Isabella looked down at herself and gasped. The rain had turned her dress so shockingly sheer, she may as well have been naked. With another gasp she clutched her soggy hat to her front and stared through the heavy rain up at Henry. “Dear God.”
Henry grinned, admiring the fact she could blush even in the midst of a bone-chilling rainstorm, but when he saw the worry in her eyes, he sobered. “I know you didn’t mean for me to see, so rest easy.”
She nodded, blushed deeper, and looked down at the barren expanse of sand in front of her feet, unable to look him in the eye again. Surely now he would be like any other male she had ever encountered and either lecture her on the dangers of impropriety or expect things from her she was never again willing to give. The whole thing was entirely mortifying.
Henry saw, as well as felt, her mortification, and although the imp on his shoulder egged him on to tease her flirtatiously, he had learned his lesson earlier that day and set about putting her back at ease. “I am taking you to my hotel. There we can get you warm and dry, and later, once the storm has let up, I will take you home in my carriage.”
Isabella nodded, surprised and relieved beyond measure he was willing to just be practical. Surely a hotel full of people would be a safe place for her to shelter from the rain. But she still didn’t quite dare to look at him. “Thank you. I can’t let my mother see me like this. But you don’t have to drive me home; I told my maid to await me in the little pie shop on Ship Street.”
Henry squeezed her shoulder just a little. “Perfect, we can send someone to get her. She can assist you and I’m sure Lady Kistel will be able to provide you with a dry gown.”
The mention of the elderly matron finally calmed Isabella enough to look back up at him. Wet hair was plastered to her scalp and rivulets of water were running down her cheeks and neck, but there was a tremulous smile on her face. “Thank you. That’s an excellent plan.”
The smile he gave her was not licentious like she had feared, nor even flirtatious as she might have expected; it was kind, and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of it.
THEY COVERED THE REMAINING DISTANCE in silence, and even before they reached the hotel, several bellboys rushed toward them with enormous umbrellas and draped a cloak over Isabella.
As luck would have it, Lady Kistel had observed the spectacle of the storm from the bay window of the guest drawing room. She took immediate charge of Isabella, ushering her upstairs to her rooms, making concerned clacking noises along the way. After Henry gave orders to retrieve Isabella’s maid, he returned to his own rooms for a dry set of clothing.
Having an excellent view of the beach from Henry’s rooms, William, anticipating his master’s needs, had a hot bath waiting for him. As soon as Henry had sunk into the welcome warmth of the tub, William handed him a hot cup of tea laced liberally with brandy. Henry sighed contentedly, but when William tried to hang up his suit by the fire, he protested, “Not in here, for the love of God. Wet wool smells rather unpleasant.”
William chuckled. “Never seemed to bother you none in Spain.”
Henry took another sip and leaned back against the curled lip of the bathtub. “When needs must, but thankfully needs must no longer.”
William sent a rather sly smile Henry’s way. “The young lady didn’t mind.”
The comment earned him a quelling look. “She had more pressing things to worry about.” Putting down his cup, Henry reached for the soap. “Did you find out what Lady Jane and Lord Didcomb are doing here in Brighton?”
William noted with some relief that Sir Henry felt protective toward Miss Chancellor. Apparently his employer was willing to give the women of his class another try.
“Sure did, sir. Lady Jane and ’er dear mama came down ’ere after London got too uncomfortable for them with the scandal. What’s curious is Lady Jane’s papa, the Earl of Weld, stopped with the Earl of Warthon instead of guardin’ his womenfolk.
“Lord Didcomb came to check on ’is granddad, the Earl of Warthon, who ’ad the ague. The old man got better, and Lord Didcomb apparently left early this mornin’ and took Mary, the talkative maid, with ’im. The word is ’e got ’er a position up in London.”
Henry rinsed the suds off, stepped out of the bath, and took the towel William offered. The fact Mary had been spirited away in much the same way the other two girls had was not welcome news, but perhaps it was what Mary had wanted.
