“I cannot see how this is any business of yours, Saunders. Unless you object to having my bastard granddaughter caring for your children.”
“You are a reprehensible old fool,” Damien said, unable to dispel the flash of pure fury that sprang up within him. He leaned forward and stared steadfastly into the earl’s eyes, exuding an aura of determination and power that momentarily stunned his adversary. “Tell me what you know about Isabella’s father.”
“Nothing. I know nothing.” Damien watched the earl’s face turn dark. “Marianne was my youngest daughter. Most folks said she was the prettiest. She was a shy, quiet girl who kept mostly to herself. Then one day she came to me and tearfully confessed she was going to have a child. She told me some nonsense about being in love with the babe’s father, but she couldn’t marry him. Blast it, she wouldn’t even tell me the bounder’s name. I was so furious, I refused to listen to her pathetic explanations and locked her in her bedchamber.
“After a week of isolation, I thought she’d crumble and tell me everything, but the stubborn chit wouldn’t say a word. I knew I had to do something, so I took Marianne down to Kent, hoping to get Charles Browning, a local doctor I knew, to fix everything. But somehow she convinced the buffoon not to abort her child. I told her she could come home with me if she would reveal her lover’s name, but the obstinate girl refused. I left her with Browning and never set eyes on her again. Eventually Browning married her. She wrote me once, when her child was born, but I saw no need to reply.”
Damien felt his stomach turn. How could a parent be so harsh with his own child as to reject her during the greatest crisis of her life? Damien’s heart filled with empathy for the frightened young Marianne, finding herself in such a dire predicament, having no one to turn to but this hard, unfeeling monster of a parent.
“And the child’s true father?” Damien asked.
“I never found out. Browning sent Isabella here when the girl reached seventeen. My sister Agnes questioned her, but the girl didn’t know anything. She had always thought Browning was her father. I guess her mother never spoke of it. Marianne protected her lover to the end.”
The bitterness in the old earl’s voice echoed through the vast room. Damien heard it, but failed to be moved. Clearly Isabella’s grandfather was an unnatural parent. He had willfully abandoned his daughter and deliberately shunned his granddaughter. As far as Damien was concerned, these bleak memories were precisely what the earl deserved.
A odd combination of anger and pity swept through Damien when he thought of Isabella living in this household with her cold, unforgiving grandfather. How isolated and lonely she must have been. Feeling the need to get away, Damien bowed curtly in the earl’s direction.
“Good day, sir.”
Damien left quickly, not bothering to wait for a servant to escort him out. He had taken no more than three steps outside the room, however, before being ambushed by a woman with light gray hair and a deeply lined face.
“Where are you off to in such a rush?” the woman demanded. She stood directly in front of Damien, boldly blocking his path while leaning heavily on her gold-tipped cane. “I heard your discussion with my brother. Not all of it, mind you, but enough to understand the gist of it.”
“You must be Isabella’s Great-aunt Agnes,” Damien decided. He remembered the cruel treatment Isabella had received from this woman and favored her with a stare that usually sent warning chills down a recipient’s spine. “Good-bye, madam.”
Damien made a motion to go around the woman, but Aunt Agnes thrust up her cane, laying it sharply against Damien’s arm in a forestalling manner. “It will take more than a brooding stare to chase me off, young man. Of course, if you aren’t interesting in finding out the truth, you’d best be on your way.”
“You know who Isabella’s father was?”
“Ah, so now I’ve caught your attention.” Agnes lowered the cane slowly, her eyes darting about the empty hall. “Who are you?”
“Damien St. Lawrence, Earl of Saunders.”
“No, no. I heard all that already. I want to know who you are.”
“I am a friend of Isabella’s.”
“A friend, heh?” Agnes grunted her opinion of his answer. “No matter. Come along, I’ve got something to show you.”
