He wasn’t different—except that he now had bags of money and vast amounts of land.
Besides the Ravenwood estate in Kent, he now held property in Cumberland and Lancashire, as well as a large sugar plantation in Barbados. According to the ledgers, this plantation had enabled the previous earl to almost double the family fortune.
He would settle some property upon his mother, as well as a generous allowance and a fashionable London residence in which she could again hold court. That ought to put him back in her good graces for awhile, at least.
He poured himself another cup of tea from the silver service and opened the second ledger. But as he tried to concentrate on the figures, his mind returned to Isobel once again.
He would have to arrange for her settlement with the solicitors and install her in her own residence, as they’d agreed. But at some time, he supposed, there would have to be an heir.
Though he had never really discussed it with her, he’d assumed Isobel would understand her duties as his wife included producing an heir. They didn’t have to live together to do that. They didn’t have to be in love. They could stick to their agreement. Like many other men of his rank, he could visit his wife wherever she chose to live until she was with child. His child.
Happily, she had not been averse to his advances last night in the Whitcomb garden. She’d been like a quivering little flower in his arms. And he had wanted to coax her open like a new bud, soft and fragile. It had taken a good deal of his strength not to lay her down in the grass and take her right then and there.
Just thinking about it brought a wicked smile to his lips.
She had done battle with Cordelia and survived. Isobel had a sharp wit that he found refreshing, and an uncommon beauty that made him want to protect and ravish her at the same time. Well, she was his wife.
Why shouldn’t he feel that way? Better that than being married to someone he despised.
Though it was terribly bad form to become sentimental about one’s wife. That was the very reason he’d married Isobel in the first place, he reminded himself. He’d wanted a business arrangement, and that’s what this was. The need to have sexual relations with her, no matter how enjoyable, was purely part of their duty to the estate and family.
He would make sure that while he was kissing Isobel, and stroking her, and mounting her, and burying his face in her neck as he exploded within her—that it was purely business.
Unable to fix his attention on the figures before him, Beckett closed the ledger and looked at the clock.
Quarter-past-ten.
He had thought it best to let Isobel sleep late this morning. But he was curious as to her health after last night’s excitement. If she was recovered, perhaps they could conclude their business tonight.
Beckett found Hartley in the salon. “Has Lady Ravenwood arisen yet?”
“She has, my lord. The countess went outside to draw in the garden earlier this morning. She must still be there, as I have not seen her since.”
“Is she feeling better?”
“She looked well, my lord.”
Beckett nodded. “Thank you, Hartley.”
He stepped through the French doors that led out into the garden and glanced about the grounds. Isobel was nowhere in sight. He could only presume she was behind the bushes on the other side of the fish pond.
He walked across the garden, a smile stealing across his lips. How much better she would feel when he made love to her. He would do so tonight.
He stopped, wondering if she’d heard his approach, then peered around the bushes.
No Isobel.
Only Monty. Beckett’s big brown dog jumped to attention and barked happily when he saw his master.
Beckett smiled and patted the dog’s head. “Did Isobel bring you out, boy?” Now, where was she?
He turned around and looked toward the wrought-iron fence.
Not there, either.
He and Monty walked around the oak tree.
“Isobel?”
The garden answered with silence. Perhaps she had gone in again.
Beckett walked back to the house with Monty beside him and went inside. “Isobel?” he called. He trotted up the stairs and nearly bumped into Isobel’s new maid.
“Oh, Katie, is Lady Ravenwood in her chamber? I should like to speak with her.”
The dark-haired girl shook her head. “No, m’lord. I haven’t seen m’lady since early this morning.”
Beckett’s brow furrowed. Obviously, this was one of the irritating aspects of marriage. He guessed that most of the husbands in London spent the better part of the day trying to find where their wives had got to. Oh, why couldn’t women sit still? Bother!
Beckett hastily checked the upstairs, then descended to the first floor and took a quick look in all of the downstairs rooms.
No Isobel anywhere.
“Perhaps she has taken a walk, my lord,” Hartley offered. “The park, perhaps?”
“It may be possible,” Beckett replied, running his hand through his hair. “Though I’d have thought she would have more sense than to go to Hyde Park alone. If she does not return soon, we shall go and look for her. She may have become lost.”
The door-knocker sounded, and the two men looked at each other with knowing expressions.
“That must be Lady Ravenwood, now.” Beckett smiled as Hartley went to answer the door. “Doesn’t know that she needn’t knock at her own door, I suppose.”
Hartley opened the door, but instead of Isobel standing there, three gentlemen stared back.
“May I help you?” Hartley asked.
“I should like to know if Lady Ravenwood is at home, if you please,” the white-haired man said.
“She is not at home,” Beckett said, quickly coming up beside his butler. “I am her husband.”
“Then you are most unfortunate, sir,” the man replied.
“And who are you sir, to speak so?” Beckett felt a strange mixture of irritation and foreboding swell in his gut.
The older gentleman paused for effect, staring at Beckett with unamused eyes. “I am Lord Palmerston, chief justice of the King’s Bench.”
“And what could you possibly want with my wife?”
Lord Palmerston pulled a sheet of paper from his coat pocket.
