by Emily Larkin
We could live here, in London.
His reaction was deep and instinctive: a shudder, a No in his chest. He wanted expanses of blue sky, he wanted hills and valleys, meadows and woods. He wanted to inhale air that was rich with the scents of the countryside. He wanted his children to grow up climbing trees and fishing in creeks. He wanted them to know the smell of grass, of leaf mold, of hay drying in the sun.
Nicholas turned away from the window. If I could have Isabella Knox, how much would I have to give up?
Major Reynolds was frowning when Isabella stopped the phaeton for him that afternoon. The frown faded when he saw her, but his expression was unsmiling and almost stern as he stepped up into the carriage.
“Major,” she said, in greeting. “How are you?”
“Very well.” But the faint crease between his eyebrows and the set of his mouth belied the words.
Isabella set the horses in motion and wondered for what must be the hundredth time today how to get him to answer her question.
Should she be blunt? Major, do you remember I asked you a question last night? I’d like to know the answer.
Or should she try to turn it into a joke? You never answered my question last night, Major. And then a little laugh. I’m curious as to your answer.
She glanced sideways at him. He was patting Rufus.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, just ask him!
Major Reynolds looked up and met her eyes. The frown still sat on his brow. “Lady Isabella,” he said abruptly. “You enjoy town life.”
Isabella blinked. “Yes. I do.”
“Would you ever consider living in the countryside?”
Isabella blinked again. She transferred her attention to the horses. What an odd question. “The countryside? Of course!”
“But . . . you said that you like being in London, that you enjoy the Season.”
“I do. But if you recall, Major, what I said was that I dislike being idle. One can be busy equally well in the country as in town.” She glanced at him. His brow was no longer creased in a frown. If anything, he looked slightly taken aback. “I spend quite half the year in the country, you know.”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t know.” His fingers rubbed Rufus’s head. “Ah . . . you enjoy it?”
“Yes.” A barouche had halted by the side of the drive. Isabella guided her team neatly between it and the curricle coming in the opposite direction. “Very much. My eldest brother, Julian, lives in Derbyshire. I visit him often. In fact I’ve only just returned.” And on her journey home, she had encountered Harriet Durham. Isabella bit her lip. She glanced at Major Reynolds. Should I tell him now?
No. Privacy would be best for that disclosure. To tell him now, under the gaze of the ton, would be the height of folly.
Isabella smiled brightly. “My other brother has a home in Kent, and of my sisters, one lives in Suffolk and the other in Somerset. You may believe that I spend a lot of time in the country.”
“Somerset?” Major Reynolds said, a note of interest in his voice. “My estate is in Devonshire.”
“Not far from my sister Amabel, then.”
“No.” His gaze was intent. He seemed on the verge of saying more.
Isabella glanced ahead. The landaulet approaching was a familiar one. “Lady Jersey.”
An expression of frustration crossed Major Reynolds’ face. He shifted slightly, so that they weren’t sitting quite so closely together.
Lady Jersey had a lot—and very little—to say, as was her custom. It was quite ten minutes before they were able to part from her.
Isabella glanced at Major Reynolds. The polite smile he’d favored Lady Jersey with was gone. In its place was a small frown.
“Major—”
“Lady Isabella—”
Major Reynolds opened his hand. “After you.”
“Will you tell me about your estate?”
The frown vanished from his brow. His eyes seemed to brighten with pleasure. “It’s called Elmwood,” he said, reaching down to pat Rufus. “I had it from my maternal grandparents. It’s not large, but it has everything one could want.”
Isabella drove slowly, nodding and bowing to acquaintances, enjoying the timbre of Major Reynolds’ voice, the enthusiasm with which he described Elmwood. He loved his estate, that was very clear. She listened to his description of a lake and woods, the coastal cliffs, the salt tang of the breeze, hayricks in rolling fields, the red brick Jacobean house with its high ceilings and light-filled rooms. I could be happy there.
“It sounds very beautiful.”
“It is. I hope . . . I hope my wife will love it as much as I do.”
