Secrets of a Proper Countess (24 page)

B
lackwood had proposed.

The incredible, unbelievable words echoed in Isobel's head on the long walk home. It had been a horrible, wicked thing to do.

She loved him.

And she hated him.

For a moment she had felt the terrible temptation to accept, to let him take her away, to marry him and damn the consequences.

But that was what her mother had done. Had Charlotte been happy with her choice? Was she so much in love that she had not felt the pain of leaving her child? Even now the agony of Charlotte's abandonment, and the idea of leaving her own son, was a raw ache in Isobel's chest.

She could not abandon Robin, no matter how miserable Honoria made her life, or how much she loved—

Blackwood had proposed.

Damn him!

He had wanted an explanation, a reason why she refused him. Was it so obvious she loved him? She had tried to hide her feelings, but she'd been in love with him since the first moment she laid eyes on him.

How could she tell him her dead husband still ruled her life from the grave, that his will ensured she would never
be free? She was beholden, enslaved, to Honoria, a bondage she endured willingly for Robin's sake. Phineas could not ask her to choose between her love for him and her son. It was impossible. The pain left her breathless. She could not do it, would not.

By the time she climbed the steps of Maitland House, she knew she had to find a way to leave London. If she stayed in Blackwood's mesmerizing, tantalizing sphere, she would be unable to resist. She would end up just like her mother. Isobel the Harlot. Robin would grow up hating her.

She would promise Honoria anything, plead on her knees if necessary, to go to Ashdown or Waterfield, or wherever they'd allow her to take Robin. Perhaps if Robin were out of sight and out of reach, Charles would forget he even existed. Away from London, she could keep her son safe.

And she could forget Blackwood.

Never,
her heart whispered as Finch opened the front door for her and she handed him her bonnet and gloves.

She glanced in the mirror. Her face was tearstained, her eyes puffy. Her lips were swollen from his kisses. Her gown was rumpled from the wild lovemaking in Blackwood's coach.

Her body still tingled.

She needed to go upstairs and change her dress, compose herself, before seeing Honoria to make her plea.

The door of the library was slightly ajar as she passed, and she winced, knowing she'd need to slip by unnoticed, or be prepared to explain her disheveled appearance if she were caught. She was too tired to think of a believable excuse.

She paused outside the door and peered at Honoria's broad back through the crack. She wore a vivid shade of green today and was pulling on her gloves in preparation to go out.

“Is the new man in place at Waterfield?” Honoria asked Charles, who sat at the desk.

“Yes. One of Renshaw's men.”

Isobel's skin prickled, and she froze outside the door to listen.

“And I assume everything else will be ready on time? We cannot afford any mistakes now, Charles.”

Charles hesitated. “There are one or two minor details left to see to.”

Honoria hissed her disapproval.

“Mother, be reasonable. How was I to know Hart would prove difficult, or the innkeeper would demand a larger payment?” Charles asked peevishly. “And Renshaw's demands have been endless.”

“Just tell me you took care of the situation at Waterfield properly,” Honoria snapped.

“I did exactly as you suggested,” Charles replied. “All anyone knows is that Hart has left Waterfield and there's a new steward. I put about a few rumors of mismanagement so people will believe Hart was turned off for incompetence.”

Isobel pressed a hand to her mouth to suppress a gasp. She had begged them not to fire Jonathan Hart. She shut her eyes. She should not have mentioned that Hart had come to see her. She wondered where he'd gone, if he had a family.

“Does anyone suspect that he's dead?” Honoria asked.

Isobel's eyes widened. “Dead?” she whispered. The word was flat and dark and ugly. Her heart began to hammer painfully against her ribs.

Charles laughed. “Only the fish that ate him, I suppose.”

Horror squeezed Isobel's throat, cutting off her air. She couldn't have heard them correctly. Surely Honoria and Charles hadn't
killed
a man. Not for incompetence.

But they had.