“I am here to arrest her, sir.”
“On what charge?” Beckett demanded, snatching the paper away.
Looking quite bored with the matter, the old man straightened his cuffs.
“Murder.”
Beckett blinked, finding it hard to believe his ears. “I beg your pardon?”
“She is accused of the murder of Mr. Edward Langley, her late guardian,” Palmerston said with obvious satisfaction. “Well, where is your wife, Lord Ravenwood? The constables will take her into custody until trial.”
“Until trial? Who is Edward Langley? And why would you think that Lady Ravenwood could be guilty of the crime?”
“We have witnesses, sir, who claim to have seen the former Miss Isobel Hampton stab her guardian at Hampton Park, a week ago.”
Hampton Park?
“You must be mistaken, Lord Palmerston. I know nothing of Hampton Park. My wife is from…” Good God, where was she from?
“I assure you,” Lord Palmerston said, “she is Isobel Hampton, late of Hampton Park, and soon to be of Newgate Prison.”
“She is not here.” Beckett folded his arms. “She has gone to visit a family friend in Chilton.”
“In Chilton.” Lord Palmerston did not look pleased at this news. “And what would be the name of this ‘friend?’ ”
“Lady Withypoll Weston.” Alfred’s Great Aunt would be thrilled to have visitors from London. He wished these thick-headed oafs a heap of luck with the eccentric old woman.
“Well, I shall send constables to fetch her then,” Palmerston said, clearly perturbed that his quarry was not immediately available.
“You must know these charges are pure flummery.”
; “That remains to be seen. You sound very confident about the character of a woman you’ve known only a week, Ravenwood.”
At the man’s cheeky words, Beckett felt uncertainty slowly spreading through his gut, dark and bitter as cold coffee. Alfred’s warnings about taking Isobel home that night echoed in his head. Who was this mysterious girl he had married?
Beckett didn’t know the answer.
“I shall ask you to leave now, Palmerston.” Beckett stood back so Hartley could close the door.
Lord Palmerston opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Beckett’s valet slammed the door in his face.
Beckett patted the servant’s shoulder. “Good job, Hartley.”
“Shall we go and look for Lady Ravenwood, my lord?”
“Yes, but first you must have a message sent to Lord Weston. We shall need his help.” Beckett hastily donned his jacket. “If any of us find Lady Ravenwood, we must take her back to Lord Weston’s townhouse. Not here, is that understood? I’m sure Palmerston will have someone watching this place.”
“Thank goodness Lady Ravenwood went out for a walk when she did.”
“Yes, very convenient of her to disappear just before a magistrate came to arrest her for murder, wasn’t it?”
“You don’t think…” the servant began, aghast.
“I have no idea what to think, Hartley.” Beckett ran his hand through his hair. “But we’d better find her before they do. I’d like to ask my wife a few questions of my own.”
It was hopeless. She was totally lost.
Street after busy street seemed to be populated with the same people, the same carriages nearly running her over, the same hawkers yelling at her to try their sweetbreads and pastries.
Isobel brushed aside a curl from her face and tried to look like she knew where she was going. All the while, she kept her eyes alert for Sir Harry. She didn’t bother looking for Beckett. There was no chance that he would pursue her. Surely Sir Harry’s cronies had come by now, and her husband had surely been soured to her by their lies.
Sometimes, Isobel would spot Sir Harry moving in the crowd ahead of her. A piercing fear would rip through her gut like a pistol ball. Then she’d see that it wasn’t him at all, but the whisper of terror would stay with her. It was a terrible feeling to live in fear.
“Ow!” Isobel stumbled on a loose cobblestone and lost her shoe. Quickly, she placed it back on her foot before a hungry-looking dog could snatch it out of her hands. “Go away! Shoo!”
The dog snarled at her, then ran off after some other prize.
Isobel resumed walking, wondering where on earth she was going to spend the night. Perhaps a church would offer her shelter. At least she looked like a proper young lady, although walking the streets of London by herself, even in daylight, was anything but proper.
Her feet began to ache. Her shoes were not designed for anything more strenuous than sitting down with needlepoint in her lap. How long had she been walking? And how much farther would she have to go before she could stop?
She had no money and nothing of value to trade or pawn… except for herself.
Certainly, she could have taken the topaz jewelry that Beckett had given her to wear to the ball. Or she could have ripped the expensive lace and pearl trimmings from some of her dresses and sold them to a dressmaker.
She’d learned, it was hard to know what to pack when you were fleeing for your life. Wasn’t that how she’d ended up in the alley in nothing but her nightdress—without even shoes to cover her feet?
She looked down at the leather slippers that peeked out from under the hem of her skirt. Well, this time she had shoes, at least. And they would have to do.
Taking the topaz earrings, or the expensive trimmings that Beckett had given her would have been theft.
And though money would have been helpful, she could not steal from the man who had come to her rescue.
Somehow, she would manage.
Isobel looked at the wide, busy street ahead of her, hoping she could manage to get across it without getting herself killed.
A carriage charged in front of her, practically spinning her around like a child’s top. When the dust settled, she turned to cross again, but stopped when a huge white stallion blocked her way. Could these Londoners be any more rude? Looking up, she shielded her eyes from the midday sun to see the rider.