“How could she not?” Isabella said lightly. “Your wife will be very happy.”
“I should try to be a good husband.” His voice was diffident, and when she glanced at him she saw that he was looking at Rufus, not at her. “To, er . . . not treat my wife as if I own her.” Major Reynolds’ gaze lifted. His eyes met hers.
The intensity of his stare was unnerving. Is there more to this conversation than I realize?
Isabella moistened her lips and glanced ahead. Her groom stood beside the driveway. She drew the horses to a halt several yards distant from him. “Major Reynolds,” she said, fingering the reins. “You are, by your own confession, an autocrat.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “I am?”
“Yes. At the Worthingtons’ masked ball you said—”
“Ah . . .” Major Reynolds grinned. “So I did.” As he looked at her, his grin slowly faded. His eyes were green and very intense. “I was joking. My wife will be free to be herself.”
“But . . . you said that you would mold her—”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Is he saying what I think he is?
Isabella swallowed. “Major Reynolds . . . Nicholas . . . last night . . .”
She glanced down. Her groom was standing beside the phaeton.
“Yes,” Major Reynolds said.
Her eyes flew to his. “Yes?”
“The answer to your question.” Major Reynolds looked down at the groom, and then back at her. “I have a question for you, too, but now is neither the time nor the place.”
Isabella clutched the reins more tightly. Her heart began to beat loudly in her chest.
“Tonight I dine with Colonel Durham.” The major grimaced briefly. “Tomorrow . . . may I call on you?”
Isabella nodded, unable to speak.
“Two o’clock?”
She nodded again.
Major Reynolds made a slight movement, as if to lean over and kiss her, caught himself, nodded briefly to her, and descended.
Isabella watched him walk away. She felt dizzy, breathless, euphoric.
The groom climbed up into the phaeton and settled himself in the place Major Reynolds had just vacated.
“You drive, Cobb,” Isabella said, handing him the reins. “I’m feeling . . .” Quite light-headed. “A little faint.”
She sat back in the seat and clasped her hands tightly together. Nicholas said yes.
But mingled with the euphoria and the dizzy breathlessness was dread. Tomorrow . . . tomorrow she had to tell him about Harriet.
Chapter Eighteen
It was one of the less enjoyable meals of Nicholas’ experience. The food was good—almost as good as White’s—and the wine excellent, but Colonel Durham wasn’t the most pleasant of dining companions. His conversation consisted almost entirely of reminiscences about campaigns he had fought. In his minute and pedantic dissections of the errors of each battle, Colonel Durham never acknowledged any mistakes of his own—the blunders were always someone else’s.
Everyone makes mistakes, Nicholas thought as he chewed on buttered lobster. It’s part of what makes us human. He reached for his glass, swallowed a mouthful of wine, and looked sourly at the colonel. He’d had a commanding officer like Colonel Durham once. It had been an unpleasant experience. A good officer should acknowledge his errors, not push
them off on someone else.
Interspersed with the reminiscences were heated animadversions about the slyness and dishonesty of his granddaughter. “I have nursed a viper in my bosom!” Colonel Durham declaimed, his face red with rage and alcohol, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.
No blame, of course, attached to the colonel in his dealings with his granddaughter. He was guilty neither of bullying her into marriage, nor of refusing to listen to her pleas. The blame was all Harriet’s. By the end of the evening Nicholas had conceived a deep and profound pity for her. He wished the girl well, wherever she was. He couldn’t even whip up any animosity towards her benefactress; Harriet had needed rescuing, and whoever the woman was and whatever she had said regarding ogres, he no longer cared. Sometime in the past week his rancor had faded.
It was because of Lady Isabella, he thought, a smile playing on his mouth as he stepped from under the portico of the colonel’s club. How could he be angry when he was so foolishly and fatuously in love?
A misting drizzle was falling, smearing the light of the gas lamps. Nicholas scarcely noticed. He strolled back to Albemarle Street, whistling softly under his breath. Mr. Shepherd had requested an interview tomorrow to report his findings. He would call the man off.