She felt her stomach churn. Her panicked thoughts flew up the stairs to the third floor, to the nursery, where her son was.

Children die all the time
.

She picked up her skirts and flew up the stairs, fear pounding in her throat, prodding her to run. She had to get to her son. She had to take her child away, far, far away where the monsters could never touch him, never hurt him.

Children die all the time.

So did grown men like Jonathan Hart.

 

Half an hour later she clutched Robin's hand as they descended the stairs. “We're going on an adventure, Robbie, but we must be very quiet, and very quick,” she whispered.

“Will Jamie be there? Will we visit one of his papa's ships?” her son asked, running a hand along the polished oak railing.

“I don't know, darling.” She wished he'd hurry, but she didn't want to frighten him.

“Lord Westlake tells me stories about the sea. Can we visit the sea?” he chirped.

“Isobel.”

Charles's gruff voice slashed across her fragile nerves like a knife. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her. Jane Kirk stood behind him, a cruel imitation of a smile on her hard face. Isobel's heart climbed her throat.

“Where do you think you're going?” Charles asked, his piggy eyes sharp on her.

Isobel squeezed Robin's hand to keep him still.

“I'm taking Robin to the park,” she managed.

“It's nearly tea time,” Charles said.

“Your gown is a mess, Countess,” Jane noted. “Whatever have you been doing today?” she asked, smirking as if she knew. Charles too regarded her with odd speculation.

“Mother will want to see you when she gets home,” he said. “Go back upstairs and wait.”

Isobel's chest tightened, her head buzzed with terror. “Come Robin, let's go back upstairs,” she said. She would find another way.

“No, I'd like to hear his Latin,” Charles said. “Come here, boy.”

Robin shrank into her.

“Now!”
Charles roared.

But Robin didn't move, and Isobel clung to her son, unable to make her fingers let go. Charles jerked his head at Jane, and she ascended the steps, her footsteps echoing through the house like a death march. She took Robin's free hand and dragged him away from his mother. Isobel let go, because she had to, so he wouldn't be frightened or hurt. Jane turned the boy over to his uncle and sent Isobel a look of triumph that chilled her blood.

Children died all the time.

“L
ady Marianne is in your study, my lord,” Burridge informed Phineas, waking him up.

“Probably here to see Carrington. Let him know she's arrived,” Phineas muttered, and shut his eyes against the daggers of light trying to impale his aching eyeballs. He'd prowled the docks until dawn, looking for anyone who might know of an unusual shipment due at the Bosun's Belle in the next few days.

There was no better way to get information than by drinking with a sailor, and usually no better way to drown the memory of a woman, but his throbbing head was still filled with visions of Isobel perched on his lap, her head thrown back in the throes of passion.

He pulled the pillow over his face, but his valet nudged him again.

“Burridge, go 'way if you know what's good for you.”

“Her ladyship asked me not to tell His Grace she was here. It's you she wants to see. She told me if I didn't wake you straight away, then she'd come up here and do it herself, and I believe she would, my lord. She's a formidable lady for a countess.”

A less flattering description came to mind. He tossed the pillow aside and winced at the harsh morning light. “Then you'd better get me ready to hold court.”

 

Three-quarters of an hour later he found Marianne pacing his study. Judging by the empty tumbler, she had eschewed Burridge's tea in favor of a tot of whisky.

She turned to face him, looking pointedly at the clock. “I've been waiting nearly an hour, Phineas. Ladies don't take that long to dress.”

“Burridge insisted I look my best.” He gave her a mocking bow that made his head hurt.

“You still look six shades of dreadful. You really must give up your life of dissipation.”

He ignored the barb. “Fresh tea, some breakfast, perhaps?”

“Coffee,” she said, and he ordered it, and slid into the nearest chair.

“What brings you out at dawn?” he croaked, though it was nearly ten.

“Gloves,” she said triumphantly, dropping them on the table and looking at him like a governess admonishing a naughty child.

