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

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “Dead, is he? I’m glad of that at all events. I’d have killed him myself had my father permitted me to follow them.”

  “I am not here to discuss the merits or otherwise of your family’s actions in cutting off a daughter of the house —”

  Vansittart was up, snarling in his response. “How dare you, sir, judge me? What do you know of the matter?”

  “Have I not just said I know nothing? Nor am I judging you. I am solely concerned with the unenviable situation of your niece.”

  “My niece! She forfeited the right to that title when her mother eloped.”

  “She? She did so?” Contempt rode Richard. “Did she ask to be born? Was she present to object? Had she any say?”

  The man had the grace to flush, but his features remained raw with anger. “Oh yes, Alderton, the sins of the mother redound upon the daughter. I can have no truck with Mary’s brat.”

  “Then I can have no truck with your vile schemes.”

  A silence fell, and Richard heard the echo of his own words with dismay. He had forgotten his pettish resolve to use Isolde as a bargaining chip. When he came here, it was solely to see if he might restore her to her family for her own sake. But the words were out, and Vansittart was looking both stunned and thoughtful.

  “Interesting.” The urbanity was once again in place. “So much for your lofty words against slavery, Alderton.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” returned Richard, irritated. “Nothing could exceed my dislike of the project.”

  A sneer crossed the other’s face. “But if I will relent in the matter of my niece, you might reconsider.”

  “I did not say so.”

  “You implied it, my dear fellow.”

  Richard could not deny it. He waited, unwilling to concede as much. He had lost the advantage and it behoved him to delay saying anything until Vansittart showed his hand.

  The man moved across to the table and picked up the decanter, glancing across. “Madeira?”

  Feeling in need of the restorative, Richard nodded. Vansittart poured a measure of the wine and Richard moved to accept the glass held out to him. The other served himself and turned, the smile — in which Richard no longer held the slightest belief — once more upon his face.

  “Let us sit. Perhaps we should begin again, my dear fellow.”

  Richard took his seat, and sipped at the wine, feeling a measure of calm return as the soothing warmth slipped down.

  Vansittart took a gulp of his own drink and looked across. The smile did not reach his eyes. “What had you in mind for my niece?”

  “To be blunt, I hoped you would welcome her into your household.”

  A pained look flitted across Vansittart’s features. “Yes, well, I think I have sufficiently expressed my sentiments there.”

  “You have indeed.”

  A pause ensued. Richard would not give ground. Let the man make his own propositions. They were unlikely to find favour with him, whatever they might be. His dislike of the fellow was growing.

  “Perhaps it would be politic for me to meet the girl.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Vansittart lifted his chin in a gesture reminiscent of Isolde. “To find out what sort of creature she may be.”

  “Whether she is worthy of your notice, you mean?”

  “My dear Alderton, there is no need to poker up. Can you not see how great a sacrifice I am making to my family pride?”

  There could be only one response to this. “No, I cannot. I see only that you mean to use Isolde to further your own ends. She does not deserve that.”

  “Or even as much,” snapped the other, his true colours seeping through.

  Richard set down his half-empty glass and stood up. “I am wasting my time here.”

  Vansittart was on his feet. “Not so hasty, my friend. Our business is by no means settled.”

  “It is to me.”

  The other spoke softly. “Come, come, my dear Alderton, I am not a fool. You did not make this journey for purely altruistic reasons. Our business aside, you clearly have no wish to be burdened with some foolish promise of your father’s to house an unknown girl.”

  It was true. Or at least, it had been. But having met Vansittart, Richard knew he could not abandon Isolde to the man’s harsh and heartless attitude. He opted for the truth. “You are right, of course. But that burden is preferable to the one my conscience would suffer should I give her up into your care, Vansittart.”

  He might as well have slapped the man. Fury swept across his face, and Richard wondered for a moment if Vansittart would ignore the rules of honour governing such affairs and call him out.

