*****
Lord Mercer sat in his library, the windows open to let in a soft breeze. The slightly younger man seated opposite him was immaculately dressed, as usual, his hair perfectly in order, but his face and eyes bore the marks of a sleepless night.
“What in God’s name were you thinking, Westcott?” Mercer did not try to conceal his contempt.
Westcott chafed at being treated like a wayward schoolboy by a man a mere handful of years his senior. What a debacle this was. He groaned inwardly. Entering a liaison with a mistress had never been this problematic before. Oh, a few had ended badly, but the beginning! The beginning had always been so simple, so pleasurable. He wooed, she flirted. He asked, she accepted. To be quite fair, Westcott admitted to himself, Isobel was different. She was a lady and his feelings for her, he also grudgingly acknowledged, went beyond a simple flirtation. He had never before been so captivated by a woman. However, no matter how badly he felt about the fiasco of last night, he would not grovel to Lord Mercer. “I beg your pardon, Lord Mercer; I meant no disrespect to you and your wife. I misunderstood the situation.”
Mercer’s anger grew as he considered the less than sincere apology. He stood as he addressed the heedless young man again. “Misunderstood? You misunderstood that you were about to enter an engagement with one young lady, but blatantly pursued another? You misunderstood that Miss Kennilworth is a gently bred lady and underserving of your lowering assumptions?”
“My understanding with Lady Cynthia is that we are to have a marriage of convenience. My understanding is that though Miss Kennilworth is indeed a true lady; her circumstances have rendered her beyond the reach of polite society and she is therefore ineligible as a wife.”
“She was ineligible as a wife to you because she is penniless. Your father, like so many dunderheads it seems, has squandered your inheritance and you must marry money.”
“Most of us are not fortunate enough to be able to marry for love. Isobel herself was constrained to marry Warwick for those very reasons,” countered Lord Westcott, becoming angry himself.
“Whom you choose to marry, for convenience or not, Lord Westcott is completely irrelevant and interests me not, nor do your reasons for doing so. Your conduct in my house, however, is of great import to me. You, sir, have treated my house and my hospitality with disrespect. Adelphi is not Covent Garden or Drury Lane. I am not accustomed to gentlemen using my house as a place of procurement! And to so treat my wife’s dearest friend!” Mercer spluttered to an end.
“Again, I apologize. I acted heedlessly, but in my defense, I acted out of love. I did not; I still do not want to lose Isobel. I felt my offer was the best I could do in my situation. I knew it would hurt her to hear of my engagement. I begged Lord Stoughton to wait until we returned to London, so that I could properly prepare Isobel and make her mine, though I did not share my reasons with him. But he would not wait, threatening to cancel the engagement. I was tempted. Oh, was I tempted. But my father had extracted a promise from me and I had to keep it.” Westcott rubbed his weary eyes with his left hand, looking thoroughly defeated.
“Your predicament, though pitiable, is not my concern, Westcott. I will give you one piece of advice. Forget about Miss Kennilworth, she will not have you.”
“I sincerely hope you are wrong, Lord Mercer.” Westcott rose. “Is that all?”
“One more thing, though it is not my affair. This preposterous duel you propose to fight with Saybrooke. You say you care about Miss Kennilworth? Adding a duel to her growing list of supposed improprieties will seal her fate with the ton.”
“You are right, Mercer. It is not your affair.” Westcott continued to stand as if waiting to be released.
“Very well. This is a devil of a coil, Westcott. Good day.” Mercer strode to the door to open it, signaling an end to their interview.
“I shall be leaving Adelphi within the hour. Once again, Mercer, I do apologize if my actions have reflected poorly on you or your lovely wife.” Westcott extended his hand to Mercer, who hesitated briefly and shook it.
“I suppose that I should wish you and Lady Cynthia happy.”
Lord Westcott, Mercer’s hand still clasped within his own, looked him in the eye. “You may wish it, Mercer, but I have little hope of happiness with Lady Cynthia,” pronounced Westcott and exited the room. Mercer, shaking his head, watched him go.
*****
“But Manning, surely you must know what has occurred to upset your mistress so,” exclaimed Lady Whitcomb as she sat in the cozy salon and proceeded to grill Manning. Isobel had arrived unexpectedly three hours ago and had burst into tears when Lady Whitcomb asked her why she had returned early. Without another word she had fled to her room, locked the door, admitting only Manning and refused food, conversation or comfort.
