Henry bowed over Lady Chancellor’s eager hand while Lady Kistel continued, “Henry, my boy, meet the Baroness Chancellor.”
The baroness gushed over Henry and lost no time pulling her daughter to her side. “I’m delighted to meet you, Sir Henry! May I introduce my daughter to you? We’ve taken up residence with my special friend Mrs. Curtis for the summer.”
As the mother rambled on about summer entertainments and the advantages of Brighton, Henry kissed Isabella’s hand and smiled politely, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Miss Chancellor, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. May I hope to lead you out in a waltz later in the evening?”
Isabella looked painfully uncomfortable with the entire situation, but when she looked up and saw the amusement in his eyes, she managed a smile, curtsied, and pulled out her dance card. “How do you do, Sir Henry? I do believe the supper waltz is still free.”
Henry was close enough to smell her now, but the heavy floral scent didn’t suit her and he wondered whether that, too, had been foisted upon her. He took the card from her gloved hand and led Isabella a few steps away to a wall sconce, under the pretense of needing more light to fill in his name. “I would love to say you scrub up well, my dear, but I confess to preferring your cliffside dishabille to this dress.”
Heaving a defeated sigh, Isabella glanced down at herself. “It’s beastly, that’s what it is.” She tapped her satin slippers against the three-tiered flounces along the hem of her gown, kicking it out a little. Then she glanced back up at Henry with a mischievous light in her eyes. “Would you mind stepping on my hem a few times during our dance so I can rip off some of these flounces without offending Mrs. Curtis?”
Henry saw the impishness in her eyes and thoroughly enjoyed it. He assessed the gown again. “Only if I get to spill something permanently staining on that unbecoming ruffle around your décolletage.”
She answered his grin, warming to the idea. “Oh, do try to aim for that horrid bow just below as well. It makes me feel like the fruitcake my great aunt Millicent sends us every Christmas, dressed up with a giant garish bow to make it look more like a present.”
He laughed, knowing exactly what she meant. “It will be my distinct pleasure. I shall be as clumsy as I can manage. Shame we can’t do much about that color.”
Isabella wrinkled her nose in distaste and confided, “Shame indeed! The only place where this particular shade of pink may seem natural is on iced raspberry cakes. But Mrs. Curtis presented the gown to me this afternoon in honor of my second coming out, and I would have offended her had I not worn it tonight. I almost wish she’d given me the gown she is wearing—at least the color would have suited me better.”
Henry studied Mrs. Curtis’s gown for a moment, his brow dramatically creased in thought. Turning back to Isabella, he cocked his head to the side, studying her complexion. “It would be marginally better. But not the feather, dear God, not that feather.”
Henry’s comical despair robbed Isabella of her composure; her shoulders shook with silent laughter. Pleased with himself for coaxing her out of her embarrassment, Henry suggested they take a turn about the salons. He applied for permission from the baroness, who granted it eagerly. With Isabella’s hand looped around his arm, he led her as far away from her patronizing mama as he could without compromising her reputation.
They made their way to the refreshment table, where Henry urged Isabella to sample the deep red cherry ratafia. From there they headed toward the music, but just as Isabella stepped off the last step into the ballroom, she felt a violent tug and heard fabric rip behind her. Stumbling forward, she spilled the contents of her glass over the front of her dress, then gave a credibly shocked gasp. “Oh no, my lovely new gown.”
At the same time an elderly, rather corpulent gentleman started to apologize profusely. “I’m so very sorry, miss. It’s me eyesight, you know, not what it used to be.”
Henry had nimbly sidestepped the ratafia and caught Isabella before she could fall. He then took the glass from her hand and handed it to an approaching footman. The servant made himself further useful by pointing out the location of the ladies’ retiring room.
All the while, the old man kept apologizing, until Henry addressed him. “Would you mind finding the lady’s mother, Baroness Chancellor, and asking for her assistance in the retiring room? I will escort Miss Chancellor there.”
The gentleman bowed, still flustered. “Of course, of course. The Baroness Chancellor, I think I know her husband. I’ll find her right away, don’t you worry, miss.”
