In Honour Bound (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 1)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  He nodded, the frown deepening. “Yes, I know. But that was in September.”

  “We were delayed. They let the women go, but we had to bury Papa and it took ages to organise because the colonel was guarded until our people managed to procure his release. I had to wait for the money. And then it took time to find a ship, and so…”

  She trailed off again, unnerved by his steady regard. She wished there was a clue to his thoughts there, but he gave nothing away. Impelled, Isolde began speaking again, only half aware of what she said. “I never had a chance to be a lady, you see. When Mama died, Papa took me with him to France. We went to the Cape Colony from there and didn’t come back for three years. I was growing up by then.”

  “You were fourteen, fifteen?”

  “Fourteen. Madge made me wear petticoats.”

  Lord Alderton’s poise broke and he looked startled for a moment. Regretting her hasty words, Isolde once again waited for a difficult question. It did not come. He gave a slight smile, and sighed in a way that sounded resigned.

  “Then I suppose we’ll have to start at the beginning. Let us hope my sister will consent to do the honours.”

  Apprehension crept back. “Is she like you?”

  “Not in the least.”

  The dry tone was not lost on Isolde and her misgivings deepened. Before she could ask any more, his lordship stood up.

  “What of your mother’s family?” he asked, moving to the desk. “Where are they situated?”

  A fresh wave of despair engulfed Isolde. He meant to send her away. She had not wanted to be here, but somehow the thought of going among different strangers, be they never so much her family, was even worse than the notion of staying here and learning how to be a lady.

  She toyed with the temptation to refuse to tell him, or pretend she did not know. But he was turning his head towards her, looking across the room in mute question. She would have to say something.

  “Cheshire. At least, I think that’s where they are.”

  He frowned. “I thought you were Irish.”

  “Papa is Irish.” She caught herself up. “Was. Was Irish.”

  He did not appear to notice her slip. “He met your mother in Cheshire?”

  “I think so. The regiment was quartered there.”

  “What was your mother’s family? Her maiden name?”

  Isolde wanted to deny all knowledge of it, but those compelling eyes demanded an answer. “Mary Vansittart.”

  “What?”

  Puzzled at the sharp tone, Isolde eyed him. “Vansittart.”

  The incredulous look was back, deepening Isolde’s confusion.

  “Do you tell me you are related to that family? Vansittart’s brood? Who then is the fellow Vere to you?”

  The fire in his eyes dismayed her. But curiosity prompted her to answer with truth. “Vere Vansittart? My mother’s brother, I think.”

  Lord Alderton sank into the chair at his desk, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “The devil he is! That bloodhound is trying to ruin me.”

  Chapter Seven

  It took several moments for the realisation to sink in. Richard could scarcely believe that, in the very act of composing his difficult letter to the man, he had been disturbed by the advent of the fellow’s niece. If his father had chosen to conspire against him, he could not have devised anything more diabolical. What an ironic twist of fate.

  He became aware of Isolde’s youthful features staring at him from across the desk where she was now standing. She looked white and pinched. And more than a little scared.

  Richard struggled to suppress his unrest. The child was not to blame. She was an innocent victim in this coil.

  He straightened, only now realising he had dropped his closed fists to the desk, leaning his weight into them.

  “My mother should be ready to receive visitors by now. Shall we go up?”

  The girl did not move. “What did you mean? Why is he trying to ruin you?”

  Cursing his unruly tongue, Richard forced a smile to his lips. “Nothing at all. Or at least, nothing that need concern you. Did you not say you’d had no dealings with your mother’s family?”

  “Yes, but —”

  “Then the matter need not trouble you. Come.”

  He came around the desk and made towards the door, but she seized his arm and he was obliged to halt.

  “But don’t you see? That means you can’t foist me off onto them. And you meant to, didn’t you?”

  Richard found himself unable to withstand the plea in her voice. “I had made no decision. I was only looking at possibilities.”

