Then came the inevitable introductions where she would learn for certain if any of them might recognize her. The younger girls all gave the appropriate murmurs of greeting. Henrietta and Catherine Upperton greeted her with solemn good cheer. Mrs. Upperton and Mrs. St. Claire exchanged glances behind their daughters’ backs. Those two would bear watching. Clearly something about Isabelle triggered their maternal sense of potential trouble. They, no doubt, had heard of her real name, even if they’d never been introduced until now.
Soon enough, chatter and gossip replaced words of sympathy. At one time, such a gathering would have been a delight. She’d have happily exchanged on-dits with the others. When Catherine Upperton sighed over the Duke of Amherst’s youngest son, Isabelle chewed on her tongue to stop herself from recounting the time she’d walked into his father’s stables and caught him covered head to foot in horse manure. How the others would gasp in horror, but she couldn’t admit the connection any more than she could admit she’d nearly accepted an offer from his eldest brother.
“And who are you connected with?” Mrs. St. Claire held her teacup halfway to her lips, eyeing Isabelle’s decidedly unfashionable linsey garments. Nothing of pastel-tinted muslins for her. Only practical work clothes that hid the stains.
Isabelle made herself hold the woman’s gaze. If the gossips would brand her as brazen, she must brazen this moment out. “No one of any consequence.”
“She lives in the village, Mama,” Julia said. “She’s come to us for help.”
Something flickered in the older woman’s eyes. Nothing so decisive as recognition. No, it was more along the lines of doubt tinged with suspicion. She’d seen Isabelle somewhere before, and it certainly wasn’t in some village in Kent. She just couldn’t place where, exactly, or when.
Isabelle gathered all this in the time it took Mrs. St. Claire to sip daintily of her tea and set her cup back down. “And what sort of help do you need?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but the words jammed in her throat. She hardly wanted to call this woman’s attention to her plight. Letting her know of Jack’s existence was handing her another piece of a puzzle Isabelle had no desire for her to complete. She did not recall Mrs. St. Claire from the days before her downfall, but she knew the type well enough. Older women, unhappily married, who passed the hours listening to gossip, feeding themselves on the news of others’ failings because it filled a void in their own lives, and perhaps, just perhaps, they kept an eye on their wayward husbands at the same time.
A new arrival in the morning room saved her from having to respond. A cheery good morning, the voice familiar. Her heart jumped inside her chest. It couldn’t be. She turned and her heart plummeted. It was. In the doorway, still as a statue and staring directly at her, stood Emily Marshall.
Her cousin.
CHAPTER NINE
“YOU.” THE word issued from Emily’s lips on a whisper of astonishment.
Isabelle’s hands turned icy, and she set her teacup aside before she lost her grip on the porcelain.
“What are you doing here?” Emily advanced into the room. “What is the meaning of this?”
Isabelle hardly knew what to reply. The collective gaze of the other ladies settled on her shoulders as an unbearable weight. Her hostesses must be exchanging concerned glances. Mrs. St. Claire was no doubt hiding a smirk while she gleefully thought of repeating this juicy tidbit throughout the next Season.
Isabelle was obliged to surmise all of this, however. She couldn’t take her eyes off her cousin. Emily had grown in the intervening years. Too young when the scandal broke to hear of its exact nature directly from her elders, she was still old enough to discover the gossip through her own means. By the age of thirteen, Emily had become adept at listening at doors when the adults spoke in hushed tones.
Emily stood tall in a morning gown of pale yellow muslin edged in the finest French lace. The height of fashion, of course. Nothing too good for the Marshalls, as long as you lived up to their standards.
“I demand an explanation.”
The order, spoken as if to a servant, broke whatever spell had held the room in thrall. Julia struggled to her feet. “Mrs. Mears is from the village. She—”
“Mrs. Mears, is it?” Emily kept her gaze trained on Isabelle. “Did you dupe some unfortunate soul into marrying you? Or have you lied to these good ladies?”
