The Gentleman's Daughter

by Bianca M. Schwarz

  The dowager laughed. “In that case, I better organize a picnic on the beach for lunch.” Then she leaned a little closer and added in a conspiratorial voice, “I believe I’m the proud owner of one of your paintings.”

  Isabella beamed, pleased to be acknowledged as an artist. “The watercolor of the Avon Springs Sir Henry bought?”

  “Indeed. It’s lovely and holds pride of place in my sitting room. I never could do much with paint and brush, but I appreciate art.”

  Isabella warmed to the topic and Henry’s grandmother in equal measure. “Oh yes, Sir Henry mentioned your great talent on the pianoforte. And Lady Kistel teased him that Emily is following in your footsteps, already having surpassed him in skill. I find that hard to believe; he plays so very beautifully.”

  The dowager looked at her great-granddaughter with pride. “I love to play, and Emily is indeed my best student so far. But you are quite right, she lacks maturity, so she hasn’t yet overtaken her father in expressing the music.”

  Their conversation was cut short when Henry called Isabella and Emily to the edge of the water, declaring the bathing machine ready for them to embark. He helped them into the dark interior of the little cabin on wheels, then flagged down one of the small boats allowing male bathers to strip down to their smallclothes and jump into the water farther out so they wouldn’t offend the delicate sensibilities of the ladies present.

  Inside the bathing machine, Isabella and Emily helped each other out of their dresses and stripped down to their chemises, holding on to each other and the walls to keep their balance as the cabin was maneuvered into the waves. Emily’s enthusiasm for the whole adventure was so infectious, even being tossed into a corner when a wave hit the wagon from the side seemed like splendid fun. By the time they had stored all their valuables in the wooden boxes provided for the purpose, the machine was in place and the attendant, whom they had largely ignored, opened the back door for them.

  They emerged just in time to watch Henry jump head first into the sparkling sea, in nothing but his drawers. Isabella had to admit his form, well-muscled and lean, was pleasing to the eye, but the prospect of bathing with him in such a state of undress was unsettling. Still, what harm could there be in looking?

  Emily lost no time getting into the ocean. She didn’t even consider the stairs, jumping right in, leaving only billowing cotton and hair on the surface, but immediately shot out of the water with a shriek of delight. “Holy hymns, it’s cold! Use the stairs, Miss Chancellor. I’m going to swim to Papa to warm up, but we will be right back.”

  Isabella had progressed to the third step, where the cool water rose and sank around her calves and knees. “I think it’s a little too late for formalities, don’t you agree, Miss March? Call me Isabella.”

  Emily, who had already covered a quarter of the distance between herself and her father, turned and let a swell take her back toward Isabella. “I quite agree. Call me Emily.”

  Turning toward the open sea again, she employed the powerful stroke her cousin had taught her and swam to her father.

  Left to her own devices, Isabella eased herself into the ocean for the first time in her life and reveled in the physical experience. The water was cold indeed, so she followed Emily’s example and swam as vigorously as she knew how. However, she wasn’t nearly as strong a swimmer as Henry’s daughter, so she stayed close to the bathing machine and the attendant, who kept a watchful eye. She repeatedly swam a few strokes out to sea, then turned and let the swell of the next wave take her back. It was a marvelous game. Not only did it allow her to see how the waves started and then rolled into shore, but she could also feel the power of the water, note the currents flowing all around her, and taste the salt on her skin. Behind her, some ways off, she could hear Henry’s reassuring baritone and Emily’s excited chirps, but the words did not carry all the way to her. The water soothed her and exhilarated her all at the same time. She had seen the sea in such turmoil just days before, but now it was calm and felt smooth except for the sand that scraped her toes when the waves dipped.

  Before long, Henry and Emily joined her in her little game. They bobbed in the waves for a good hour, easy banter flowing between them and their friendship growing. But eventually their skin pruned and the game grew old, so Isabella decided to climb back into the bathing machine to dress and get her sketchbook out.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HENRY CHALLENGED EMILY TO A RACE TO THE boat and back to give Isabella a moment of privacy as she got out of the water. The race also served to get him closer to the pier. A gentleman had been observing them rather intently for the past hour. The man had moved to the end of the pier and back a couple of times, but always returned to his observation of their game. There was something familiar about the figure, niggling at Henry’s memory.