  It was an evident struggle, but etiquette won. One did not, as host, force a challenge upon a guest. The false smile was plastered back onto the man’s face.

  “We are not done, Alderton, so pray do not think it.”

  Richard curled his lip. “You would have me think the matter over? I’m afraid you will be disappointed.”

  “I am not a man who readily gives up.”

  “I had noticed. However, you do not know me, Vansittart. I am not like my father.”

  “That, my dear fellow, is patent.”

  Richard was obliged to laugh, and they parted in a spurious amity. Yet he could not shake off a faint streak of apprehension as he drove away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Isolde swaggered down the corridor, heading for the armaments room. She had not practised since Richard caught her in there when she first arrived at Bawdsey Grange. A few days had passed since her abortive declaration of war on Alicia de Baudresey. The woman’s stern admonitions had not abated, and she had kept Isolde at it from morning to night. She’d had no notion how much nonsensical activity could be crammed into a single day.

  If she was not practising her deportment or her curtsy and plying a stupid fan, she was fumbling through a catechism of rules and regulations she was forced to learn by heart only to be scolded for every mistake, every hesitation. Her fingers were numb and sore from struggling with her embroidery, her throat raw with singing. If one could call it singing, when one had to go over and over the same few notes only to be criticised for a tuneless ninny.

  The life of a lady was evidently a dawdling affair, requiring useless so-called accomplishments which must surely bore any sensible man to death. Just as would happen to Isolde if she was forced to keep this up for much longer.

  No Richard came back to save her, and she could not appeal to Lady Alderton, who was growing frailer by the hour. Isolde had had enough.

  Defiance raised its head once more. In order to show Alicia who she really was under the spurious docility, it became desirable to practise her real accomplishments, correctly attired for the purpose. She had no opponent, but that need not deter her from drilling the familiar moves.

  She had already resolved to inform Alicia, who would undoubtedly object mightily to her attire, that her brother not only approved, but had invited her specifically to wear them for an exploratory bout with the foils. Not that she would be believed, but it happened to be the exact truth, which she could prove on his return.

  She met no one in her way, and was conscious of a riffle of disappointment. She’d hoped to confound Alicia while her courage lasted. But there was no sign of the woman and the house, as usual at this hour of the afternoon, was quiet.

  A setback awaited her when she reached the armoury. The door was locked.

  Was this Lord Alderton’s doing? Or was it always locked when he was away? Frustration gnawed at her. She had not realised how much she missed the exercise. Her body longed for the freedom to lunge and thrust, to feel the lithe shift of muscle and sinew.

  Balked, she aimed a kick at the unyielding door, cursing aloud. What should she do? It was too tame to retreat to her bedchamber and change back into the restrictive petticoats.

  An idea surfaced. Why should she not use another room? She had Papa’s sword and foils, did she not? She was on the move even as the thought co
mpleted, the image leaping into her mind, of the weapon securely wrapped and secreted at the bottom of her trunk.

  She made short work of the corridors and had turned into the one leading to her bedchamber when a shriek of dismay stopped her in her tracks.

  Turning, she beheld the maid Becky, hands at her mouth, her starting eyes fixed on Isolde’s figure. The girl let out a gasp and her hands dropped. “Is it you, miss? Lord-a-mussy, whatever are you doing in them boy’s clothes?”

  Isolde put a finger to her lips, forgetting her resolve to confront Alicia de Baudresey thus clad. “Sssh! Don’t give me away!”

  Becky hurried up to her. “You’d best change quick, miss. If the mistress were to see you, she’d have a fit!”

  Isolde lifted her chin. “I hope she does. Maybe she’ll go off in an apoplexy.”

  Becky giggled, but she pushed Isolde in the direction of her bedchamber. “No chance of that, miss. Strong as a horse is the mistress.”

  Allowing herself to be shooed to safety, Isolde plonked down on the bed while the maid busied herself collecting up her discarded feminine garments.

  “You’d best hurry, miss. The mistress sent me to find you and it’s wild she’ll be if you don’t go to her straight.”