“Yes, my lady, but she has forbid me to say anything,” said Manning staring at her shoes.
“And she is not saying either,” sighed Lady Whitcomb, impatient to know why her usually unflappable niece was so distraught.
“I gave her a sleeping powder, my lady. She should feel better after a nice long rest.” Manning curtsied, and turned to leave when Lady Whitcomb stopped her with another question.
“Was it a man?”
Manning’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head, but she said, “I could not say my lady.”
“Ah, it usually is. Did she fall for a married man, is that it?”
“No, my lady. I mean, I could not say, my lady.” Manning fought the urge to run from the room.
“Well, that is a relief. Did she allow a rake to ravage her? Is that it?”
Manning gasped. “She never!” Stopping herself, Manning begged Lady Whitcomb to cease her interrogation. “Please, my lady. Could you not wait to speak to Miss Kennilworth?”
“If I could wait, I would not be badgering you,” said Lady Whitcomb simply.
At that moment Renfrew entered, a buoyant smile on his heavily freckled face. He intoned, in his little-used butler voice, “Lord Saybrooke, my lady, to see Miss Kennilworth.”
“Lord Saybrooke?” She turned to Manning. “Was Lord Saybrooke at Adelphi?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Aha! Renfrew, put him in the parlor and tell him Miss Kennilworth is not receiving, but that I will be down presently. If he makes to go, tell him I wish to see him especially and that I am most anxious to speak with him. Oh, and tell Mrs. Kitchen to prepare tea.”
Renfrew withdrew to carry out his orders and Manning was hard on his heels out of the door. Lady Whitcomb heaved her round body off of the brocade armchair and peeked in on the sleeping Isobel before descending the stairs. She was determined to get some answers.
Lord Saybrooke stood as Lady Whitcomb entered the parlor. “Lady Whitcomb,” intoned Saybrooke, sketching a bow.
“Lord Saybrooke,” returned Lady Whitcomb with a slight inclination of her head. “Please, be seated,” she said as she did so herself.
“I came to inquire after Izzy,” Saybrooke said, lowering himself into a chair opposite Lady Whitcomb. “I have just returned from Hertfordshire.”
“I can see that,” said Lady Whitcomb eyeing the dust and dirt that covered the Viscount’s clothes, his swollen lip and bruised face.
“I apologize for appearing in my dirt, but I was anxious to see how Izzy does.”
“She is sleeping, thanks to a potion of Manning’s. She was distraught when she arrived home; I have yet to learn why. I was hoping perhaps you could tell me.”
“I would not presume to tell Miss Kennilworth’s story in her stead,” answered Saybrooke, reverting to his inbred formality.
“Yes, well, she is sleeping and I am at wit’s end. I must know what has occurred. Come now, Lord Saybrooke, I have known you since you were in leading strings. You were never one to be over concerned about the proprieties.”
“People change,” Saybrooke observed morosely.
“Do we?” asked Lady Whitcomb. “Of course we grow older and are affected by c
ircumstances, good and bad. Hopefully we mature a little. But, no, Lord Saybrooke, I do not think we change who we essentially are. We simply learn to wear masks that protect us from our own vulnerability and present a face that society wants to see. We call it our duty, but it is really a means of hiding our true selves in order to pass muster.”
Saybrooke looked at the woman before him, her chartreuse and violet checked gown, her multiple chins and was unable to hide his amazement. He had always thought her silly, a bit simple. He found himself unable to answer her.
“I know I shock you with my moralizing. I, Lord Saybrooke, have always hidden behind a mask of affability and frivolity. But of late, I am become a bit of a philosopher.”
“I confess to shock, my lady, but also delight.” Lord Saybrooke smiled at the new Lady Whitcomb. No, the true Lady Whitcomb.
“Ooh, the tea has arrived,” cooed Lady Whitcomb, back in her familiar guise. “And Mrs. Kitchen has made cherry tarts! How nice!”
Tea was duly poured, cherry tarts sampled and desultory conversation made. Once Renfrew had left and Lady Whitcomb’s impressive appetite had been momentarily assuaged, she returned to the reason for this little tête-à-tête.
