as though it is healing well. Thought they’d carved half of it off, the way Geraldine was carrying on at first.’

  Giles shrugged. ‘Healing. There will always be scars. Geraldine attaches too much importance to looks.’ What the devil had the woman discovered about Isobel?

  He was prepared to go to any lengths to protect her, he realised, even though he was not willing to put a name to his feelings. Her hints at the ball that she might take a lover had made him jealous, furiously jealous, even while he knew she was deliberately provoking him and would no more do such a thing than fly. With disastrous honesty she had told him she loved him and she had meant it. His attempts to reject her for her own good had made her angry, but it had not changed her love for him, he sensed that.

  ‘I’m going to Herefordshire to find out what is going on. But I’ll see Geraldine first and make damned certain she stops this nonsense.’

  ‘The best of luck, old chap,’ Carstairs said with a rueful grin.

  Isobel got down from the chaise at the Bell in Oxford at seven in the evening, nine hours after she had finished reading Jane’s letter at breakfast that morning. They had made better time than she had expected, but even so she felt exhausted already and there were another fourteen or fifteen hours travelling ahead of her.

  ‘Looks a decent enough place,’ Dorothy conceded with a sniff as one of the porters came forward, touched his forelock and took their bags.

  ‘We will require two adjoining bedchambers and a private parlour,’ Isobel said. ‘The quieter the better.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, there’s just the thing free, if you’ll come this way.’

  ‘And hot water and tea and a good supper,’ Dorothy chimed in, clutching the dressing case that she insisted on keeping with her even though Isobel had brought no jewellery.

  ‘We’re famous for our suppers, at the Bell.’ The man halted. ‘Just mind this chaise coming in, ma’am.’

  The vehicle with four horses sweating in the traces swept into the yard and pulled up in front of them. Isobel stepped back to take a new path to the inn entrance.

  The door opened in her face, the porter hurried forwards. ‘Here, mind the lady!’ Dorothy took her arm and a tall figure dropped down onto the cobbles.

  ‘Giles!’

  ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ He slammed the carriage door shut and confronted her, for all the world as if he had a right to know of her movements, she thought, feeding her temper to keep the treacherous delight at seeing him at bay.

  ‘Never you mind my lady’s business and watch your tongue, you rogue.’ Dorothy planted her hands on her hips and confronted him, bristling. ‘A respectable lady ought to be able to travel the country without being accosted in inn yards by the likes of you!’

  Heads were turning, more carriages were pulling in. ‘I think we would draw less attention if we go inside,’ Isobel said, tugging at her stalwart defender’s arm. ‘Come, Dorothy.’

  ‘I’ll have them fetch the parish constable, I will,’ the maid scolded as she marched into the inn on Isobel’s heels. ‘I told you he was no gentleman. What’s he doing here, I’d like to know!’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘I, TOO, WOULD like to know what Giles Harker is doing in Oxford,’ Isobel said with feeling. She felt queasy with surprise and nerves, her pulse was all over the place and her thoughts were in turmoil. After that initial shock, the delight of thinking that, somehow, he had come for her, common sense reasserted itself.

  What was Giles doing here? It was too much of a coincidence that they should both find themselves in an Oxford inn. Had she been wrong and he was the one behind the mysterious stranger who was probing the secrets of Longmere? But if that was the case it could only be out of some twisted desire to hurt her, to expose her secrets, and surely she had done nothing to deserve that? It was hard to believe she had been so far awry in her assessment of his character.

  ‘Welcome, my lady.’ The landlord appeared and ushered them farther in. ‘If a nice pair of rooms with a parlour on the quiet side of the house is what is wanted, we have just the thing. If you will follow me, ma’am.

  ‘I’ll have hot water sent up directly, my lady, and supper will be on the table within the half hour. Here you are, ma’am.’

  ‘That looks very satisfactory, thank you.’ He could have shown them into a prison cell for all Isobel cared, or noticed. The man bowed himself out and Dorothy threw herself dramatically in front of the door, her back pressed to the panels.

  ‘He’ll not get in here, the vile seducer!’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Dorothy, Mr Harker is no such thing, although what he is doing here I have no idea.’ A rap on the door made Dorothy jump. She emitted a small scream and flung it open to reveal a startled maid with a jug. ‘Your hot water, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Isobel waited until the girl had gone before she turned back to Dorothy. ‘There is no need for alarm. Please be less melodramatic! There is absolutely no call for all this shrieking—oh!’ She pressed her hand to her thudding heart as the door swung open on the knock and Giles stepped into the room.