With that he departed, and Henry drew Isabella away from the inquiring eyes of other guests who had gathered to watch the spectacle. Henry led her into the corridor outside the retiring room where he inspected the damage to her gown. “Well done, my dear. You managed to get the ruffle as well as the bow, and not a droplet on the rest of the dress.”
Isabella stripped off her ruined gloves, her eyes dancing merrily. “That was rather too good an opportunity to pass up. And to think, you didn’t even have to step on my hem.”
Henry chuckled and withdrew a small pocket knife from his waistcoat. She looked puzzled, but he pressed it into her hand nonetheless. “So you can make sure the flounce is too ripped to be reattached.”
Comprehension dawning, Isabella grinned conspiratorially. “I best get in there then, before my mother arrives.”
Henry’s answering grin was just a little wicked. “I shall stall her if she gets here too soon.”
He watched Isabella disappear behind the door into the ladies’ sanctuary, and marveled at how natural it felt to be with this woman.
THE BARONESS DIDN’T ARRIVE FOR some time, so Henry opted to wait for Isabella outside. She had ceased to be Miss Chancellor over the last hour or so, and was now just Isabella in his mind. It would take some time for them to officially arrive at such informality, but Henry enjoyed his private anticipation of it.
He walked out into the beautiful summer night, making his way to a stone bench from where he could see the door to the retiring room, and allowed himself to enjoy the tranquility of the garden. The bench was set against the garden wall and flanked by two potted boxwood trees, their symmetrical shapes barely visible in the hazy moonlight, while everything in front of Henry was silhouetted against the light streaming out from the house.
From his vantage point, Henry observed the baroness rushing to the retiring room, no doubt ready to deliver a lecture. Her whole person seemed to radiate annoyance rather than concern, making Henry wonder at the relationship between mother and daughter.
A couple, deep in conversation, strolled by on the seashell-covered path and disappeared out of view again around the corner of the house.
Henry was just beginning to wonder how much longer Isabella would be when another lady came into view, heading down the corridor toward the French doors. A lady alone seeking the cool of the garden wasn’t unusual, but this lady looked around herself to make sure she wasn’t followed, and that piqued Henry’s interest. He took a closer look and was stunned to recognize his former near-fiancée, Lady Jane Castleright. He had thought her still in London, or perhaps he hadn’t thought of her at all, but her behavior was indeed curious.
After assuring herself no one was in the hallway to witness her exit, she stepped outside and had a good look around. Henry stayed absolutely still, hoping the low hedge in front of him would be enough to keep him hidden. A gentleman would, of course, have made his presence known, but the lady was acting suspicious and, as Isabella had pointed out, it was amazing what one could overhear if one just remained quiet long enough.
Lady Jane, satisfied she was alone in this part of the garden, stepped to a wooden gate in the wall and pushed it open. “Diddy, are you there?”
A quiet, cultured voice came from the other side of the wall. “Yes, Jane. Keep your voice down; no need to let the whole neighborhood know we are meeting in the dark. I wouldn’t put it past your mama to report it to my grandfather, and then we’
d be in a pickle.”
Lady Jane bristled, but lowered her voice. “Why you can’t meet me in one of the salons like a civilized person, I don’t know.”
The man moved into the gate, but not through it. The tall wooden door obstructed Henry’s view, so he had to content himself with just listening to the exchange.
There was a chuckle. “For the same reason I don’t want your mama getting ideas. I’m far too young to shackle myself to one female, so I avoid all gatherings eager mamas attend with their offspring.”
Lady Jane’s voice rose again, this time in annoyance. “Another way in which the world is unfair to women. You and I are exactly the same age, but at two and twenty you are considered to have a decade before you have to think about filling your nursery, whereas I am considered perilously close to being on the shelf.”
The answer came fast and sharp. “You might have been wed by now if you had managed to keep your overopinionated mouth shut for long enough to get the man in front of a priest. You were the one who brought this idea to us, and I stuck my neck out for you. Now we are back to Grandfather’s plan, which I simply cannot like.”