“Now see here,” Julia insisted. “She’s come to us for help. There’s no call to accuse her of lying.”
“That’s quite all right, my lady.” Isabelle’s quiet statement cut through the tension. She kept her eyes downcast so as not to see the admonishment on Julia’s face at the title. Under the circumstances, she preferred the distance created by formality. She no longer belonged to these circles. “I won’t disturb your gathering any longer.”
She leaned forward to stand, intent on stalking out with all the dignity she could muster. A hand on her shoulder stopped her progress. She turned her head to find Sophia had crossed to sit beside her on the settee.
“You aren’t disturbing us in the least.” The countess’s normally breathy voice took on an edge of steel. “You’re quite welcome to stay. If anyone feels offended by your presence, I daresay the problem lies with them.”
Isabelle blinked and blinked again, but the sudden burning behind her eyes persisted. Her throat tightened until the only reply possible was a curt nod.
“It ought to be her problem.” Emily sniffed, her expression so smug, so arrogant with her firm chin and taut lips. “No decent family would receive her. No decent family ought to.”
Anger burned to the surface and dissipated the knot in Isabelle’s throat. How dare she? If Emily had kept her mouth shut, they might have moved past this with no one the wiser. But Emily’s self-righteous outrage had only served to call attention to the old scandal. Isabelle’s shame reflected poorly on all the Marshalls, Emily included. Well, Cousin Emily had always been a spoiled brat.
“Do you mean to imply your hostesses are not of decent family? Perhaps you ought to leave, then, before they sully your pristine reputation and ruin your chances at making a suitable match.”
A gasp came from one of the ladies as the echo of Isabelle’s words faded. Too late, she realized, that in her anger she’d forgotten to maintain her accent. Her elocution had been just as clear and precise as she’d been taught by her governesses—perfectly in keeping with her cousin’s.
Two red blotches formed on Emily’s cheeks. “If I’ve not drawn the attention of someone suitable, it’s because of the scandal you’ve brought on the family.”
“Really?” Brows raised, Isabelle shot to her feet. “Papa hasn’t ensured things were kept quiet?”
“He has his ways, as you well know. No one dares speak of you to his face, but behind his back …” Emily waved a dismissive hand. “Behind his back, he has no say.”
“And in all that time, no one’s found something else to talk about? Have you shot yourself in the foot by keeping old gossip alive? Because I can’t imagine why else my doings would remain fresh in anyone’s mind for so long. I haven’t paraded myself through society lately. I’ve been living very quietly and out of everyone’s eye for some time now. I might have continued if you hadn’t dredged up the past.”
She paused for breath and felt the burn of a roomful of rapt gazes at her back. Oh, she’d done it now. Tongues would be wagging for days, repeating the story of her disgrace with the addition that the intervening years had turned her into a shrew. There’d be no more hiding her antecedents, either. Not after Emily’s outburst.
She caught Sophia’s eye and experienced a pang deep in her belly. Sophia, a beautiful countess who had extended the hand of friendship, only to have it betrayed. She stood next to Isabelle, pale and speechless, an emotion akin to pity in her blue eyes.
“Forgive me,” Isabelle murmured. “I’ve intruded on your gathering far too long.”
She straightened her spine, raised her chin, and marched to
ward the door. On her way from the manor, she met the gaze of no one else.
THE sun had begun its descent toward the horizon by the time George strode up Shoreford’s broad front steps. He ought to have been exhausted after a sleepless night followed by a day of tedious searching. Who would ever imagine a small boy of little account could disappear so completely?
Only at the end of the afternoon had he come across anything closely resembling a solid clue. One of the stable boys at the inn may have heard someone moving about in the night. An investigation of the hayloft revealed an abandoned lace-trimmed handkerchief, but that may well have been left behind following a hasty assignation.