Let it rest, he thought as he turned the corner.
Mr. Shepherd arrived punctually at one o’clock. He entered the study, bowed, and bade Nicholas good day. “I’ve had some success in the matter of locating Miss Durham,” he said.
“You have?” Nicholas said, not much interested. “Good.” He opened one of the drawers in his desk and drew out a roll of guineas. “However, I’ve decided that the matter is less important than I’d thought. If you tell me what your expenses are, I can settle your account now.” He gestured the man to a chair.
Mr. Shepherd drew a slim sheath of folded papers from his breast pocket and handed it to Nicholas. “A list of my expenses, sir. And a report detailing my findings.”
“Thank you.” Nicholas picked up the papers, unfolded them, and glanced quickly through the sheets. The list of expenses was short, neatly written in copperplate, and came to a rather high total. He read through it. Ah, the man had taken the stage to Stony Stratford and stayed two nights.
The report was surprisingly long. Nicholas flicked to the last page. His eyebrows rose. An address in London.
He glanced at Mr. Shepherd, sitting quiet and nondescript on the chair in front of him. “She’s here? At this address?”
Mr. Shepherd nodded.
Nicholas leaned back in his chair. Some success? Modesty was clearly one of Mr. Shepherd’s virtues, along with efficiency and punctuality. “Tell me,” he said, laying the report on the desk. “The brief version.” As opposed to the pages of closely written notes.
Mr. Shepherd did so, succinctly. “I determined that Miss Durham took the stagecoach north and alighted at Stony Stratford, where she attempted to stay at the Rose and Crown, but having insufficient funds was turned away. However, a lady who was already residing at that establishment came to her aid, offering her a bed, and taking Miss Durham with her to London the next day.”
Nicholas nodded. “Go on.”
“I spoke to one of her Ladyship’s servants yesterday. Miss Durham is still in residence with her in London.”
Nicholas picked up the report again and turned to the last page. Clarges Street. That was where Lady Isabella lived.
His eyes narrowed suddenly. The street number . . .
Hastily he turned to the previous page. Lady Isabella Knox, he read. Traveling with her servants and two outriders provided by her brother, the Duke of Middlebury. “No,” he said aloud. “You’ve made a mistake. This is wrong.”
Mr. Shepherd was unruffled. “I assure you that my information is correct. Lady Isabella Knox is the person you seek.”
Nicholas shook his head. “No.”
“Lady Isabella was staying at the Rose and Crown on the night in question. She provided accommodation for Miss Durham and took the girl to London with her.” Mr. Shepherd’s voice was light and dry and precise. “Miss Durham is presently residing with her in Clarges Street.”
“No,” Nicholas said again, putting down the report and leaning forward across the desk. “I’ve been to her house. I tell you, Harriet isn’t there!”
“The cook assures me she is. Staying in the blue chamber on the third floor.”
They matched stares, Nicholas’s fierce, furious, and Mr. Shepherd’s impassive.
He’s wrong.
Wrong or not, Mr. Shepherd had spent twelve days—and not a little money—coming to his conclusions. Nicholas reached for the guineas, counted out what he owed the man, and handed them over. “Here,” he said curtly. “Thank you for your work.”
Mr. Shepherd accepted the money. He stood. “Read my report, Major Reynolds. It will all be quite clear.”
Nicholas thinned his lips.
Mr. Shepherd bowed and exited the room.
Nicholas sat for a long moment after the door had closed, staring at the report. Lies. It’s all lies.
But the problem was that it was entirely like Lady Isabella to rescue a penniless runaway. He could imagine her doing it.
No, he told himself firmly. It wasn’t Isabella. She’d said she didn’t know where Harriet was and he believed her. He trusted her.
Nicholas reached for the report, determined to read through it and find Mr. Shepherd wrong.
The first few pages detailed Mr. Shepherd’s efforts to determine what mode of transport Harriet had taken in her flight from London, and where she had alighted: in Stony Stratford.
