“In the green parlor,” Anthony muttered, his heart feeling suddenly heavy. He met his sister’s gaze. “I don’t suppose she said anything significant to you before her departure?”
Louise shook her head, but then she suddenly frowned, and Anthony knew she’d thought of something important. “She rushed past me, saying something about how late it was and that she had to hurry home.”
“She did thank you for a lovely evening,” Huntley put in.
“Yes, she did, but she’d barely gotten out the door before the Deerfords appeared and . . . ah, here they are again.”
It was too late for Anthony to beat a hasty retreat without being deliberately rude, but he really didn’t have time to listen to what either of them might have to say. Lady Rebecca had just been shot in his home, and he’d left his mother and brother to tend to her. He really ought to be getting back to the parlor so he could supervise and offer his support, not to mention the fact that he had quite a few questions for Lady Rebecca and the Griftons.
“Your Grace,” Lady Deerford began. She sounded as if she was struggling for breath. “You must tell us who she is—the blonde with the yellow gown—your sister says her name is Miss Smith, but surely you must know something more, like where she lives? How did you address her invitation, Your Grace? It’s of the utmost importance that we find her.”
“Are you able to tell me why?” Anthony asked, his curiosity piqued.
Wringing her hands together, Lady Deerford glanced at her husband before saying, “When my husband mentioned the startling resemblance Miss Smith’s gown bore to the one our daughter wore when she disappeared all those years ago, I was skeptical.” She made a nervous little chuckling sound that held an underlying note of sadness. “It’s been so long I dared not hope, but then I caught a glimpse of her myself. Upon closer inspection it was clear that she was wearing the exact same gown that our Margaret wore the night she vanished.”
Yet another development Anthony hadn’t anticipated; the night seemed full of them. Wishing to find out more, yet determined to keep Lady Deerford’s peculiarities in mind, Anthony said, “As far as I recall, your daughter went missing when I was but a child. Perhaps the gown was simply similar—after all, it would be difficult to recall the exact fabric and cut after so long.”
“Not at all,” Lady Deerford said, a deep pink coloring her cheeks. “I helped my daughter select the fabric myself and . . .” She took a moment to compose herself as she drew a deep breath. “After she went missing, I had a precise replica made for one of my dolls. There’s no mistaking that it was the exact same gown.”
Anthony stood as if frozen. Lady Deerford’s proclamation was truly shocking, for it meant that . . . Well, he wasn’t entirely sure of what it meant exactly, except that Miss Smith had somehow come to possess Lady Margaret’s ball gown. Could she have found it somewhere? Stolen it perhaps? Or had Lady Margaret given it to her at some point in time? All were important questions that needed answering.
As for the Deerfords—he understood their desperation. They’d lost a daughter whom they’d probably long since accepted they’d never see again, only to be faced with proof of her existence in the form of Miss Smith. He had to find her, not just for himself anymore but for them as well. And she had said . . . “I don’t know her exact location, but based on my conversation with her, I don’t believe she’s far. I’ll do what I can to help you find her.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lord Deerford said, his voice cracking just enough to convey how emotional this was for him. His wife was beyond speaking and merely nodded her appreciation.
“Now, if you will please excuse me, there is a matter of some importance that I must attend to.” Addressing his brother-in-law he said, “Will you please see to it that the Deerfords receive some refreshments, Huntley?”
“Certainly,” Huntley said, signaling a footman while Anthony strode off in the opposite direction, hoping desperately that Lady Rebecca’s condition had not worsened during his absence. If only the doctor would be quick to arrive.
Chapter 9
With the skirt of the gown hugging her legs, Isabella hurried along the path that would take her back to her cottage. It was a long and tedious walk, for although she lived in Moxley, Kingsborough Hall was a good two miles outside of it. Removing her slippers, Isabella picked up the pace. She was used to walking, just not in a highly impractical evening gown.