She marched away from the drawing room, leaning on her cane yet keeping her spine stiff. She never once glanced over her shoulder to see if he followed. Damien ignored the doubts that crept into the back of his mind and accompanied Agnes. She led him through several grandly furnished rooms toward the private apartments at the back of the mansion. Eventually they entered a bedchamber decorated in shades of blue. The delicate furniture boasted a high polish, but the room had a closed, unused smell to it.
Agnes stared about the chamber vacantly for a moment, then advanced with great purpose toward a small trunk tucked away in the corner of the room.
“ ’Tis over here, young man. Come along now, you can’t expect an old woman like me to manage such a heavy burden.”
“What is this?” Damien asked as he dragged the trunk into the center of the room, surprised by its weight.
“These were Marianne’s things—at least, what is left of them. My brother had her room stripped and ordered all her belongings burned after he left her in Kent. But I bribed a footman to let me take what I wanted before they lit the fire. I stuffed this trunk full of anything I thought might yield me a pertinent clue. I’ve spent many an afternoon looking through these things, trying to determine who planted that seed in Marianne’s belly.”
Damien’s mouth twisted. “You didn’t send the trunk to your niece? Did it never cross your mind, madam, that Marianne, frightened and living among strangers, might have found comfort in having a few of her belongings?”
“Seeing the remnants of her former life would have reminded the foolish girl of everything she threw away with her impetuous and immoral behavior.”
“What was Isabella’s reaction when she viewed the contents of this trunk?” Damien asked.
“I never showed it to her.”
That cold answer, coupled with the sharp tone of Agnes’s voice, was all the justification Damien needed. Bending at the knees, he squatted down and hoisted the trunk on his left shoulder. Grunting loudly, he stood up, rocking back on his heels slightly until he regained his balance. Using his right hand to steady the burden on his shoulder, he headed for the open door.
“What are you doing? Where are you going with my trunk? I want you to open it here and tell me if you see anything of significance.” Agnes pounded her cane on the floor. “Put down that trunk, young man! I will not allow you to take it from this room.”
“Try and stop me,” Damien said, glancing down at Agnes’s horrified face. He stomped out the door, kicking it shut with his booted foot. Turning around, he leaned against the wall, a look of triumph on his handsome face. Fingers fumbling, he located the brass key and gleefully turned the lock.
Deliberately ignoring the sharp noises and indelicate language emanating from the other side of the door, Damien carried his booty through the house. He reached the main landing and smiled broadly, experiencing a sense of profound pleasure when he remembered the astonished expression on Agnes’s face.
He entered the great hall and encountered several footmen, but no one questioned him. Damien was grateful the earl ran such a rigid household; these properly trained servants would never think to interfere with the behavior of any member of the nobility, even if he was a stranger to them.
An expressionless flunky obligingly opened the front door, and as Damien exited he took great delight in dropping Agnes’s door key into the large potted plant by the entrance.
Damien found his horse tethered in the stables, and upon his command a young groom willingly saddled the animal. Damien mounted his stead and with the lad’s assistance positioned the heavy trunk in front of him, resting it awkwardly on the saddle. He would need to hire a carriage for the journey back to Whatley Grang
e, but Damien felt it prudent to put himself a fair distance away first.
Fishing into his pocket, he retrieved a coin. He flipped the crown in a high arc, and the groom caught the glittering silver piece in midair.
“By the way, Lady Agnes is locked in a second-story bedchamber. Please be sure to inform the household of her unfortunate predicament.” After a slight hesitation, Damien added with a sly wink, “In about three hours.”
Precariously balancing the heavy trunk in front of him, Damien rode down the sweeping drive, feeling an enormous sense of relief at leaving the mansion and its occupants behind him.
Damien leaned out the carriage window and smiled. After four days of traveling in a hired coach, Whatley Grange at last loomed in the foreground, a towering fortress of gray stone. It was a marvelous sight.
When the coach drew nearer, however, Damien was struck by the unmistakable air of dignified neglect. Conditions that had existed for years without drawing his attention were suddenly brought to the forefront. The formal flower beds were choked with weeds, the waters of the lily pond murky and gray, the arbors and shrubberies wild and overgrown.