“So, tell me Saybrooke, what have you done to Isobel this time?” Lady Whitcomb’s words caught him off guard and he promptly began to choke on a cherry tart. Lady Whitcomb stood and ineffectively patted Saybrooke on the back. After a prolonged coughing fit and a few sips of tea, Saybrooke was able to speak.
“I? Whatever do you mean, Lady Whitcomb?” he managed, his voice raspy.
“Isobel returned from Adelphi highly agitated. You were at Adelphi. You have always had the power to affect Isobel deeply; in fact, I fear she has never gotten over you. I assumed you had something to do with her distress.”
“As much as I would like to believe in my power over Isobel, I fear it is no longer true. And while Isobel and I did have a few rather difficult conversations, I am not the cause of Isobel’s suffering. It is Westcott.”
“Westcott?” Lady Whitcomb wracked her brain. “Ah, Jeremy Ingles, future Viscount of Bourne,” she said triumphantly. “What has he to do with anything?”
Just as Saybrooke was about to answer, Renfrew reappeared. “Lord Westcott, My Lady.”
Westcott strode into the room and stopped abruptly when he saw Saybrooke. He paused long enough to glare at his rival and then bowed to Lady Whitcomb. “Good afternoon, Lady Whitcomb. Forgive me for intruding. I have come to see how Miss Kennilworth fares.” Lady Whitcomb nodded at the reluctant Renfrew, silently shooing him from the room.
Eyeing yet another gentleman with travel stained clothes, this one with a bandaged nose, Lady Whitcomb shook her head. Did no one dress properly anymore? thought the woman in the hideous dress. “As I explained to Saybrooke, she is resting, but terribly upset. He has intimated that you are the cause of her distress.” Lady Whitcomb’s bead-like eyes fixated on Lord Westcott’s wary blue orbs.
“I am afraid I am guilty as charged, but I am here to make things right. I assure you it was all a misunderstanding,” confessed Lord Westcott.
“Ha!” barked Lord Saybrooke. “How does one misunderstand being offered carte blanche?”
Lady Whitcomb gasped and Westcott glared at Saybrooke. Saybrooke continued. “Unless of course you said ‘mistress’ when you meant ‘wife’? But then where does that leave your affianced Lady Cynthia?”
The color drained from Lady Whitcomb and she looked to swoon. With great difficulty Westcott and Saybrooke together managed to grab her and lower her bulk onto the velvet couch and then rang for Renfrew, who, in turn, sent for Philpot, Lady Whitcomb’s maid.
“See what you have done, Saybrooke. To speak so in front of this poor lady.”
“And yet you did so to Miss Kennilworth without compunction.”
“I will not discuss this with you here. In fact I will not discuss her with you ever,” hissed Lord Westcott.
“Oh, but we shall, at Hampstead Heath. But we shall let our pistols do the talking.”
“So it is to be pistols? My second, Perkins will meet with your man Finch tomorrow morning. Do not try and weasel out of it.”
“Quite the contrary, I look forward to having an open field with Miss Kennilworth.”
Philpot’s arrival with a vinaigrette served to stop the two men from coming to blows. Saybrooke gladly released Lady Whitcomb into her maid’s care. “Lady Whitcomb, I sincerely apologize for causing you distress. I will take my leave, but beg you allow me to call tomorrow to see how you and Izzy are faring.”
Westcott was quick to say his piece. “Yes, my lady, I am desolate to have caused you pain. If you allow me to call tomorrow, all will be made right.”
Lady Whitcomb focused her blurry eyes on each of the gentlemen in turn. “Be gone with both of you scoundrels. We shall see about tomorrow. I make no promises.”
Both men bowed to the troubled lady and took their leave. They exited the house on Woburn Place in silence, both mounted their weary horses and headed in opposite directions.
Inside Lady Whitcomb was slowly regaining her rosy complexion. “My poor Isobel, what humiliation she has suffered! And now there is to be a duel!”
“A duel, my lady?” Philpot asked as she continued to fan her mistress.
“Yes, a duel where two arrogant fools shoot at or try to skewer each other for the sake of honor. Ha! For the sake of idiocy, more like. Go fetch, Manning. I need to know as soon as Isobel is awake. It is time she used her gift for plotting in a good cause.”