Still, it was more than he’d come across the rest of the day. Now all he wanted was to meet Revelstoke and the others to compare their findings. If he could bring any sort of hopeful news to Isabelle, all those fruitless hours would not have been a complete loss.
He strode straight to Revelstoke’s study, fully expecting to find the others discussing the day over brandy. He pulled the door open to an empty room.
Damn and blast. Now what was he to do? He couldn’t very well present Isabelle with the handkerchief, not when it smelled of roses. He pulled the scrap of linen from his topcoat pocket and sniffed.
No, he hadn’t been mistaken. How odd. The handkerchief’s erstwhile owner held the same taste in scent as his former mistress. He shoved the offending article back into his pocket. The last thing he needed was a reminder of those difficulties.
And if he spent this time helping Isabelle to locate her son, when, exactly, would he find a few hours to relieve some of the other gentlemen of their blunt?
They needed to find Jack and soon, before the gathering broke up and his creditors tracked him down. His creditors, who now included Roger Padgett. Lucy’s brother. He pulled out the handkerchief and sniffed again. What were the odds?
Too long to wager on, but not long enough to ignore.
Damn it, where were the others? He might take care of both his problems over a few hands of vingt-et-un while learning of their findings. He might distract himself from this new quest, one Isabelle was right to question this morning. But, hang it all, he’d answered her truthfully. What sort of gentleman would he be if he ignored her plight? What kind of human? It was perfectly normal for him to feel this protective of a struggling young woman.
Wasn’t it?
Upon closing the study door behind him, he wandered in the direction of the ballroom, in hopes of rousting someone up. But that space, too, was unoccupied. The lack of off notes jangling in the air ought to have alerted him to that fact. His sisters, no doubt, had joined the other ladies outside. The afternoon was warm and breezy, perfect for a walk in the gardens or sketching. No doubt Miss Abercrombie had found a worthy subject or two.
The pianoforte beckoned. No, he couldn’t. Not with more important matters on his mind.
But his fingers ached to touch the keyboard again, and he thought of the peace it would bring him. Losing himself for a few moments was nearly as good as a glass of brandy. He’d sat at the instrument only last night, and Isabelle had discovered his secret, yet once more the need arose in him. Damned yearning for the feeling of the music flowing through him, around him, and in him, originating from somewhere deep inside, behind his heart, perhaps in the vicinity of his soul.
He stepped away, but could not take his eyes from the instrument. More demanding than any of his mistresses, it called to him. Mocked, even. Yes, come to me. You know you want to. You cannot resist.
God, yes, this feeling, this obsession, this joy, something he’d tried to bury years ago. But whenever he gave in—since he’d released the yearning last night—it clambered for freedom once more, to rejoice in the light of day.
The ballroom lay under the hush of the late afternoon humidity. Here, in the shelter of stone walls, no breeze chased the heaviness from the air. His boots thumped dully against the parquet as he crossed to the piano. The instrument dominated this end of the room, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight angling through a high, west-facing window.
He sat on the bench and rubbed a forefinger across the cool smoothness of a single key. One note, just one. Beneath his touch, the ivory warmed like a living thing. He applied pressure until the key descended and the note’s purity tolled through the space. G, nine half tones above middle C. He knew without looking, based on pitch alone.
He closed his eyes and pressed another key and another. The second hand joined the first, and he gave himself over to the melody, the counterpoint, the low throb of the bass notes in contrast to the tinkling of the treble. The music transported him to another world where nothing but harmony existed, where time ceased, where he might lose himself …
“Gracious, I’ve never heard anything like it.”
He started, his eyes opening abruptly, his fingers falling to strike a final discordant jangle. He winced and let his hands fall to his side. Henrietta stared, wide-eyed, from just beyond the empty music rack. Of course, he’d used no noted sheets. He’d been improvising, his fingers moving faster than thought. He ought to have stuck to Mozart.