  ‘Lady Isobel. Will you join me for supper?’

  ‘Certainly not. I have no intention of dining with a man in an inn, and most definitely not with you.’ She looked at him with painful intensity. The scars were paler and thinner now. His expression was politely neutral, but his eyes were wary. As well they might be, she thought as she strove to settle her breathing.

  ‘The middle of the Season seems an unusual time to be taking a long coach journey, Lady Isobel,’ Giles observed. ‘Your admirers will be missing you.’

  She did not attempt to cover her snort of derision. ‘I hardly think so. A friend needs me for a few days, then I will be returning.’

  ‘A friend in Oxford?’ He leant a shoulder against the door frame and frowned at her.

  ‘No. If that was the case I would hardly be staying in an inn.’

  ‘Where my lady is going is none of your business,’ Dorothy interjected. ‘Shall I go and get a couple of pot boys and have him thrown out, ma’am?’

  ‘I do not think that is necessary, thank you, Dorothy.’ Isobel doubted two lads would be capable of ejecting Giles in any case. She knew he was strong and fit, but now he looked leaner—and tougher with those scars and his dark brows drawn together into a frown. ‘Mr Harker will be leaving immediately, I am certain.’

  ‘If I might have a word with you first—alone.’ He straightened up and held the door open for Dorothy.

  Isobel opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. If five minutes of painful intimacy meant she discovered what he was about, then it would be worth it. ‘Dorothy, go downstairs, please. No,’ she said as the maid began to launch into a protest. ‘Either you go or Mr Harker and I will have to. I wish to speak to him confidentially.’

  ‘But, my lady—’

  Giles bundled the maid out of the room, closed the door and locked it before she could get another word out.

  ‘It is a strange thing if a lady may not visit a friend without being waylaid and interrogated,’ Isobel snapped.

  ‘Yes. I wonder that you stand for it,’ he said musingly, his eyes focused on her face. ‘I would have expected a cool good evening on seeing me and then for you to refuse to receive me. It is very shocking for us to be alone like this.’

  ‘I am well aware of that, Mr Harker! I want to know why you are here.’

 
‘In Oxford? Why should I not be?’

  ‘In Oxford, in this inn, at this time? I was foolish enough to fall in love with you, Giles Harker. Even more foolish to trust you. This is too much of a coincidence for my liking.’

  ‘That trust certainly appears to have vanished. Isobel, you know full well you could trust me to take only what was offered to me.’

  ‘I am not talking about—’ She could feel herself growing pink, whether from anger, embarrassment or sheer anxiety she could not tell.

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘Yes, sex.’ She was blushing, she knew it, and it was more from desire and anger at herself than embarrassment. ‘I am talking about the way you abandoned me, washed your hands of me the moment my parents appeared.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘You wanted me to treat you as a friend in front of your parents? You wanted to risk your reputation by acknowledging a liaison with me?’

  ‘No, I did not want that and you know it! But there was no word of affection or regret, no acknowledgement that I was distressed or of what we had shared. You had your amusement—and yes, I am aware of your self-control, I thank you—and then, when it all became difficult, you shrug me and my feelings aside.’

  Giles pushed away from the door, all pretence of casualness gone. ‘Isobel, I only did what was practical. It would not have helped to have drawn out our parting, merely added to your unhappiness.’

  ‘Practical? Giles, there was nothing practical about my feelings for you.’

  ‘Was? Past tense?’ He came so close that the hem of her skirts brushed his boots, but she would not retreat. ‘I thought that when you loved, you would love for ever.’

  ‘Then I cannot have been in love with you, can I? Just another foolish woman fascinated by your handsome face.’

  ‘We did not make love until after this.’ He gestured towards his scarred cheek.

  ‘Guilt, then. Gratitude. Lust. Call it what you like. It was certainly lust, those few mad moments in the passageway at the Leamingtons’ ball!’ Only her anxiety for Annabelle and Jane, only the price of misplaced trust, kept her from falling into his arms. ‘What do my feelings for you matter? I want to know why you are here. Are you following me?’