Lady Jane seemed unusually subdued by this outburst. “Don’t scold, Diddy, it was rotten luck he overheard. You know, I actually wouldn’t have minded being married to him; he’s no fool.”
“Precisely the reason why I still think bringing him into the fold is preferable to having him as an enemy. But now Grandfather thinks both you and me loose cannons and is back to talk of retribution and ancient rules that need to be upheld regardless of circumstance.”
Henry detected a note of the sulking boy in the man’s voice now. By contrast, Lady Jane was back to being sharp and combative. “And what, pray tell, do you imagine I could possibly do about it now?”
There was a little pause, then the man asked, “Well, did you allow your prospective bridegroom to sample your charms, by any chance?”
Lady Jane obviously hadn’t anticipated this line of questioning and was momentarily speechless, while Henry had to stop himself from laughing out loud. It had never even occurred to him to drag her into a dark corner to do as much as steal a kiss. How he could’ve thought it a good idea to marry her was totally beyond him now.
Lady Jane’s sharp intake of breath attested to her outrage. “What do you take me for? I’m not some two-penny whore!”
The man behind the door sighed at her outrage. “Don’t be such a prude, Jane. I’m just making sure there is no way to salvage this situation.”
She answered curtly, “There is not.”
But her companion wasn’t done complaining. “This is not good! The country is changing and the Knights have done remarkably well under the Georges. We should turn our attention to making sure we get our fair share of India and inventions like the railroad. I have no time for ancient rules and blood feuds.”
Lady Jane huffed. “Well, don’t let the earl or my father hear you say that; they are liable to take all your powers away. I thought you wanted to be made dungeon master and take over from your grandfather when the time comes.”
The man shushed her again. “I still do. But in the meantime I have to try and stop the old guard from embarrassing us all with that Jacobean nonsense. Grandfather, and what’s left of his cronies, are fast becoming a liability—even the Master agrees with me. But he also says keeping them focused on revenge will keep them out of worse trouble.”
Henry concentrated on staying absolutely still and keeping his breathing even. He was reasonably certain they were talking about him, and the uncomfortable pitching of his stomach led him to believe the Knights they spoke of might well be the elusive organization he’d come to think of as the Snake Pit.
While he listened to the two argue and discuss the necessity of bringing their organization into the nineteenth century, he tried to figure out who the man was. Lady Jane called him Diddy, and Henry remembered William telling him the Earl of Warthon’s grandson and heir carried the courtesy title Lord Didcomb. It all fit, and if they indeed belonged to the Snake Pit, then revenge on Henry would be for his involvement in the unmasking and killing of Lord Astor. But what the devil did Lord Didcomb mean by “bringing him into the fold”?
Henry could only assume it had to do with his family history, and possibly his father. He tucked that conundrum away to be contemplated later and concentrated on making out what the conspirators were discussing.
Lady Jane was obviously losing her patience with her companion. “Did you call me out here just to scold and rant, or was there anything you actually wanted to discuss?”
The two of them reminded Henry of Bertie and Emily in the way they quibbled incessantly. Henry hoped the hotel was equipped with a copy of Debrett’s Peerage so he could work out why these two seemed like siblings.
The voice of the presumed Lord Didcomb dripped with sarcasm. “Actually, dearest Jane, I came to talk to you in my capacity as your friend, and to warn you not to attempt to attend any more meetings. Your father went to the earl for advice, and Grandfather was only too happy to instruct him on how to achieve discipline in his family. As someone who is intimately familiar with his methods, I implore you to keep your mouth shut and your person well away from any further meetings, no matter how informal.”
Lady Jane was indignant. “I’m not about to allow two self-important old men to intim—”
Lord Didcomb cut her off with an impatient hiss. “For once in your life, heed my advice! I can guarantee you won’t like Grandfather’s methods.”
The sound of footsteps approached from the alleyway behind the wall Henry was sitting against, and Henry heard the young man mutter under his breath, “Lord knows you could use a spanking. I don’t know why I bother.”