  Bertie had taught Emily well: Henry had to exert himself to not let her win too easily. He lengthened his strokes as they neared the boat and used the opportunity to have a good look at the man on the pier. His face was in shadow under a brown top hat, and his clothes were befitting of a gentleman but worn without care. His hair was long and grayish blond, and even at this distance Henry could tell it was greasy. As Henry watched, the man turned to walk to the end of the pier again. But in that moment, the sun backlit his profile, and Henry’s hunch was confirmed. The beaked nose and too-generous lips belonged to a man Henry hadn’t crossed paths with in a very long time, and his presence in Brighton could mean all kinds of trouble. The profile belonged to none other than Baron Ostley, husband to Emily’s mother, and Henry’s bitter enemy.

  Ostley’s presence threw up a multitude of questions, but Henry doubted it was a coincidence. Father and daughter touched the boat at almost the same time, and as he raced Emily back to the bathing machine, Henry went through all the possible reasons for Ostley’s presence. Several facts struck him as inescapable: the Earl of Warthon and his grandson, along with the Earl of Weld, were high-ranking members of the Knights. Both either resided in the area or had been seen in Brighton in the last fortnight. Ostley had been part of Astor’s organization, but not at a high rank. His presence seemed to indicate a gathering of members. Henry had kept track of many of Ostley’s associates in an attempt to avoid running into the man, but didn’t know which of them were Knights.

  And then another possibility made its ugly debut in Henry’s head: the man could have come to the area in order to exact some kind of fifteen-years-overdue revenge on Henry. It was an unsettling thought, and Henry resolved to tighten security around his daughter. Life had taught him it was always best to be prepared.

  That settled in his mind, Henry let Emily beat him to the bathing machine by a mere handspan, instructed her to get dressed for lunch, and made his way back to the boat to do the same.

  Once back on the beach, he waved William behind the horses and out of the line of sight of the baron on the pier. “Will, I need you to follow the disheveled-looking fellow with the long greasy hair and the brown top hat once he leaves the pier. I’m pretty certain it’s the Baron Ostley, and he has been looking at our group for over an hour.”

  William looked at Henry with a measure of alarm. “Not that Ostley?” William was familiar with his employer’s story and immediately comprehended what this could mean for Miss Emily’s safety.

  Henry nodded in the affirmative and let the news sink in while William rubbed his forehead, trying to come up with an explanation for this turn of events. Eventually Will lifted his head and continued his thinking out loud. “Ostley is one of the Knights?” Henry nodded, so William continued, “And I just over’eard that Wickham fellow talk about some shindig at Warthon Castle tonight. Do you think it’s a meeting?”

  Henry clapped his old comrade on the shoulder. It was one of William’s most useful qualities: he could always be relied upon to recall an overheard conversation when it mattered. “Wickham is one of them too? Well done, Will. Who was he talking to?”

  Will looked briefly in the direction of one of t
he young gentlemen who still milled about their group. “The blond one in the burgundy coat who looks like ’e caught the sun. He’s somethin’ or other in the city and was invited by Lord Didcomb, so I figure he’ll be there too.”

  Henry grinned at his longtime companion and confidant. “Looks like we’ll be able to observe the Knights in action sooner rather than later. I admit to being excited. Finally we are close enough to find out who the members are and what the objective of the organization is exactly. But Emily’s safety must be assured, especially with Ostley taking an interest.”

  William rubbed his hands together in anticipation of an adventure, but he also recalled the danger they’d all faced the last time they dealt with the Knights. This was no time to let their guard down. He spared his pristine gentleman’s gentleman outfit a brief glance. “Right, I better get changed. I’ll go up with the next batch of servants from the hotel and watch the good baron from the sittin’ room window.”

  “And send Roberts down to help guard Miss Emily.”

  William nodded and headed over to tell the driver of the bathing machine to bring it in for lunch.