Chapter 8
Isobel slept through the night and woke the next morning feeling groggy and depressed. It only took a single breath for her to remember everything that had taken place at Adelphi. Manning arrived with a welcome breakfast of chocolate and toast and an unwelcome Lady Whitcomb.
“Aunt, I promise you I will tell all, but please, just give me a little more time.”
“Oh, I already know everything I need to know, except who exactly is Lady Cynthia?”
Isobel looked daggers at Manning.
“Oh, do not blame Manning. She was as silent as the grave, much to my dismay. No, no. Saybrooke and Westcott filled me in on all the salacious goings on.” Isobel’s gasp of surprise proved disastrous as she was swallowing a piece of toast at the time. It took Manning a full minute to help her recover from her fit of coughing.
“Westcott was here? Saybrooke was here? They told you what occurred at Adelphi?” Isobel did not believe that either man was that far gone, that he would tell her aging aunt about such a sordid affair.
“Oh, I do not believe they meant to tell me, but they got to quarrelling and it all came out. Isobel, I cannot tell you how sorry…”
“Aunt Maude, please, not now. I have stemmed the water works and do not care to shed another tear over the matter. It is done. You know the sad truth; let us put it all behind us. You and I will live quietly here. We have sufficient funds, though not overmuch, to live on. We shall grow old together. You shall write and I will embroider seat cushions.”
“You are terrible at needlework.”
“Thank you, Aunt. But do you not see, in a few years’ time I should improve. Or perhaps I shall try to grow orchids, or learn to play the harp.”
“Enough of these bacon brained ideas. It is not over, Isobel. It is time for you to get up and get dressed. We have work to do. There is to be a duel.”
Isobel gazed at her Aunt, perplexed. “I daresay, though it is illegal, there are often duels.”
“But never before between two men that you love,” stated Lady Whitcomb baldly.
“Two men that I love? I was unaware that there was one such man.”
“Saybrooke and Wescott.”
“I? Love Saybrooke? And as for Westcott…”
“Never mind denying it, we need to do something about it. Think Isobel, after what Reginald has done and Westcott asking you to be his Light o’ Love in view of a number of the Bon Ton, if a duel is fought over you, the
damage to your reputation will be irreparable. Especially if someone dies.” Lady Whitcomb’s tone was grave.
“Dies? Oh, God! But what do you expect me to do?” Isobel pushed away her half eaten toast.
“I expect you to put that conniving brain of yours to good use. If you can trap an already married Marquess into marriage, you can stop a duel. We think the duel will be tomorrow, but Mrs. Kitchen will find out the details.”
“Mrs. Kitchen?” asked Isobel incredulously.
“Her sister, Mrs. Lyle, is housekeeper for the Windermere’s, who live on Curzon St. two doors down from Westcott. Mrs. Lyle is quite friendly with Westcott’s housekeeper. Mrs. Kitchen will visit her sister, who will in turn concoct a reason to visit Ingle House. Gossip is bound to ensue. Now get up and meet me and Mrs. Riggs in the salon in thirty minutes. You will have a clearer mind when you are out of bed and dressed.”
Isobel watched as her sweet Aunt Maude exited the room. “Is it me, Manning, or has my Aunt become unusually assertive?”
“It’s all those lady writers she reads. Downright pushy if you ask me.”
“I suppose I cannot put her off. The violet sprigged muslin, Manning and one of your headache powders.”
*****
Wescott and Saybrooke were true to their word and visited at 65 Woburn place, though thankfully their visits did not coincide. Saybrooke was refused, but Westcott was led into the parlor to find a pale, but still beautiful Isobel awaiting him.
“Oh, my,” said Isobel looking at his swollen nose and black eyes.
“I know I look a fright, but I could not stay away.”
“How did it happen?” asked Isobel, concern in her voice.
“Saybrooke. Evidently he feels the need to protect you.” Westcott could not keep the scorn from his voice.
“He has no right to do so. He is not my brother, or cousin or…”
“Or lover.”
Isobel flushed a deep red and suddenly found the tips of her feet quite fascinating. Hoping to change the course of the conversation, Isobel ordered tea. They talked of inconsequential topics until the tea arrived. Isobel poured and conversation stopped. At last Renfrew retreated and Westcott began his offensive.
Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) Page 10