  “And now that one is closed?”

  He sighed. “We don’t know that. My dealings with Vansittart need not have any bearing on your acceptance into the family.”

  She drew back, dismay in those eloquent eyes. Close to, Richard was caught by a better determination of their colour. Green-gold, with flecks of hazel. Or was it hazel with flecks of green and gold?

  “Why do you stare at me?”

  He pulled back from the unimportant question and sought for an excuse. “I was thinking … wondering…”

  “Wondering if you’ll ever be able to be rid of me,” she supplied.

  He winced. “Not that, no. But I do think it necessary to make contact with your family.”

  Isolde’s lips turned mulish. “If what you say is true, you are already in contact with them.”

  “But not yet on your behalf.”

  The eyes challenged him and Richard gave an inward sigh. He turned for the door.

  “Let me make you known to my mother and then we’ll talk again.”

  She did not question him as he led the way through to the hall again and took the stairs to the first floor. Richard was glad of her silence, and a glance told him she was a little overpowered by her surroundings. Having lived here all his life, he was used to the rabbit warren of corridors and plethora of rooms, many of which remained unused for the better part of the year, if not altogether. He could imagine that to one unaccustomed to more than a camp billet or a tent, the house might be rather oppressive at first.

  His mother’s sitting room was situated at the corner of the building, where light poured in from two sides. Richard had caused it to be changed from a bedchamber when his mother became confined by her illness. A wheeled chair allowed her to be conveyed from her chamber along the corridor, and the chaise longue set before the fire provided warmth, rest and the refreshment of the gardens visible through the windows.

  She greeted him with the warmth of her smile, and Richard thought she looked a little better than yesterday. He saluted her brow and stood back, allowing her to see Isolde, who had followed him closely, but remained standing by the near window, her flame hair a halo in the light.

  “This is Miss Cavanagh, ma’am. Isolde Mary Cavanagh, to be exact.”

  His mother’s gaze appraised the girl, and he guessed she was fitting the dimly remembered image of a child to the woman grown. His own thought surprised him. Seventeen was little more than a girl, although he was aware many a debutante of the same age might be found on the marriage mart.

  “Miss Cavanagh, welcome. Or may I call you Isolde?”

  His mother’s warm tone drove the apprehensive look from the girl’s face and the smile was like a sunbeam.

  “Yes, if you please,” she said, dropping a curtsy that he could not regard as anything but awkward. She was right. She did not have a lady’s graces.

  “Come and let me look at you.”

  Richard moved aside to allow the girl access, watching her face. Isolde’s smile faded as she eyed his mother’s thin frame.

  “He said you were ill. What is the matter?”

  Richard winced. Decidedly uncouth. No well-bred girl would be so impolite as to mention it. His mother did not take offence.

  “It is the wasting disease.”

  Isolde’s eyes grew round. “Are you dying?”

  “Isolde!”

&nb
sp; Her eyes flew to his, startled. He glanced at his mother and found her faintly smiling, though a tell-tale flush stained her pallid cheek.

  “She is nothing if not forthright, Richard. Yes, my dear, I’m afraid I am indeed dying. No one likes to mention it.”

  Consternation flooded Isolde’s features. “I beg your pardon. I don’t know these things. Should I not have said it?”

  Richard cut in. “No, you should not.”

  “It’s not ladylike?”

  “Decidedly not.”

  His mother held out a shaky hand. “Never mind it, my dear.”

  Isolde took the hand, but did not seem to know what to do with it. Richard hid a smile and pulled a chair up to the daybed.

  “Sit with me awhile.” She looked at Richard. “I’ve no doubt you have things to do. Send Pennyfather up for her when luncheon is served.”

  Relieved, Richard shifted back. “Don’t tire yourself out, Mama.”

  “Isolde will fetch my maid to me if I become exhausted, never fear.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  Richard transferred his gaze to the girl. “Try not to agitate her.”