  Henry assured himself the baron was still on the pier before taking up his place at his grandmother’s side. Lunch was an impromptu affair, and afterwards Isabella climbed back into the wheeled cabin to spent the afternoon sketching in pencil and watercolor. The rest of the party amused themselves with countless innings of horseshoes and a noisy game of tug-of-war. The baron left his vigil in the early afternoon, when it became clear the party intended to spend all day on the beach, and Henry observed William following the man at a discreet distance once he regained the street.

  The old ladies retreated to the hotel for their naps around three in the afternoon, and Isabella emerged from the bathing machine an hour later. Henry rushed to help her down the narrow steps and was admiring her watercolor of the waves when a fresh-faced, dark-haired young man, who had joined their group sometime after lunch, loped toward them. “Izzy, what a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you were in Brighton.”

  At the sound of the young man’s voice, Isabella’s head snapped in his direction, so Henry couldn’t see her face, but her hand on his arm started to shake. Instantly on high alert, Henry put his hand over hers protectively, and she stepped closer to him. Something was clearly wrong, but she answered the man with the familiarity of an old friend.

  “George, what are you doing here?”

  George grinned broadly. “I’m staying with the Earl of Warthon for a few days.” He then turned to Henry. “My apologies, Sir Henry. Let me introduce myself: I’m Viscount Ridgeworth.”

  Isabella was stunned. “Viscount? When did that happen? I thought you were fifth in line?”

  George’s hazel eyes spewed venom, but he gifted Isabella with a condescending smile. “Evidently no longer.”

  Henry had been aware of the viscount and the tragic accident allowing him to ascend to the title during the London season. The men exchanged small bows, but since Isabella’s hand still shook under his, Henry was unwilling to let go of it. “How do you know Miss Chancellor, my lord?”

  The young viscount preened at the use of the courtesy address. “We practically grew up together. My father held the living in Bilbury.” He turned to Isabella again. “So where are you staying, Izzy? You are still unmarried, are you not? I better pay my respects to the baroness.”

  Isabella’s fingers dug into Henry’s arm, but she answered the viscount. “We are staying with Mama’s friend Mrs. Curtis.”

  It wasn’t lost on Henry she neglected to give the address, so he intervened. “Will you excuse us, Ridgeworth? Miss Chancellor has been working for the past few hours and is in need of refreshment and rest.”

  George tittered and rolled his eyes. “I see you’re still painting. Well, I better get back to the castle. We shall meet again.” He bowed and smiled, then turned and stalked through the sand toward the promenade.

  Isabella’s hand under Henry’s slowly relaxed, until she finally turned to him with a smile. “Thank you, I am rather tired.”

  Henry knew there was more to it, but this was neither the place nor the time to press her further, so he led her to a chair and handed her a drink. Before long, Emily dragged her off to play horseshoes, and Isabella seemed back to her usual self.

  EVERYONE LEFT THE BEACH AROUND five, exhausted but happy. Emily had made several friends among the young men in the group, ordering them about with the same careless efficiency with which she ruled her cousins. She was thoroughly unimpressed by one and all, and had nothing but contempt for Wickham. Henry was most pleased with his daughter’s display of common sense and healthy skepticism.

  As Emily skipped upstairs to wash the salt off her body, Henry escorted Isabella home. She and the baroness had a prior engagement for dinner, so Henry planned on a quiet evening meal with his family.

  By the time he returned to the hotel, a tub of hot water was waiting for him, and William informed him a regular who-is-who of prominent members of society had descended on Warthon Castle throughout the day. Curiously, there were no women among them. Lady Jane had departed early in the morning, but had only gone as far as the next inn along the road to London. That particular bit of gossip had been volunteered by a very happy coach driver at the Red Lion. He’d been hired and paid the day before to take a lady all the way to Somerset, only to be dismissed by said lady a scant eight miles away at the next coaching inn. This all seemed very curious indeed and made Henry more hopeful than ever he was about to witness a meeting of the Knights, or perhaps even a ceremony. Without knowing what they actually did, he had nothing to report, and no way of stopping their nefarious activities.

  ISABELLA SHUT HER BEDROOM DOOR behind her and collapsed against it. Closing her eyes, she tried to catch her breath as her whole body shook uncontrollably.