  Greeting this unwelcome piece of news with a toss of the head, Isolde began to unfasten her jacket. “She can wait.”

  Becky paused in her work and sent an anxious glance Isolde’s way. “You don’t want to make her mad, miss, I’m telling you. She wouldn’t think nothing of taking a stick to you.”

  Ice slid down Isolde’s veins. “She wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh yes, she would, miss. And she’d make me and Janey hold you while she did it.”

  A thumping started up in Isolde’s chest as she watched Becky lay her female garments on the bed. She’d never been beaten. Papa had boxed her ears once or twice, but no more. But she’d seen boys being thrashed in the camp and heard their squeals. Would Alicia really use her so? Isolde did not care to put it to the test. She shrugged off her jacket.

  “Why is she so horrible, Becky? Not that I expected anything less when I came here, but I thought it would be Lord Alderton who hated me.”

  Becky took the jacket and stowed it away in the trunk, saying it was best hidden where the mistress would not think to look. She was ready enough to gossip since it was plain Alicia was not much liked in the servants’ hall.

  “She don’t like nobody, that one. Mrs Pennyfather says as she was ill-tempered from a child. Been worse, though, by all accounts, since that fellow cried off from the engagement.”

  Isolde unbuttoned her breeches and slipped them off, handing them to the maid.

  “She was betrothed?”

  “Years ago it were, miss. She had her chances, but as Mrs P says, she never took. Then her Pa fixed her up with some fellow, but he never made it to the church.”

  In the act of throwing off her shirt, Isolde stilled, shock hushing her voice. “She was jilted at the altar?”

  Becky nodded, round-eyed. “Terrible it were, I heard tell. Them as were in service at the time said as how Miss Alicia’s screams could be heard all over the county.”

  Despite the woman’s cruel treatment, Isolde could not help a wash of sympathy. It was no pleasant thing to be rejected, as she knew to her cost. Perhaps there was some justification for Alicia’s bitterness. Though it must have happened long ago, for the woman was not young. “How old was she?”

  “On the shelf, miss,” disclosed Becky, holding out the shift for Isolde to put on. “Past thirty.”

  “How is it she is so much older than his lordship?”

  She threw her stays over her head and Becky seized the laces and began to pull them taut under Isolde’s small breasts.

  “They do say as there were babies in between, but her ladyship never carried well. She were lucky, Mrs P says, as she managed to produce an heir at all. But her ladyship were never strong after.”

  And now she was ill and dying. Which meant Alicia was the real mistress of the house. Did that compensate her for the lack of a husband and her own establishment? What would she do when Lord Alderton married?

  Thought poised in her head as she contemplated the notion of Richard taking a wife. Why in the world should that make her heartbeat quicken? He was a peer with lands. He must marry in order to beget an heir. The wonder was he had not already done so.

  Upon Becky urging her to hurry, she allowed the girl to help her on with the rest of her feminine attire. Cramming the hated cap on her head, she shoved her curls inside it and tied the ribbon under the chin.

  “There, miss, you’ll do now. Best come quick. The mistress is waiting in her ladyship’s sitting room. I’ll run ahead and tell her as you were taking a nap in your chamber.”

  Isolde thanked her and followed her from the room, dismayed to feel apprehension building again. The image of a beating, put into her mind by Becky, remained there, squatting in an uncomfortable corner. She could not but be glad that it was Becky and not Alicia, who had caught her wearing male clothing.

  “My mother wishes to assess your progress,” Alicia told her as Isolde entered Lady Alderton’s sitting-room. The tone was neutral, but the grey eyes gave due warning of potential displeasure should Isolde fail to please.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The submissive tone caused the woman to give her a sharp glance, but she made no comment, merely gesturing to Isolde to go to the daybed.

  Lady Alderton’s smile warmed her a little, but her ladyship’s features were pale and Isolde thought she looked worse than when she had last seen her.

