Her Secret Affair (8 page)

Just what were those secrets?

The question frustrated Isabel now more than ever. She wondered bitterly if he had planned to leave town, or if he’d decided on the spur of the moment, unwilling to face his bastard daughter. When he returned, she would confront Trimble in private. She would determine once and for all what he knew about Aurora’s death.

A few choice words, and he’ll see you for what you really are: a whore, a smut peddler, and a blackmailing bitch.

Like blight on a rose, Lord Kern’s threat spoiled the bloom of her confidence. He could destroy her reputation, ending her chance to find the murderer. Worse, she had to admit that his blunt assessment hurt. His words reminded her that she would never, ever be accepted in his world. No matter how many parties Isabel attended, no matter how many aristocrats she duped, her presence in society could be only temporary.

Callie’s arm encircled Isabel in a quick hug, washing her in the scent of heavy perfume. “Ah, don’t look so glum,” Callie said. “If it makes you feel better to ask questions of these lords, then I won’t stop you. But take care. When you stir up a bee’s nest, you’re liable to get stung.”

“I have to find justice for my mother,” Isabel said. “And
you
have to behave like my servant. Please, auntie, it’s only for a few weeks.”

“Don’t you fret. Nobody will catch me slipping in and out of this house. And anyhow, I only went back home for a little visit—” Callie pressed her hands to her carmined cheeks. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. Persephone’s taken a turn for the worse. She’s been asking for you.”

“Aunt Persy?” The news drove all other thought from Isabel’s mind. She seized hold of Callie’s shoulders. “Tell me. What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s had a terrible stomach upset, and that miserly Minnie won’t call the doctor. Says the old leech won’t do any good.”

“Oh,
dear.
”

Hastening across the sumptuous bedchamber, Isabel stripped off the fine gold spencer that had she had worn to the Winfreys’ ball. In the dressing room, she snatched a cloak of dark-blue merino from a hook. She flung the satin-lined garment over her shoulders and drew the hood up to conceal her hair. Then she ran back to Callie, who had found a pair of embroidery scissors and sat trimming her nails by the light of a candle.

“Come,” Isabel urged. “You’ll have to show me the back way out.”

“Oh, so now you
want
me to go sneaking around this fancy house.”

“Only long enough to point me out the right door. And then you’ll return straight here and wait for me.”

“It isn’t safe for a lady to go gallivanting through the city at night.” Callie gave a delicious shiver. “Who knows, a man may accost you.”

“I have my dagger,” Isabel said, patting the pocket tied inside her skirt and feeling the thin, reassuring shape of the blade. Until the murderer paid for his crime, she would carry the weapon with her at all times—along with the small, precious book of memoirs. “Now don’t delay.”

Callie arched her painted eyebrows, but she wriggled off the bed, picked up the candlestick, and minced to the door.

Out in the corridor, Isabel held her forefinger to her lips. Callie rolled her eyes, then led the way toward the rear of the house. Gloom veiled the portraits and statuary along the stately passage. The thick broadloom carpeting muffled their footsteps. As they passed Lady Helen’s bedchamber, Isabel could hear the muted trill of Helen’s voice. She must be telling her maid all about the evening.

Thankfully, no sounds emanated from downstairs. Upon their return, Isabel and Helen had left Hathaway and Kern in the foyer. A groom had gone to fetch Kern’s mount from the mews, and Lord Kern’s hostile gaze had followed Isabel up the stairway.

How he would relish the chance to catch her in a transgression. How he would love to expose her masquerade to the world.

She rubbed her bare forearms beneath the cloak. Really, she had naught to fear. More than a quarter hour had passed, so the officious earl should be long gone.

*   *   *

In the library downstairs, Kern curtly shook his head as Hathaway held up a crystal decanter. The smaller man poured himself a glass of amber liquor. Then he settled into a wing chair by the hearth, took a sip of his drink, and tilted his head back.

“Ah, I’m growing too old for these parties,” he said. “Give me a glass of fine brandy and a good book and I’d be contented of an evening.”

Restless, Kern roamed the room with its shelves of leather-bound volumes. “I don’t see how you can have a moment’s contentment while that interloper lives under your roof.”