He vigorously rubbed the towel back and forth over his back. “It would appear Mary’s gamble to get Lord Didcomb’s attention paid off. Seems he’s not only the reformer of the group, but also the one his grandfather calls in to clean up his messes. I wonder what else he does for this organization.”
Henry drained the last of his tea and pulled a fresh shirt over his head. “How quickly can Allen and Eliza make it to town? I would really rather not lose Mary’s trail.” Henry pulled on his stockings and stabbed his feet into his favorite pair of buckskin breeches, opting for comfort rather than afternoon tea finery. “Finding the other two girls seems more urgent now too. This is all connected.”
William smoothed the wrinkles out of Henry’s coat with his hands. “I figured they might still be with Lord Robert, so I sent the messenger there first. And then this mornin’ when I ’eard about Mary, I sent word to Thomas to watch that Didcomb fella’s ’ouse.”
Henry straightened his cuffs and reached for his watch, which seemed to have suffered no ill effects from the deluge. “Well done, my friend. With any luck the rider will get there before Didcomb, and Thomas can verify Mary arrived with him. Then we can track her from there.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Henry absently ran a brush through his hair and took a final look in the mirror. “We will just sit tight here, then, and keep an eye on Lady Jane and the two earls. Best to stick to the social aspect of my visit since I’m already known to the group.”
Clearly Lord Didcomb was not to be underestimated, and his words the night before indicated there was some kind of vendetta about to be waged against Henry. Henry had expected the Duke of Elridge to retaliate after the death of Lord Astor three years ago, but he never had. The duke had buried his son and carried on with his political life, seemingly without missing a beat or shedding a tear. As cold as it was, it had helped deflect all questions about Astor’s treason away from the dukedom. All, including the king, now believed Astor had acted alone and separate from the secret society he had been a part of. But Elridge was related to the Earl of Warthon and allied in the House of Lords with both him and the Earl of Weld. The two old earls were part of the group Didcomb had called the Knights. Henry had little doubt said Knights, and the Snake Pit he had investigated after he found the snake ring on Astor, were one and the same. It was a real shame Didcomb had departed the scene, providing Henry no immediate opportunity to make his acquaintance.
Henry itched to investigate further, to call on the two earls up at the castle. But he had no reason to do so, and with Mary gone, he had no one he could have asked for assistance in getting into the castle undetected.
He headed for the door, but William called after him, “Before I forget, there’s a packet from Avon on your writin’ desk.”
Henry paused for a moment, then continued on his way downstairs. “It’ll keep. First I must see to Miss Chancellor.”
ISABELLA HAD YET TO EMERGE from Lady Kistel’s rooms, but Henry was informed her maid had arrived. Satisfied the social proprieties were covered, he ordered a full tea tray and sent word to Lady Kistel to join him whenever they were ready. Then he settled in to watch the storm whip up the waves.
His thoughts went to Isabella and what had happened between them up on the bluffs, and later during the rainstorm. He could have sworn she liked his company, but then there were moments when she retreated behind an emotional wall of her own making, and for a lovely, intelligent, young gentlewoman to build such a wall, there had to be a cause. Henry didn’t know whether he should be patient or attempt to breach her defe
nses. All he knew was, he wanted her in every way possible, and it was imperative to get to know everything he could about her.
ALTHOUGH IT WAS STILL RAINING, the squall had calmed considerably by the time Isabella was led into the parlor by Lady Kistel, wearing one of the old woman’s gowns. It was a high-necked green and brown affair, most likely selected because it was long enough to cover Isabella’s ankles. A cream-colored knitted shawl was draped around her shoulders to cover the fact that the dress hung loose on her slender frame. Her still damp hair was held together with a light green ribbon at the nape of her neck. The colors of the ensemble did nothing for Isabella’s complexion, but somehow it didn’t detract from the beauty of her eyes or the quiet splendor of her delicate features. She looked warmer and less panicked, but Henry still saw the weariness in her eyes.
Lady Kistel beamed at Henry from across the room. “Henry, my boy. The tea tray is just what we need.”