Yet in Damien’s mind nothing could detract from the splendor of The Grange. He remembered the strict, expensive elegance of Isabella’s grandfather’s estate and realized he much preferred the reckless disorder of his own lands.
At least they still were his lands. Damien’s mouth curled grimly. He did not regret his trip to York, but concentrating on Isabella’s dilemma had relegated his own considerable problems to the background. Damien had no doubt that Lord Poole would make good on his threats and take control of The Grange if Damien was unable to secure the necessary funds to reclaim the mortgages.
The coach hit a deep rut and listed to one side. Damien braced his feet on the floorboards as the carriage righted itself and glanced at the trunk perched opposite him on the cushioned seat. It did not budge.
Damien was sure the driver he hired thought him addle-brained for keeping the thing inside the coach instead of lashing it to the back, but Damien felt a strange reluctance to let the trunk out of his sight. He had not opened it, first because he was in haste to be away, but later because he felt he had no right. The trunk belonged to Isabella, and he intended to present it to her intact.
The coach slowed and drew to a halt at the front door of The Grange. Damien jumped down from the vehicle, then reached in to haul out the trunk. Cradling it in his arms like a child, the earl turned to the driver.
“You are welcome to spend the night. The stables are around back. Joe will assist you with the horses, get you some dinner, and show you where to bed down.”
The driver accepted the invitation with a gap-toothed grin. Flicking the reins sharply, he drove the tired team toward the stables.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Amberly,” Damien said when the housekeeper finally answered his persistent knocking. He set the trunk down and removed his gloves and greatcoat. “It is good to be home. Be sure that someone brings this trunk into my study immediately. I trust that all is well with the children? And Miss Browning? Are they in the schoolroom having lessons?”
“Everyone’s in the drawing room,” Mrs. Amberly answered. She gave the earl a sidelong glance. “Having tea.”
Damien was in too much of a hurry to take interest in the housekeeper’s sullen tone, so he left without further inquiry.
As he entered the drawing room, he immediately noticed the changes. The room was sparkling clean and smelled like roses and beeswax. Yet that was hardly the only difference. Isabella, Lord Poole, and the children were enjoying an elegant tea. The silver gleamed, the napkins were snowy white, and the china unchipped. There were platters of small sandwiches, delicate pastries, flakey scones, fresh fruit tarts, and other elaborate confections that could not possibly have come from Mrs. Amberly’s kitchen.
Ian spotted the earl and jumped up, nearly knocking over his overflowing plate of treats.
“Father! Catherine, look, Father is back!”
The children rushed to embrace him, and Damien felt his heart swell. It was good to be home.
“Ah, the master has returned,” Lord Poole drawled in a censorious voice. “How delightful.”
His tone was like the prick of a needle, but Damien refused to be baited. However, one look at Isabella, fashionably garbed in a charming gown of light green muslin trimmed with ribbons, sent all his good intentions flying out the window.
“Hell’s teeth, what’s going on here? And where the devil did you get that dress, Isabella?” The words were out before Damien could stop himself, and he hated how harsh and jealous he sounded.
“I gave Isabella these garments, Saunders,” Lord Poole said. “Not that it is any of your business.”
“Anything that concerns Isabella is my business, Poole.” Damien’s gray eyes were smoldering as he captured Isabella’s eyes across the room.
The color washed into her cheeks. She lowered her lashes, picked up a light green lace-edged fan that matched her gown, and began moving it vigorously. Damien saw Lord Poole reach for Isabella’s free hand and squeeze it in a gesture of comfort and reassurance. Then Lord Poole turned his eyes to Damien, his expression resembling that of a small boy gloating over a favorite toy.
A hot wave of resentment clogged Damien’s throat, and he gave Lord Poole a violent stare. “I thought you’d be long gone by now, Poole. When are you leaving?”
“Whenever it suits me.”
“Would you care for some tea, Damien?” Isabella interjected. Her face was set in grim lines.