Hathaway’s relaxed countenance turned chilly. “Stop your pacing,” he commanded. “And cease this nattering about my houseguest. What’s done is done, and there’s no turning back.”

Kern threw himself into a leather chair. “You
can
turn back. Send her away. Make up a story about how she had to return to the country. No one will question her absence.”

“And allow the memoirs to be published.”

“Yes.” Kern clenched the arms of the chair. “It isn’t your fault that Lord Raymond got himself tangled up with a whore.”

“We’ve been over this before. No scandal must touch him. He would lose his chance for the bishopric of London.”

At one time that granite glare would have daunted Kern. But not now. Not while he felt this festering resentment. “Then think of Helen. Miss Darling is hardly suitable company for my future wife.”

“Miss
Darcy
comported herself well tonight. She is intelligent and well-educated—her mother sent her to the country to be schooled by a governess. And she has promised to be gone by the end of the Season.”

“You put great faith in the word of a blackmailer. She’ll trick some fool into offering for her. You cannot in all conscience allow any gentleman to marry her.”

“Should such a situation arise, I will deal with it then.”

“It
shall
arise, you mark my words. And that is all the more reason to send the chit away now—before someone uncovers her true antecedents. Before people know how you’ve jeopardized your own integrity.”

“Do not question my honor, Justin.”

Seeing Hathaway’s knuckles whiten around the glass of brandy, Kern abandoned the ill-advised line of attack. “I mean no disrespect. But Isabel Darling doesn’t belong in our world. She’s the bastard of a whore.”

Hathaway drained his glass and set it down with a sharp click. “None of us can change the circumstances of our birth. Nor can my brother change his past misdeeds. We can only go on from here.”

“Then let Lord Raymond pay for his sins. As I shall let Lynwood pay.”

“Don’t be so unforgiving, Justin. All men make mistakes.” His expression flinty, Hathaway turned his gaze to the hearth. The firelight cast his weathered profile into sharp relief. “In truth, it is better to give in to passion than to deny its existence.”

Shaken, Kern sprang to his feet. “You would say that? You, who have led an exemplary life?”

“I am no marble hero to be displayed upon a pedestal.” As Kern was about to snap out a protest, Hathaway passed his hand over his face, looking suddenly old and weary. “I’ve no stomach for quarreling tonight. Be off with you now. I’ll not hear another word on the subject.”

Kern knew from experience that once Hathaway made up his mind, there was no changing it. Swallowing the bitterness of frustration, he bade Hathaway good night and left the house.

But as he mounted his horse, Kern did not feel obliged to accept Isabel Darling. Quite the opposite. She had invaded his ordered life, brazenly pushed herself into a respectable position, and now sought to make a conquest of an unsuspecting gentleman. The very idea incensed Kern, and he could no more ignore her scheming than he could walk away from a crime being committed on the streets.

His sense of conviction strengthened as he guided his mount through the patchy mist. He would stop Isabel Darling, keep her from finagling a permanent place in the
ton.
As he neared the deserted corner, he glanced down the side street. His preoccupation vanished into alertness.

A small, shadowy figure had emerged from the darkness of the mews.

*   *   *

A few minutes earlier, by the uncertain light of the candle, Isabel had crept down the cramped staircase. Young ladies being forbidden to enter the servants’ domain, she had not ventured this way before. “Where does this go?” she whispered to Callie, who led the way.

“Pantry. Watch out for the butler. He sleeps in front of the silver.”

“He … why?”

“He guards the silver plate.” Callie’s grin flashed through the darkness. “And makes sure none of the staff escapes at night.”

“Then how can we—?”

But Callie was already opening the door at the bottom of the stairs. She poked her head out and motioned to Isabel, who tiptoed forward, peering over Callie’s shoulder.

The pantry was a narrow, oblong room lined with tall cabinets. The feeble light of the candle picked out the dull gleam of dishes and silver on the shelves. In contrast to the silence of the stairwell, the air rang with rhythmic snoring: a snorting intake of breath, followed by a loud, whistling exhale.

Isabel could see the outline of the cot and the stout form of Botts, the butler, beneath the blanket. Breathing a prayer for mercy, she stole past him, trailing Callie, who sauntered along as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

Once they were safely beyond the pantry, Callie unerringly led her through a maze of dark rooms. In the servants’ hall, the tang of jellied eels lingered in the air. One more short corridor and they slipped outside, into the chilly night.