Rising with a smile, trying to set Isabella at ease, Henry bowed. He seated both ladies, then indicated the corner where the painting board with the study of the waves leaned against the wall next to Isabella’s canvas bag. “I don’t know about the contents of your bag, but the painting seems to have survived.”
Isabella took the tea Lady Kistel handed her and smiled her thanks, then turned to Henry. “Thank you for keeping the rain off my painting.”
The old lady turned to look at the watercolor, but having no love for the new fashion of painting as if everything was obscured by a heavy fog, she refrained from comment.
The young painter took a sip of her tea and cast a critical eye over her work. “It seems to be well enough.” She then glanced at the wet patch under her canvas bag and shrugged with a little sigh. “I don’t hold out much hope for my sketchbook, but my paints are in a wooden box, at least, and my brushes are wrapped in oilcloth.”
Henry immediately looked for the sketchbook. He had to rummage for it, but eventually withdrew a leather-wrapped book from the soaked bottom of the bag. Back at the table, he mopped at it with his linen serviette. “I’m sorry, my dear. I should’ve thought of removing it from the bag before I put it down.”
Isabella reached for her book and inspected the outside, almost entirely discolored by moisture. “No matter, Sir Henry. You didn’t know it was there.”
The sketchbook was held closed by a leather strap, and once Isabella unwound it, she peeled back the extended flap attached to the back cover of the book. The top and bottom edges of the thick paper inside were clearly damaged, but the side had been spared, and when Isabella opened the book, only a few pages at the front were unsalvageable; the rest of her sketches would dry out in time.
She breathed a sigh of relief and smiled her first real smile since she’d realized Henry had seen her nipples peek through her dress during the storm.
Seeing the smile, Henry felt a weight being lifted from his shoulders. He indicated the sketchbook. “I’ve never seen one with the flap extended like this. It’s rather ingenious.”
Isabella leafed through her work, inspecting the damage along the edges. “I know. A bookbinder in Bath makes them for me especially to protect my drawings from the elements. I use my sketches to paint in oil tempera during the winter months, so they are rather precious to me. As I mentioned, I’ve been rained on before, although never this violently.”
She looked up to glare at the rainy beach and churning ocean beyond the bay window and got distracted by the sheer drama of it. Studying the choppy waves crashing into the pier some ways down the waterfront, she wrinkled her brow. “The dynamics have completely changed again. I can see how some painters get enthralled by the ocean. It is a fascinating subject.”
Lady Kistel had looked at the sketches as Isabella inspected the pages, but now the old lady reached for the sketchbook to have a closer look. She leafed through with growing interest and appreciation. “I confess to not being too fond of your painting, Miss Chancellor, but these are absolutely lovely. You are very talented, my dear.”
Laughing at the backhanded compliment, Isabella returned her attention to her companions. “I suppose Mr. Turner’s methods are not for everyone.”
Lady Kistel made a sour face. “I should think not. I can never quite make out what he is painting these days.”
Isabella knew it was rude to argue with her elders, but couldn’t quite help herself. “Mr. Turner paints the light, primarily.”
The old lady snorted with derision. “That’s all very well, child. But when there is a tree in the painting I would like to recognize it as such.”
“All the forms are still there, it’s just that they are diffused by light and imbued with atmosphere. Mr. Turner paints the way he experiences a certain place rather than slavishly drawing every pebble,” Isabella defended passionately.
“Oh, posh!”
It was clear to Henry that Isabella’s respect for William Turner bordered on hero worship, whereas Lady Kistel was thoroughly irritated by the man. It was also quite clear both ladies were possessed of a temper, which made him like these two all the more; but since they were in public, he thought it wise to redirect the ladies to their libation. “Miss Chancellor, could you pass me the raspberry jam, please? More tea, Lady Kistel?”
Isabella had the good grace to blush, but Lady Kistel had no such maidenly scruples. “Well, I hope you don’t follow in the man’s footsteps. It would be a crying shame to waste your talent that way.”
Isabella’s lips pressed into a thin, flat line, but before she could take the bait, Henry replied, “Oh, indeed she does not, my lady. I bought one of Miss Chancellor’s watercolors in a gallery in Reading and gave it to my grandmother for her birthday last. Grossmama was so pleased with it, she hung it in her private sitting room.”