  She gave him a look he could not interpret. Then she nodded.

  Relieved to have a respite to consider the ramifications of his discovery, Richard departed.

  The moment the door closed behind Lord Alderton, Isolde dropped the dutiful pose. Clasping her hands tightly together, she faced the older lady with a determined air.

  “He doesn’t want me to be here. I don’t want to be a burden. Please tell me what work I can do.”

  The frail lady before her looked taken aback, her brows rising in a way that made her look like her son. They had the same straight nose, the same eyes, though her cheeks were sunken in the thin oval-shaped face. Her hair was also dark, but lacked the lushness of his.

  “You mean in this house?”

  “No. I want to work, so that I can support myself.”

  The brows drew together. “Why should you wish to? Your father sent you here for protection.”

  “Yes, but that was to Sir Thomas de Baudresey, and he is dead.” Realising what she had said, she drew in a shocked breath. “Oh, I shouldn’t say that to you, should I? He was your husband.”

  “And your father’s friend.”

  Isolde waved that aside. “It doesn’t signify. This Lord Alderton was not his friend, and he doesn’t wish to be saddled with me.” She saw the frown deepening and took it for disapproval. “I suppose I ought not to ask you. I wouldn’t, but there’s no one else. And I don’t know what it would be acceptable for me to do, being a lady. Not that I want to be one, but I see that I can’t choose and there’s no point in fighting it.”

  A wavering hand reached out and closed over one of hers. “My dear child, you cannot mean you wish to leave my son’s protection? That would be foolish beyond permission.”

  “But I —”

  She was cut off, the hand upon hers squeezing gently. “Pray hear me out, child. There are so few openings available to ladies in your circumstances. I cannot think you would care to become a governess or companion. And anything else is unthinkable. Besides, in either case you would be expected to know the rules governing female conduct, and I take it that is just the problem.” She paused and Isolde felt the flush creep into her cheeks. “Or have I misunderstood you?”

  Isolde shook her head with vehemence. “I don’t know any of those things.”

  “Can you draw or sew? Can you play the pianoforte and sing?”

  “I can sew,” Isolde offered, glad to be able to admit to one useful skill. “I had to make and mend in the camp.”

  The hand holding hers relaxed a trifle, and a chuckle escaped Lady Alderton. “I have no doubt you were very useful to your father.”

  “Well, I was,” Isolde insisted. “But it’s no use expecting anyone to ask me to kill and skin a rabbit, because I know very well ladies don’t do such things.”

  Lady Alderton was openly laughing and Isolde tried not to feel resentful.

  “You are evidently an accomplished young lady, my dear, even if there is little requirement in England for such an ability.”

  Isolde sighed. “You mean I won’t be able to find suitable employment.”

  Lady Alderton did not answer this. She kept her hand firmly on Isolde’s and her voice became persuasive. “Do you know, Isolde, I believe you need only learn the rudiments of the art of being a lady. You are an original, and that is always refreshing. I dare say, if you were to go to Town for the season, you would become the rage.”

  Vansittart! The revelation still smouldered, along with the fire he’d been damping down. He’d been unable to make up his mind whether or not the fellow was a villain. It was hard to tell. The apparency of real need was superseded by the veiled threats Richard had recognised underneath the politely worded communications.

  As the century’s end crawled closer, Vansittart’s demands grew more urgent. Like many others, he had bought into the sudden success of Ely Whitney’s mechanical cotton gin in the Americas, snapping up shares in a plantation. With cotton being produced in quantity, demand was threatening to outstrip supply and Vansittart’s American co-owner and partner, who ran the place, was hounding him for more capital.

  Richard could only thank Providence that his father had not followed suit and bought into the venture himself. Instead, in his usual fashion, he had carelessly committed himself for a future investment should it be needed. As Vansittart claimed, it was now sorely needed: more land, more equipment, more workers. And that last was the point where Richard balked.