Callie pointed to a footpath winding through the small, misty garden. “Go through the gate there, then turn right. Mind you watch your step—there’s muck about.” She paused, her hand cupped around the wavering candle flame, her pouty lips firming with belated concern. “Oughtn’t I go with you?”

“No. You’ll stay here, in case someone knocks on my door. If I’m not back by morning, tell everyone I’m sleeping late.”

Isabel hastened along the flagstones. A gust of wind fluttered the leaves of a beech tree and swirled the scent of damp earth. Wisps of fog curled like ghostly fingers around the darkened shrubbery. She opened the garden gate, thankful the hinges didn’t squeak.

A horse snuffled in the stable; then all lay quiet. The grooms and coachman would be sleeping by now. She picked her way through the shadows, heading toward a lighter square marking the end of the mews. The flimsy dancing slippers provided little protection against the occasional sharp pebble.

Though her feet already hurt from dancing and it was well after midnight, Isabel knew she wouldn’t rest until she had assured herself of Aunt Persy’s health. In half an hour’s swift walk, she could reach the town house, lend aid and comfort, then return before sunup.

She turned the corner of the alleyway and hastened along the side street toward the square. Here, the erratic mist hung deeper and denser than in the mews. Tree branches poked like black, skeletal hands out of the fog. The hollow clopping of hooves echoed from the distance and then faded. How eerie to walk the deserted pavement, to see no carriages or delivery drays rattling along, no servants hurrying on a master’s errand. A sense of utter aloneness made her shiver.

Quickening her steps, Isabel slipped her fingers into her pocket and gripped the handle of the dagger. She kept her gaze on a misty yellow beacon at the far corner of the square. The gas lamps would light her way through the darkness. Her thoughts jumped ahead. Had Aunt Minnie remembered that Aunt Persy always felt better after a tisane of peppermint and sage? Had she administered sufficient drops of laudanum?

Isabel reached the gas lamp. Strange, how a little circle of light could lend reassurance. Though tempted to linger, she stepped down from the curbstone, lifting her hem to avoid dragging it in a puddle. The clatter of hooves startled her.

Out of the gloom of the side street burst a rider on horseback. He came straight at her.

Isabel loosed a choked scream. She whipped out the dagger and leapt backward, bumping into the iron lamppost. He reined to a halt just beyond the gaslight, his figure tall and menacing, cloaked in black mist.

“Miss Darling,” he bit out. “So it
is
you.”

Lord Kern. She would know that sardonic voice anywhere. Now she could discern the arrogant thrust of his jaw, though the night obscured his expression. The ball of shock inside her exploded into anger. “What do you mean, frightening me like that?”

“I saw you sneaking like a thief out of the mews.” His horse pranced; he controlled it with the reins. “Put the knife away.”

Wanting to plunge it into his cold heart, she sheathed the dagger in her hidden pocket. “I’m not a thief. So you can be on your way.”

“Why are you out here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she lied. “So I’m taking a stroll.”

“No
lady
walks the streets alone.” He looked her up and down. “Of course, old habits die hard.”

“I’ve had enough of your insults for one night.”

“And I’ve had enough of your folly.”

As he started to dismount, she seized the opportunity to stride across the street. “Don’t trouble yourself,” she called over her shoulder. “If I come to grief, you should be happy to be rid of me.”

He spurred his horse forward and kept pace with her. “If anyone sees you, there’ll be gossip. You wouldn’t risk your diabolical plan for a promenade in the park.”

She tensed, her step faltering. For the barest instant, she feared he had found out about her investigation of murder. But no, he thought she wanted a rich husband. She continued briskly along the pavement. “If you’re concerned about scandal, then ride away and quit calling attention to me.”

“I want to know where you’re heading.”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“Indeed.” His voice hardened, deep with suspicion. “Have you an assignation with Mobrey? The least he could have done was to send his carriage for you.”

She fisted her fingers beneath the cloak. Damn Lord Kern for always thinking the worst of her! “How astute of you to guess my secret,” she said scathingly. “His carriage awaits me in the next street. So you may leave me now in good conscience. I’ll ruin myself and be gone from your life without an ounce of effort on your part.”