  “I am sorry I have not been well enough to have visitors lately.” It was said with an effort, the voice reedy and breathless. “But I understand you have made great strides, Isolde. Show me.”

  Feeling like one of the performing bears who had entertained the camp once or twice, she first sank into a curtsy and then, with a swish of her petticoats, sat down on the nearest chair with as much grace as she could muster.

  “How do you do, ma’am?” she said, soft and polite as had been drummed into her by the task mistress who had her in charge. “I am sorry to hear that you have not been well. I trust you are better today?”

  A little laugh rewarded her. “Bravo, my dear. You did that to the manner born.”

  Relieved, Isolde relaxed the stiff pose and gave an involuntary smile. “It still feels unnatural to me.”

  “That will pass. Alicia has taught you well.”

  Isolde said nothing. The lessons, conducted with nothing but criticism, had been a trial until her rebellion this afternoon. After Becky’s revelations, Isolde could only be glad it had proved abortive.

  She did not think her reaction had shown in her face, but she wondered when Lady Alderton looked across at her daughter.

  “Leave us, if you please, Alicia. I wish to talk to the girl alone.”

  It was plain this plan was unwelcome. Alicia fidgeted, eyeing the elder lady with suspicion. At last she spoke. “For what purpose, Mama?”

  An inflexible look entered Lady Alderton’s features. “That is between Isolde and myself.”

  A dagger look came Isolde’s way, which she interpreted as a warning: say nothing out of place, or else. It was plain, however, that Alicia had not gall or courage enough to gainsay her mother’s expressed wish.

  Isolde wondered at it as the woman went to the door, closing it behind her with a decided snap. Lady Alderton had not strength enough to compel her daughter in any way, yet it was evident she recognised her authority.

  “She will not risk the possibility of my dying as a result of an altercation,” said Lady Alderton, as if she’d read Isolde’s mind.

  It was out before she could stop it. “I should not have thought she cared.” Recollecting herself, she at once begged pardon. “I should not have said it, I know.”

  But Lady Alderton was laughing. “You are nothing if not forthright, my dear, and as I’m sure I have told you before, I like th
at in you.” She held out a thin hand and Isolde took it, slipping to her knees beside the daybed. The elder lady’s eyes were kind, despite the weariness in them. “Don’t let her bully you, child.”

  On impulse, Isolde spoke up. “Becky says she will beat me if I don’t behave.”

  Lady Alderton’s brows drew together. “Not while I’m alive.”

  “But you couldn’t stop her.”

  “I don’t need to. There are too many witnesses, child. Alicia would not run the risk of Richard finding out.”

  Then would Lord Alderton champion her against his own sister?

  “Why should he care?”

  Lady Alderton’s loose clasp on her hand tightened. “Not know him yet, my dear? Richard is a man of compassion.”

  “You mean he feels sorry for me.” Why the thought should make Isolde want to weep, she had no notion.

  Lady Alderton’s gaze became soft. “You don’t want his pity. Will you accept his kindness?”

  She would accept anything, could she but know it was done because he liked her a little, because he wanted her here. “I don’t wish to be a burden.”

  Her ladyship smiled. “That old refrain, Isolde? I fear it is the lot of women to burden their menfolk.”

  The truth of this could not be denied, though it was no more palatable for all that. It struck Isolde then why Alicia would not risk alienating her brother. She was dependent upon his charity for her livelihood.

  The fingers holding hers squeezed gently. “You dream of escape, do you not? Believe me, Isolde, your life would be a deal worse if you were to leave Richard’s protection. Even Alicia would be preferable to that. Be patient, and let him take care of your future.”

  Sound advice, and Isolde wished she might persuade herself to abide by it.

  “If it becomes too onerous,” said Lady Alderton, “do nothing hasty. Come instead to me.”

  Isolde was grateful, and resolved to try to bear it until Richard returned. Surely he could not be much longer? She would not trouble Lady Alderton unless she had to, but it was comforting to have the option.