His glance passed from face to face—a sea of them surrounded the piano, their expressions ranging from shock to intrigue to speculation. Miss Abercrombie’s eyes narrowed, as if she were already revising his portrait.
“Mr. Upperton, I had no idea you played so beautifully.” Prudence Wentworth batted her eyelashes at him.
He blinked twice. God, how could he have forgotten himself this way? Then he recalled he ought to incline his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.
“Oh please, don’t stop. Play something else,” another young lady twittered.
“Yes.” A third clapped her hands. “If only the other gentlemen would return, we could have dancing.”
This was it. They’d hound him now. Devilish compulsion that dogged him to give up his secret. He ought to take a sledgehammer to the goddamned piano and smash until nothing remained but slivers of wood, twisted wire, and shards of ivory.
He tamped down the urge and pushed himself upright. “I’d hardly be courteous if I continued when so many others might demonstrate their talents.” He’d certainly never intended to put his on display. He gestured to the bench. “Please.”
A chorus of feminine sighs went up. No one dared protest, not with their mamas and chaperones all watching for the smallest slip in decorum. Heat prickled at his nape. While he generally enjoyed feminine scrutiny, it was normally for his more manly accomplishments. The piano, as his father often berated him, was hardly a masculine bastion. Ironically, several of the younger misses were staring at him in open admiration, their cheeks pink with appropriately chaste excitement.
God save him.
He concentrated on his sister, who watched, her head turned away so that she regarded him from the corner of her eye. Was that hurt creasing her brow? Jealousy? He’d gladly give her this useless talent if he could.
At last, Miss Wentworth took a place at the keys and launched into a credible rendition of a Beethoven piano sonata. Her fingers fumbled now and then over the rhythm—clearly lacking the required feeling to create an emotional performance—but she struck far fewer false notes than Henrietta.
He plastered what he hoped was a mild expression on his face and backed up a step every so often, in hopes of slipping out the door unnoticed. He’d wasted enough time. He needed the men to return and soon, rather than pass the remainder of the afternoon with a roomful of hopefuls. And he hadn’t seen Isabelle anywhere in the group.
“Don’t you think you can sneak away like that, not when you had those girls completely enthralled.”
George suppressed a groan. The last thing he needed was his mother badgering him into putting on another performance. Bad enough she put his sisters on regular display. And Mama would feel no compunction about the idea. Unlike his father, she would see no reason to criticize his musical ability as unmanly.
“I thought I’d be polite and let someone
else have a turn.”
Mama stepped directly into his path. Now that her position forced him to look her full in the face, he could see the tears shining in her eyes. “Never, never have I heard the like, and from my own son. How …” She pressed her fingers to her lips for a moment. “How have I never heard you play when your sisters are so accomplished?”
He would not laugh. He would not. Not when his mother was so convinced. Not when she was so moved. He tossed his shoulder in a half shrug.
“Papa preferred I pursue other studies.” He pronounced the words carefully to keep the bitterness from his voice.
“Oh my dear, had I only known. I would have insisted.”
She might well have, but nothing would have changed his father’s opinions on what proper masculine pursuits entailed. Papa had been quite adamant in that regard. Gambling, drinking, whoring, dueling if necessary—all of those constituted a gentleman’s daily regimen. Love of music—unless that love translated itself into a particular fondness for opera singers—was fit for women. Those men who indulged their talents were highly suspect—unnatural, even.
George had been nothing if not a dutiful son.
“No matter.” It did matter, but that was no reason to dredge up the past. Not when his father had long since left this earth and could no longer answer for his shortcomings. Mama most likely didn’t even know a quarter of Papa’s vices. No point in upsetting her further by bringing them to light.
“You must give a performance.”
God, no. The last thing he wanted was the entire ton staring at him. He was quite content with their view of him as a rogue and a rake. Tortured artistic souls had no place at the gaming hells and types of clubs he frequented. “Leave the performance to Henny and Catherine.”
Her chin firmed, a sure sign she was about to dig in her heels.
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