The sound of horses approaching filled the air, and she moved hastily to the side of the road, crouching down in the hope that she wouldn’t be seen. A moment later a carriage tumbled past—most likely filled with guests departing the ball. Her own departure had been hasty, not to mention quite ill-mannered considering that she’d failed to thank either of her hosts for a delightful evening, especially after they’d allowed her to stay knowing she’d not been invited.
But what choice had she had? When an elderly couple had approached her asking about her gown, she’d panicked. They’d wanted to know who she was, where she was from, who her parents were and especially where she’d gotten her gown from—all questions that she couldn’t possibly answer without giving herself away and betraying her parents in one clean sweep.
Dear Lord, her mother would never forgive her if a lord and lady came knocking at their door demanding answers. Her mother, who spoke the word aristocrat with particular emphasis on the -rat part, would find herself humiliated by their accusatory questions. And they would be accusatory, for although Isabella knew that they were mistaken in their belief that the gown was familiar to them, they believed they were correct in their assumption—she’d seen it in their eyes.
The duke would undoubtedly become involved in the whole process as well then, discovering who she was and that she lived in nothing more than a measly cottage. The thought of that happening was unbearable. It was better never to see any of them ever again, to prevent tarnishing His Grace’s good opinion of her, to avoid seeing the truth she knew in her heart reflected in his eyes—that his confidence in finding a way for them to be together had been misplaced and was, as she had told him, impossible.
It was with a heavy heart and aching feet that she arrived home, entering the garden through the back gate. She’d left the kitchen window unlatched, and, nudging it open, she climbed through it. It was a tight squeeze, given that she wasn’t the skinniest girl in the world, but she managed it all the same, stepping carefully down onto the counter. Marjorie would be livid if she saw—she was hysterical about scrubbing and cleaning and would not take well to knowing that Isabella’s dirty feet had occupied the same space as the food for the Chilcott household.
Having considered this beforehand and knowing that it would be dark upon her return and consequently difficult to see what she was doing, Isabella had prepared a bowl of soapy water, which stood to one side. Taking the cloth she’d laid out beside it, she soaked it, wrung it, and quickly washed away any evidence that Marjorie might discover in the morning. She then gathered up her slippers and exited the room.
Arriving in the hallway, Isabella started making her way across the floor to her bedroom door, but a sliver of light coming from under the door to the parlor caught her attention, and she froze. Her heart pounded in her chest. Somebody was awake, which could only mean that her absence had not gone unnoticed, for her parents never stayed up late.
Remaining completely still, she considered her options. She could either go back the way she’d come, or she could risk discovery and move forward. If nobody noticed her, she could wake up the following morning and claim she’d been unable to sleep and had gone for a walk—a stretch perhaps, but one that would be hard to dispute.
Sucking in a breath, she stepped slowly forward, balancing herself on her tiptoes. One step . . . two steps . . . creak. Isabella stopped midstride. She was right outside the parlor door now. Her heart hammered in her chest and her legs began to tremble, and then the worst possible thing happened. She sneezed. Footsteps sounded and then the parlor door opened, revealin
g her mother, who was standing there in her dressing gown, staring back at her with the sort of disapproval that only a disappointed parent can emanate. At that very moment, Isabella wanted nothing more than to run out the front door and never look back. But the steel in her mother’s eyes warned her against further disobedience, forcing her to enter the parlor instead, where she silently took a seat.
Her mother closed the door behind her. “This is not the sort of behavior I would have expected from you,” she said, her voice slicing the air like a knife. Her mother could be gentle and loving, but when she was angry, she was absolutely terrifying, her voice eerily calm while her eyes took on a frosty glare.
“I’m sorry, Mama, I—”
“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been? Any number of things could have happened to you, but you decided to sneak off with no regard for anyone other than yourself. Even your sister, as recklessly loyal to you as she is, refused to tell me anything when I woke her, though I can well imagine what you’ve been up to given the way you look. Really, Isabella, I’ve half a mind to throttle both of you for this harebrained scheme of yours, and with my gown, no less.”