Mr. Shepherd’s interview with the landlady of the Rose and Crown was brief and uninformative. In his opinion the woman had been bribed not to reveal any information concerning Harriet Durham—her manner had been adamant and defensive.
His subsequent interview with one of the porters, lubricated by several tankards of ale and a guinea, was much more interesting.
He showed Miss Durham into the taproom and fetched his mistress, Mr. Shepherd wrote. Upon ascertaining that Miss Durham had insufficient funds for a room for the night, Mrs. Botham refused her accommodation, unswayed by the girl’s tears and entreaties.
At this point, another lady had entered the taproom. The porter had only heard the conversation through a partly closed door, but in his words the newcomer was “awful polite” and in less than a minute had “routed the old besom.” Mrs. Botham had been, in the porter’s opinion, spitting mad, but far too afraid of offending the lady to cross her.
The porter’s description of Harriet’s benefactress was detailed. Mr. Shepherd produced it verbatim. Nicholas could almost hear the porter’s voice in his head: A prime ’un. A real beauty. Tall, with yeller hair, and so elegant you wouldn’t believe.
The porter knew her name, too: Lady Isabella Knox, a frequent guest on her way to and from Derbyshire. A duke’s daughter, but she looks like a princess, the man had said.
No, Nicholas thought. Not a princess; a goddess.
The porter had also described the lady’s dog: black and tan, with one blue eye and one brown, and a curling tail. A mongrel if ever I saw one, but real well-behaved. Never bites anyone.
Nicholas closed his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face. Clearly Lady Isabella had been in Stony Stratford. And why shouldn’t she? It was on her route south to London.
But she wasn’t the lady who had rescued Harriet. He knew she wasn’t. The porter had made a mistake.
Nicholas opened his eyes and turned the page, reading further.
Mr. Shepherd, not content with the porter’s word, had interviewed an ostler. This man, similarly plied with ale and a guinea, had confirmed the identity of Harriet’s benefactress, on account of her “bang-up horses” and liveried outriders. Both men had agreed that Lady Isabella Knox took up the girl into her carriage the next morning.
Nicholas put down the report. He pushed his chair back and strode across to the cluster of decanters on th
e sideboard. He poured himself a glass of brandy and stood for a moment, breathing deeply. Calm, he told himself. But anger was rising inside him and the brandy, burning down his throat when he gulped it, didn’t help.
He strode back to the desk and read the rest of the report. Mr. Shepherd had spoken to a number of Lady Isabella’s servants, both casually at the local tavern and more formally with the offer of money. All had refused to speak about any guests their mistress may or may not have had staying with her.
But yesterday Mr. Shepherd’s luck had changed; he had managed a few words with the cook, a Mrs. Tracey, who had been quite happy to accept a few guineas in exchange for information concerning Lady Isabella’s houseguest. Miss Durham, she confirmed, had inhabited the Blue Room for the past two weeks. Yes, she had arrived with Lady Isabella when she returned from Derbyshire. No, she hadn’t left the house.
Nicholas closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. Isabella’s image wavered behind his closed eyelids.
She had lied to him. For two whole weeks she had lied to him.
Nicholas opened his eyes. Mr. Shepherd concluded the report with a note concerning a Mr. Fernyhough, who, he said, had been in Stony Stratford several days before himself enquiring as to Harriet’s whereabouts.
Who the devil is Mr. Fernyhough?
Nicholas put the report down. He rubbed his face. The ridges of the scar were hard beneath his fingers, smooth and rough.
Ogre.
He made a sound of disgust, lowered his hands, and turned to the final page of the report. For a full minute he stared at the address, at each flourishing s and neatly looped e. Clarges Street.
Chapter Nineteen
Isabella blew out a shaky breath. “How do I look?” she asked her maid, Partridge. She studied herself in the mirror. Did the yellow of the gown make her hair look dull? “Perhaps I should wear the blue after all.”
“If you wish,” Partridge said, her voice carefully neutral.
Five gowns lay on the bed. Isabella had tried them all on. The pink had been too girlish, the blue too plain, the white too formal, the green too severe, and the cinnamon brown too matronly.