  Sally dropped Isabella’s freshly pressed gown on the nearest chair and rushed to her mistress. “What happened, miss?”

  Isabella gratefully leaned on Sally, letting her lead her to the bed. “George Bradshore is here.” Isabella’s voice was flat and barely audible.

  Sally’s heart sank. “Here in the house, or here in Brighton?”

  “In Brighton. Sally, he is the viscount now.”

  The maid helped Isabella onto her bed and stroked her back to calm her. “How do you know?”

  A sob escaped Isabella. “He came up to me at the beach and talked to me as if nothing had ever happened. If Sir Henry hadn’t been there, I don’t know what I’d have done.”

  Sally shook her head grimly. “We haven’t set eyes on the blighter in seven years and now he shows up?” She lay down next to her crying mistress and gathered her in her arms.

  Isabella wailed into Sally’s shoulder, “What am I to do? I can’t go out painting by myself any longer, and what if my mother decides to encourage him, now he is a viscount?”

  Sally brushed the hair out of Isabella’s face and looked into her panicked eyes. “Hush. I can always come painting with you, and Sir Henry seems to enjoy taking you, so let’s not worry about that. And as for your mother encouraging him, just make it clear you’ve set your cap at Sir Henry. He might not have a title, but he has lots and lots of money, and his grandma’s a duchess. That has to count for something with the baroness.”

  Isabella calmed a little. “You think that would work?”

  Sally shrugged. “It will with the baroness. And with any luck, George Bradshore won’t want to marry you.”

  Isabella wasn’t shaking like a leaf any longer, but the tears were still flowing freely. “Oh, Sally, I wish I could simply go home. I’ll be afraid of seeing him everywhere now.”

  GEORGE BRADSHORE, VISCOUNT RIDGEWORTH, ENTERED the great hall at Warthon Castle and poured himself a brandy. He still had to change for the big dinner, but first a little private celebration was called for. Isabella was even prettier than he remembered, notwithstanding that dowdy hat. The season had been a disappointment. Apparently his cousin’s f
inancial woes were well known, so the heiresses had been off limits to him. But not all was lost. In fact, things were decidedly looking up. George savored his first sip of the earl’s most excellent brandy.

  “You look chipper, Ridgeworth.”

  George turned and met the Earl of Warthon’s calculating eyes. He had assumed himself alone in the hall at this hour, but perhaps it was just as well. He would need help putting his plan into action. “I just ran into my future wife! We grew up together. She is a baron’s daughter and comes with just enough money to cover the dratted mortgage on the estate. The only problem is she won’t want to marry me.”

  The earl barked a harsh laugh. “Sounds like just your type. What will you do?”

  A sly smile crept across George’s deceivingly boyish face. “Make myself agreeable to her mother, I think. Isabella herself seems to be quite partial to Sir Henry. He is courting her.”

  The earl’s jaw clenched, and his cold eyes flashed with hate. “Don’t waste your time on the mother; she’s most likely blinded by March’s money. Take my advice, boy. Get a special license and bring the girl here. The new curate will marry you and I will witness the consummation, so there won’t be a damned thing anyone can do about it.”

  The plan had merit. Once he had a special license with Isabella’s name on it, surely the bank could be stalled with the news of his impending nuptials. George grinned his approval. It was good to have powerful friends, even as a titled gentleman. He raised his glass in salute and drained it. “I best get dressed for dinner.”

  The Earl of Warthon rubbed his arthritic knee and contemplated this newest development. George Bradshore, now Viscount Ridgeworth, was a fool, and possibly a dangerous one, but it was always better to have two ways to strike at the enemy rather than just one. It looked like his wait for vengeance was finally coming to an end.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HENRY AND WILLIAM RODE OUT IN THE DIREC-tion of Hove, jumped the hedgerow onto Warthon land by the light of the moon, and carried on about a mile before they left the horses in a stand of trees southwest of the abbey. As they reached the grove, Henry spotted an owl swooping down on some poor unsuspecting field mouse in the meadow ahead and pointed to it. William nodded his agreement. On the Peninsula, they had spent countless hours learning to imitate the call of various birds and animals. The true skill, however, lay in spotting an animal or bird present in a locality at the time so the call would blend into the place.