“Yes, well, Ruth generally has good taste,” the old lady grumbled.
In the meantime, Isabella had relocated her manners and her sense of humor, and smiled apologetically at Lady Kistel. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I didn’t mean to argue.”
Never one to hold a grudge, the old lady grinned at her companions. “I’m an old curmudgeon; don’t mind me, children.” Then she patted Isabella’s hand and returned her attention to her tea cake. “So you sell your paintings in a gallery in Reading? Well done, my dear; I’m sure that annoys your mother to no end.”
Across the table, Isabella met Henry’s amused gaze and couldn’t help the dimple growing in her cheek.
The remainder of tea proceeded peacefully while they discussed the weather, places where Isabella might paint, and upcoming entertainments. It seemed there were two informal dances and a musical planned for the upcoming week, and in a town as small as Brighton, it was a foregone conclusion they would all three be attending these events. Henry and Isabella made plans to walk to the abbey on the next fine day, and shortly thereafter, Henry ordered his coach to return Isabella to her mother before her absence during such inclement weather became worrisome.
CURIOUSLY, THE BARONESS CHANCELLOR ONLY simpered girlishly when Sir Henry delivered Isabella back into her care, thanked him for his chivalry in rescuing her daughter from the rain without asking for particulars, and ushered him back out the door with an invitation to come back and visit anytime.
Isabella was mortified. “Mama! How could you be so rude?”
The baroness let her judging eyes travel over her daughter’s borrowed outfit and shook her head in despair. “You are wearing an old woman’s ill-fitting cast-offs and you are asking me why I sent him away? Sometimes I despair of you, Isabella! The less time he spends in your company looking like this, the more chance you have he may call on you again, if you ever had any chance at all.”
Isabella let out a resigned huff that went entirely unnoticed by the baroness and retreated to her bedchamber. There she took off the offending gown, folded it carefully, and wrote a note expressing her thanks as her maid, Sally, wrapped up the garment. Her mother may not have liked it, but the gown had given Isabella a chance to regain her equilib
rium after feeling so horribly exposed in the rain. Besides, it was best if Sir Henry didn’t think her attractive. She’d rather he thought of her as a friend, somebody to converse with, walk with, even laugh with, but no more than that. It just couldn’t be. The devil of it was, for the first time in seven lonely years, Isabella wished she could respond to a man.
Over dinner later, Baroness Chancellor commented on Isabella’s luck to have gotten stranded with Sir Henry, since bringing her to his hotel had undoubtedly compromised Isabella, and he could be brought up to scratch on those grounds.
The thought of Sir Henry asking for her hand out of duty depressed Isabella more than her mother’s willingness to marry her off at any cost did. “I doubt anyone could take exception,” Isabella explained. “Lady Kistel was present.” She watched her mother’s face fall and resolved to tell Sir Henry at the earliest opportunity to spare her a proposal based on propriety and society’s strictures.
SINCE THERE WERE NO ENTERTAINMENTS planned for the evening, Henry returned to the hotel and ordered an early dinner to be brought to his rooms. Then he inquired of the concierge where he might find Mr. Twill, the author of the oh-so-charming little book about the abandoned abbey. He was informed the estimable Mr. Twill had shuffled off this mortal coil some years ago, but his widow still resided in a cottage on Church Street. Furthermore, the man had penned a number of books on other attractions around the area, and Henry returned to his rooms with a book about the Steyne and a little volume about Warthon Castle he planned to read to see what else he could glean.
First, however, Henry settled into one of the armchairs by the fire to read his letters from Avon. The missive from Grossmama was short and to the point:
Henry, mein Junge,
Julia failed to secure a proposal from Lord Proctor, so Hortense has taken it upon herself to extend Julia’s season by holding a house party. But since Emily cannot be contained in the schoolroom at the best of times, and is far too pretty not to distract attention away from her cousin, we decided it would be best to visit with you in Brighton until the deed is done. Emily and I will arrive within the week, and we hope that does not interfere too much with your plans.
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