“I had nothing else to wear that would have been appropriate,” Isabella muttered, feeling wretched for deceiving her mother like this. She’d suspected that the gown had been her mother’s, but she hadn’t been certain until now. In spite of the awful situation at hand, her curiosity got the better of her, and she found herself saying, “I can’t help but wonder where you got such an exquisite gown. How did you . . . I mean, it must have been very expensive.”
Her mother’s eyes closed momentarily, and when she looked at Isabella again, there was something shining there—an emotion so strong that it took Isabella’s breath away. “If you must know, I bought it from a peddler before you were born so I’d have something decent to wear when I married your father. I never gave much thought to where he might have gotten it and have no intention of doing so now.” Her mother’s eyes darkened. “You will take it off immediately and return it to the trunk in the loft, is that understood?”
Isabella nodded and muttered a weak “yes.” It was impossible for her to look her mother in the eye after what she’d done, and yet she felt the need to say something—to offer some sort of explanation in the hope that she might understand. “I’m sorry I betrayed you, Mama. It’s just . . . I’ve always dreamed of attending that ball, and once I marry Mr. Roberts it’s unlikely that I’ll ever—”
“You should hope and pray that he never finds out about this, Isabella.” There was a note of impending doom in her mother’s voice that sent shivers down Isabella’s spine. “After all of our efforts to steer his attention in your direction, all will be for naught if he ever discovers that you’re the sort of woman who enjoys midnight escapades. He’ll never stand for it, and you know it.”
Isabella did.
“He’s your best chance at a happy future,” her mother went on, relentlessly hammering on as she always did whenever Isabella showed the slightest sign of disapproval toward Mr. Roberts. “A man who’s not only wealthy but also keenly aware of the importance of dressing properly, he’ll be sure to supply you with however much money you need to fill a new wardrobe.”
“He doesn’t desire me for me, Mama. He wants me only because I’m convenient and because you’ve assured him how easily I can be molded into the trophy he truly wants—one that he can parade about town when need be and then return to the shelf as soon as we arrive home.”
Her mother’s nostrils flared. “Not only is that untrue but it is also an unkind thing to say about a man who is willing to pluck you out of the gutter and turn you into a swan.”
It was Isabella’s turn to get angry. “We may not be very well off, Mama, but we certainly don’t live in a gutter. Papa works very hard to support us, and there’s nothing shameful about his profession either, so don’t you dare belittle his efforts!”
“I meant no disrespect toward your father, Isabella,” her mother said, walking wearily toward the sofa and sitting down with a loud sigh. “I just don’t think that you fully realize how difficult life can be. Why do you think I work so diligently at my embroidery every day? Because I enjoy it?” She shook her head. “Necessity can steal the joy from any task, but I have no choice—we need the extra bit of money the embroidery can fetch.
“Even so, it’s not as if we’re the poorest people in England, and it’s true that we do have Marjorie in our employ, but I want more than that for you, Isabella, for Jamie too when the time comes for her to marry. I want you to have beautiful gowns to wear and to ride in a magnificent carriage—to live in comfort and without having to worry about whether or not you’ll have to cut back on a few things in order to have enough money for food. I know what that’s like. The first few years with your father were a desperate struggle for survival—one that I wish to protect you from.”
“But you love each other, Mama,” Isabella said softly.
“Yes, we do. And I have every confidence that you will grow to love Mr. Roberts too. He’s a good man, Isabella. You mustn’t be too hard on him.” Reaching for Isabella’s hand, she took it in her own as she met her gaze. “This is part of the reason why I object to all of these fairy-tale romances that you like to read. I believe you’ve long since conjured an image of the ideal man; a man who doesn’t exist, except in your own imagination—a man that nobody else can possibly compete with.”