“I have important matters I need to discuss privately with you, Isabella,” Damien said, pointedly ignoring her offer of refreshments.
She lifted her teacup and took a leisurely sip. Damien felt the gloom wrap itself around him. He had suspected that while he was gone from The Grange, Poole would try to burrow his way into Isabella’s good graces, and it was evident he had succeeded. There was an obvious bond of affection and respect between Isabella and Poole that made Damien feel excluded. And strangely hurt.
“I will await you in my study, Isabella,” Damien muttered. Opening the door with a jerk, he escaped into the hall.
Chapter Twenty
Isabella stood outside Damien’s study door fighting against the nerves that threatened to overcome her. She had been avoiding this encounter for nearly two hours, uneasy with the notion of being alone with him again. Much had happened during his absence, and if Damien’s reaction in the drawing room was any indication of his mood, Isabella knew it would be a volatile meeting.
Deciding she could no longer stall for additional time, Isabella knocked sharply on the door, opened it, then forced her reluctant legs to move forward. Damien was seated behind his massive oak desk, an assortment of papers strewn around him. He turned toward her when she crossed into his domain, and for the briefest moment something fierce glimmered in the depths of his stormy gray eyes.
“So you have finally decided to grace me with your presence. What took you so long?”
The harshness in his voice roused Isabella’s fighting spirit. “I saw no reason for haste, since I strongly suspected your greeting would be less than cordial. And now you have proven me correct in my assumption.”
Damien gave a loud snort and leaned back in his chair. “You can hardly expect politeness from me after that cozy scene I witnessed in the drawing room. Damn it, Isabella, I am gone for six days, and when I return I’m made to feel like a stranger in my own home. I hardly recognize the place.”
A twinge of guilt invaded Isabella’s mind, but she was not about to indulge it. She folded her arms tightly across her chest and stood stiffly in front of him.
“We thought you would be pleased, Damien. When the opportunity presented itself to make a few improvements, we seized upon it. I’m sorry you don’t approve. It was never our intention to annoy you.”
“Our intention?” Damien slapped his hand down loudly on the desk and rose to his feet. “How disgustingly intim
ate you and Poole have become in my absence.”
“Lord Poole? He took no part in these decisions. Three women from the village have been hired on as day maids, and a male chef is now installed in the kitchen. Jenkins asked for my assistance in this matter, and we interviewed these new servants together. He and I are responsible for the changes at The Grange.”
Damien returned Isabella’s piercing stare. “Is Jenkins also responsible for your new wardrobe?”
Isabella felt herself coloring, and her defiant stance withered fractionally. Although she enjoyed her lovely new gowns, she did not feel entirely comfortable with the notion of wearing garments that had once belonged to Emmeline. Jenkins had repeatedly assured her the earl would not object, but Isabella secretly feared Damien would think she had done something horribly inappropriate when he discovered the truth.
“This was Emmeline’s gown,” Isabella said quietly, her fingers smoothing the soft folds of the green muslin skirt. “Lord Poole gave me several of her dresses. Jenkins thought it permissible for me to accept them, but I shall return the garments to Lord Poole if it upsets you to see me wearing them.”
Damien’s mouth dropped open. “What the devil is Poole doing with Emmeline’s clothes? Does he travel about the countryside with her garments packed away in his luggage?”
Isabella let out a nervous giggle. “What a ridiculous notion, Damien. Don’t be absurd.”
The earl gritted his teeth. “I suggest you tread carefully, my dear. My patience has been sorely tried this afternoon.”
“So has mine, my lord.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing him momentarily speechless. Capitalizing on her advantage, Isabella quickly added, “This dress came from the armoire in Emmeline’s bedchamber. It is filled with gowns, most of which were never worn.”
“I remember now,” Damien said, his eyes involuntarily sweeping over Isabella. “After Emmeline disappeared, Jenkins and I searched her bedchamber. I recall thinking it strange that she kept such an extensive wardrobe here, since she came to The Grange so infrequently.”
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