Beckett.
His blazing blue eyes flashed as he swung a leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground.
Isobel turned to run, but he was immediately upon her, strong hands grabbing her arms and jerking her out of the middle of the street.
“And just where do you think you’re going, my charming little countess?” he asked, his face towering above her, blocking out the sun.
“I—I went for a walk and I became lost.” She tried to free herself from his grip, but his powerful hands held her prisoner.
“Lost? You managed to get yourself halfway across the city! Very conveniently, I might add. You had some callers this morning. Lord Palmerston and his constables.”
Isobel felt the blood drain from her face. “Lord Palmerston—”
“He came to arrest you for murder.” Beckett pulled her close, and Isobel stared helplessly up into eyes as hard and shiny as sapphires. “For murder, Isobel! Why would anyone suspect you of such a thing? And why didn’t you tell me about Hampton Park?”
As he said the name of her home, Isobel jerked backward, struggling to break her husband’s hold.
Beckett mercilessly tightened his grip. “What are you hiding?”
Would he turn her over to Palmerston, as Sir Harry had claimed? She squirmed and wrenched free, darting into the busy street.
“Isobel!” Beckett shouted from close behind her. “Isobel, come back!”
Fear pulsed through her blood as she dashed between carriages and horses, but it wasn’t from the danger of the street traffic. It was her husband she feared.
It was all over, now. She had lied to the man who had saved her life. And now, he too, would abandon her.
She was almost across the street. Was he still behind her? She dared a quick look over her shoulder and didn’t see him.
As she turned her head to look forward, she saw the strangest sight. It seemed to be happening so slowly, yet she knew that the curricle bearing down on her was travelling terribly fast—so fast that she couldn’t get out of the way in time.
She was going to die. Merciful heavens, she was going to die!
Suddenly she was flying. The ground came up to meet her and she hit it with a breathtaking thud. A heavy weight pressed down on her and she tried vainly to get a breath, but the wind was knocked out of her.
Strong hands yanked her up and thumped her back. In a moment, her lungs found the breath they’d been struggling for, and she closed her eyes in relief.
“That was bloody stupid!”
Her eyes flew open and she saw Beckett looking down at her, fuming. She fought against his grip but knew it was fruitless.
“Let me go, you great oaf!”
“Oaf? Oaf, you say? Well, if that’s the thanks I get for saving your life, I should have let the blasted curricle run you down.” Beckett grabbed her shoulders and pulled her closer.
“Call me ‘touched-in-the-head,’ but I have a strange aversion to becoming a widower in the same week that I was married. And I do not like to be lied to by my wife, do you understand?”
He released her and stepped away, folding his arms across his chest. “To say I am curious to hear what possible explanation there could be for all this—starting with why you ran away this morning—is putting it mildly. Promise me you will never do anything so foolish as that again.”
Momentarily silenced by his words, Isobel nodded. A faint glimmer of hope shone in her heart. Would he stand by her, then?
“Good. Obeying your husband. Very good. Yet, I think you need more improvement in that regard.” He put his hand around her shoulder and steered her down the stree
t. “I am taking you to Alfred’s townhouse.”
“Lord Weston? But—”
“They will be waiting for you at Covington Place, Isobel. I told them you’ve gone visiting Alfred’s Great Aunt Withypoll in Chilton, but I don’t think they quite believed me. So we will stay at Alfred’s until we sort out what to do. And I would like a quiet place in which to hear your answers to this murder charge.”
Isobel stopped and looked up at him.
His eyes were guarded. “Just because I didn’t wring your lovely little neck doesn’t mean you are forgiven.”
The ride to Alfred’s townhouse in Mayfair was terribly quiet. Isobel stared out the window of the hired coach and tried to collect her thoughts. So much had happened today, it was difficult to make sense of it all. So instead, she watched the city go by as the coach wheels rolled toward Lord Weston’s home in Upper Stanbury Street.
What would Beckett do to her? Would he wash his hands of her, and turn her over to her enemies?
Many men in his position would, she knew.
But surely, Beckett was not a cruel man. He was angry with her, and would probably be even more so before she was through explaining the truth of the matter. But would he have come looking for her if he didn’t care?
She looked at him as if he had spoken, but it was only her thoughts that made her do so.
He must have felt the weight of her stare, because he glanced at her with eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her. Then he looked away.
His indifference felt like a slap, but Isobel was grateful. It made very clear how things stood.
Certainly Beckett cared about her, just as he cared about Monty and Caesar and the other animals he’d rescued. She was simply another stray, a wayward creature he’d found on the street.
Yet, Beckett was her husband. She was his property in the eyes of the law, and therefore her life was very much in his hands. Sir Harry’s threat echoed in her ears. Would Beckett believe her story after he realized she’d been lying to him about everything? If he didn’t, what would her fate be then?
Oh, this would not do. She had to get her head on straight before they reached Lord Weston’s. She wanted to be calm when she told Beckett her story. She needed to be calm, because the truth would bring the horror of that night back to torment her.
The Marriage Bargain Page 9