It was true, except for the startling fact that he did exist. Isabella had met him that very evening, had spoken to him and danced with him. Her mother was right. Nobody would ever hold a candle to him—least of all Mr. Roberts.
Chapter 10
“I’m sorry about the way the evening turned out, Mama,” Anthony said as he stood by the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy. He raised an empty glass toward Winston and Huntley, who were each occupying their own armchairs while their wives sat next to Anthony’s mother on the sofa. “Would you care for some?”
Both gentlemen nodded, so Anthony proceeded to pour for them as well.
“It wasn’t your fault,” his mother said, her voice sounding tired. “Not unless it was your idea to have Lady Rebecca shot on my lawn in front of everyone.”
“What a thing to say,” Louise gasped. She looked at Anthony. “Pour her a sherry, will you? And while you’re at it, Sarah and I would like one too.”
Anthony hid a smile. He loved his sister dearly and knew that she meant well, which was part of the reason why he rarely asserted himself whenever she tried to take charge. Not unless she was being unreasonable. Stubborn and willful best described her—traits that had resulted in her marrying Huntley when the alternative would probably have been a deep depression. Anthony knew she’d left not because she hadn’t cared but because she’d cared too much. Watching their father’s daily digression would have killed her—Huntley had offered her the excuse for escape, and as far as Anthony could tell, the two were getting along well enough, for which he was both grateful and relieved.
“The Griftons didn’t look very happy,” Winston muttered. “But then I suppose that’s to be expected. To believe that Lady Rebecca had remained behind at Roselyn Castle, locked away in her chamber, only to find her here, the center of a dramatic event.”
“For someone declared to be as mad as a March hare, she did sound rather succinct when I spoke to her,” Anthony said, handing the ladies their drinks.
“Neville sounded shocked when her condition was mentioned—as if he’d realized no such thing,” Winston said, accepting the glass that Anthony gave to him.
“All things considered,” Huntley remarked, “it would probably have taken a great deal for Neville to notice whether or not Lady Rebecca had a few bats loose in the belfry. He’s not very levelheaded himself.”
“That’s true,” Anthony heard his mother say as he strode back to fetch the final glass for Huntley. “He’s always been too carefree for his own good—much worse than Anthony and Mr. Goodard ever were
, and that’s saying something.”
“I still can’t imagine who would do such a terrible thing,” Sarah said as she took a careful sip of her drink. Anthony watched her with the same sense of wonder he’d always reserved for his sister-in-law. Everything she did, from the way in which she moved to the way in which she spoke, was done with the same amount of care that one might apply to a piece of artwork. It was most peculiar.
“It’s very strange,” Anthony’s mother said, her brow knit in a tight frown.
“She can’t possibly have any enemies,” Louise said, looking to her husband, then to Winston and finally to Anthony for an answer.
Huntley shrugged. “It does seem unlikely. Perhaps it was an accident.”
“An accident?” Louise’s voice pitched. “One does not bring a loaded pistol to a ball and then proceed to fire it by accident.”
“Huntley’s right,” Anthony said. All eyes turned to him in surprise and, he surmised, expectation. “What if the bullet wasn’t meant for Lady Rebecca but for someone else entirely?”
“She was dancing with Neville at the time,” Winston said, following his statement with a large gulp of brandy.
“Now there’s a man that many would likely wish dead,” Anthony’s mother said as she shook her head a little sadly. “His uncle has his work cut out for him, reforming that boy so he can one day inherit. I certainly don’t envy him.”
“And I don’t envy Anthony,” Louise said. She gave her brother a look that was filled with genuine sympathy. “Not only are you faced with the challenge of solving an attempted murder but you also have Miss Smith to find.”
“As grateful as I am for your consideration, Louise,” Anthony felt compelled to say, “the constable will hopefully locate our villain with the help of law enforcement in other parishes, if necessary, which means that all I really have to do is discover Miss Smith’s whereabouts. I’ll begin tomorrow.”
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