Inside the garden, Lady Jane slammed the gate and huffed all the way back into the house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NEXT MORNING, HENRY ORDERED A POT OF tea in the public salon of the hotel, where William had assured him he would find a copy of Debrett’s Peerage & Baronetage.
It took Henry about an hour to piece together the rather tragic Warthon family history and solve the mystery of the familiarity between Lady Jane and Lord Didcomb. Maximilian Warthon, Lord Didcomb, was the son of the earl’s second son, Captain Norman Warthon, and Constance Ellis. Mrs. Warthon happened to be the Countess of Weld’s first cousin, and the Warthon family lived in a manor house next to the Castleright estate in Suffolk.
The captain fell during the Battle of Waterloo, but Maximilian Warthon remained in Suffolk until the boy’s uncle, the earl’s firstborn, died in a hunting accident the year following Captain Warthon’s death. Curiously, Mrs. Warthon remained in Suffolk. Was she not welcome in the earl’s castle? Were both the Warthons and the Castlerights descended from the original knights? Henry had always assumed the traitor Astor had acted alone and out of greed, but Lord Didcomb had mentioned Jacobean leanings still existing within the group.
Of course, Debrett’s held no answers to any of these questions. All that could be said for certain was that Lady Jane and Maximilian Warthon had grown up together until they were twelve years old, and by all appearances, they had remained close.
The man who had spoken to Lady Jane last night was indeed Lord Didcomb. Furthermore, he, the Earl of Warthon, and Lady Jane’s father, the Earl of Weld, were all plotting revenge against Henry, and they were possibly involved in treasonous activities against the king. This affair had expanded well past a disgruntled maid and a couple of missing girls, but so far Henry had no evidence to take to the Old Man, and therefore nothing to report.
He ordered a fresh pot of tea and contemplated his next move. Perhaps there was a way to exploit young Lord Didcomb’s desire to “bring him into the fold.”
AS HENRY SAT AND RUMINATED over his options, Isabella made her way to Mrs. Curtis’s breakfast room and found her mother already waiting for her. She inwardly groaned and wondered whether the Spanish Inquisition over the breakfast table was to be a regular occurrence. Isabella
wore a simple, practical sage-green dress, and her hair was loosely held together with a ribbon at the nape of her neck.
The baroness assessed her daughter with judging eyes and turned up her nose just a fraction. “You should at least put your hair up and wear one of your new walking dresses. We are not in the backwaters of Gloucestershire here. Do bear in mind we are here for a purpose. What if we receive morning callers?”
Isabella heaved a great sigh. If her mother insisted on being at home for morning callers, she would have a hard time getting back outside to master the art of painting the ever-changing sea. “Who would come calling on us, Mother? We don’t know anybody besides Mrs. Curtis.”
Her mother glared at her. “We know Lady Kistel. You managed to make an impression on Sir Henry March last night, miracle of miracles, so now we know him. And if he decides to call on us, you should most definitely be in, and presentable, when he does.”
Isabella bristled under her mother’s scrutiny. She couldn’t spend her mornings sitting in the front parlor trading barbs with her. Not only did she want to paint the ocean, she had promised two gallerists new paintings by the end of July. Aside from that, her very sanity depended on being able to get away from her mother. Encouraging the baroness to fixate on Sir Henry as a marriage prospect was dangerous, but it occurred to Isabella he could be used to get out of the house. It was devious and possibly not fair to Sir Henry, but she didn’t see any other way.
“I’m planning on painting up on the bluffs, Mother. Sir Henry mentioned last night he likes to go for a vigorous walk up there in the morning. He admires a woman who isn’t afraid to don walking boots and swears by the health benefits of fresh air and exercise.”
Isabella thought that last bit rather too much, but judging by the scheming gleam that sparked to life in the baroness’s eyes, she was well on her way to thinking Isabella’s plan had merit.
“Isabella Jane Chancellor, you aren’t quite as feebleminded as I thought. If Sir Henry likes a woman who traipses around the countryside, that’s what he will get. And let’s face it, painting is your only accomplishment, so you might as well show it off. But, goodness gracious, we have to do something about your hair.”
The Gentleman's Daughter Page 8