  Even could he spare the promised amount to honour his father’s pledge — which he could not without bankrupting his already endangered estates — he was suspicious of Vansittart’s intentions. Would he direct the funds towards a darker purpose: the purchase of slaves?

  The practice had fallen into disfavour, much to the triumph of the abolitionists, but it was increasingly clear that the rising success of the cotton industry had made slaves profitable again. The question was, did Vansittart care? Was his need of more workers a euphemism for more slaves?

  Nothing would induce Richard to supply the man with blood money.

  Opening the centre drawer in his desk, he extracted the letter he had not yet had an opportunity to complete. He read the words again, misliking the deprecating tone. He was convinced the man did not deserve as much.

  Picking up the sheet, he ripped it across twice. Then he rose and crossed to the fireplace. One hand on the mantel, he watched as the pieces caught, flamed and swiftly blackened. Just as all desire to placate the fellow withered into ashes.

  He held a weapon now. A bargaining chip? At the very least, the means to confront the man in person. He had Vansittart’s wronged niece, and he would use her to the full.

  Chapter Eight

  Restless, Isolde prowled the corridors. She’d been at Bawdsey Grange for near a week, but it felt like a lifetime. The dawdling life suited her not at all and she was hard put to it to keep up the docile façade.

  Alicia de Baudresey, whom Lord Alderton had appointed her chaperon, had not yet returned from London, and Isolde’s days were spent at the side of Lady Alderton, whenever the lady was well enough to sit up and could be brought into her sitting-room. Isolde had tried to be of better use, but Lady Alderton would not permit anyone other than her maid or Mrs Pennyfather to attend to her personal needs.

  Instead, Isolde was subjected to a series of lectures on the behaviour expected of a lady, more specifically a debutante. In her view, nothing could have been more restrictive. She listened, remembered when asked to repeat her lessons, and chafed inside.

  She met with Lord Alderton only at meal times, where she put her newfound knowledge to the test. She spoke in demure tones, looked to his example for which utensil to use at any given moment, and followed his lead as he ate. She noted his irritation in the frown as she mimicked him, but held her tongue on the urge to comment upon it.


  Rather to her surprise, she found herself looking forward to his lordship’s company. He was unfailingly polite, if a trifle distant, but the lurking twinkle in his eye was endearing. Even if Isolde was uncomfortably aware that his amusement was at her expense.

  “You are laughing at me,” she accused once, on catching the ghost of a smile as she sipped at her wine in a fashion as alien as it was delicate, her little finger poised in the air.

  The smile reappeared, wider this time. “Accept my apologies. I applaud your efforts.”

  “Am I doing it wrong?”

  “Not in the least. It just seems so odd in you.”

  “But it’s how your mother holds her glass.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  Isolde was inclined to be indignant. “Well, then?”

  Lord Alderton sighed. “You need not copy her slavishly. It really does not matter how you hold your glass.”

  “I thought you were intent upon my learning to behave in a ladylike way.”

  His gaze did not waver from her face. “You are taking it too much to heart, Isolde. You need only learn how to go on in company, and —”

  “But that is how to hold your glass and which utensil to use.” Doubt smote her and she eyed him in bewilderment. “Isn’t it? I mean, along with my curtsy and deportment and so on. What else is there?”

  For a moment he did not answer, looking away as he took a sip of wine. Isolde watched his strong fingers curled around the stem, his lips touching to the glass and the dip at his throat as he swallowed. She felt breathless all at once.

  Then his glance found hers again and time seemed held in suspension. She hardly heard what he said.

  “It’s a matter of social interaction, that is all. Saying and doing what is expected. No one will condemn you for a small error at the dinner table.”

  Isolde was unable to answer, her mind far from the need to become a lady. She had determined to pay heed to Lady Alderton’s guidance for one reason only. It would give her independence. The skills were needed if she was to support herself, and that had been her only plan, regardless of consequence.