They were lady's gloves, black satin, elbow length, and very plain. He knew at once who they belonged to. If he picked one up and sniffed it, it would carry the faint trace of her perfume.

He did not want to have this conversation with Marianne. Not now. He forced his split lip into a roguish grin. “Do they have something to do with me? I never tell a lady's secrets, Marianne.”

She raised her eyebrows. “They are Isobel's gloves, Phineas. Aunt Augusta found them in the portrait room and gave them to me, in case I knew to whom they belonged. I wondered why Isobel was in that room with you. She was gone from the salon for quite some time, and when I considered it, so were you, and you can be sure I considered it most
carefully after I noted the way the pair of you were looking at each other at tea yesterday.”

“Have you ever considered a career as a Bow Street Runner?” he asked.

She frowned. “I came to have a serious discussion, Phineas, and I'm not leaving until I get one. Now, about you and Isobel—”

“You are mistaken in your assumptions, Marianne,” he said flatly.

“Am I? Her gloves were behind the curtain, Phineas. What on earth would Isobel have been doing there, if you please?”

Kissing him. Holding him. Hiding from fears he didn't fully understand.

“Perhaps she was looking for the necessary,” he said baldly, hoping to shock Marianne and throw her off the scent, but the look in her eyes told him she was not going to let this rest with a flippant, easy answer. He let out a long breath.

“Have you spoken to Isobel about this?” he asked. He watched as his brazen sister lowered her eyes and actually blushed. His stomach rolled with dread. “Oh, Marianne, what have you done?” he asked.

The bold stare returned with a vengeance. “I? You are the one who let me make a fool of myself, asking you to arrange a tryst for Isobel with Gilbert Fielding. How mortifying! Of course I haven't spoken to her. I've embarrassed myself enough, thank you. That's why I'm speaking to you.”

Fielding's name rang painfully in Phineas's head. “If it's any comfort, I think you were right about Gilbert, Marianne. He's a good man, probably perfect for her.”

“Oh, Phineas, don't be a fool! Gilbert Fielding is in love with Miranda, unfortunately, and Isobel…well, I've seen the way she looks at you. It's how I looked at Adam when
I thought I couldn't have him, while I was still betrothed to Edmond.”

He had thought he was being discreet. No doubt so did Isobel, but he remembered all too well how the secret passion that burned between Marianne and Adam had been obvious to everyone.

He shut his eyes. “Look, nothing will come of it, and it's best forgotten. Gilbert must marry money, and since Carrington will never let him marry Miranda, Isobel is his next best choice. He'll make her a pleasant husband.”

Marianne snorted. “For the most famous lover in London, you know damned little about love! No woman wants to be any man's ‘next best choice.' Nor does any woman worth the name want a ‘pleasant' husband.”

“Isobel is what he needs,” he insisted stubbornly. “And he is probably what she needs.”

“Fool.
You
are what she needs!”

“Not in her opinion, Marianne. Will you leave this alone?” he demanded. Isobel's heated refusal of his proposal still stung, even after several barrels worth of ale, or rum, or possibly both. He rubbed his aching temples, wishing Marianne gone with the rest of the heartless bow-legged women.

“In her opinion? What does that mean? Just how far has this gone,

He dared not answer that, but had to give her something, or she'd keep him here all day.

“I proposed to her, Marianne. She refused me.” That admission was surely less damaging to Isobel's reputation than tales of stolen cherries and masks and anonymous trysts in dark corners.

Marianne leapt to her feet with a gasp. “Oh, Phineas, you didn't! What on earth would make you do something so foolish? You barely know Isobel! Is this a joke of some kind? You obviously have no regard for her. It was a cruel thing to do,
and I'm not surprised she said no. She has
reasons
for not wanting to marry again!”

And they were as plain as the black dress on her back. “She loved Maitland,” he muttered, still stunned by the idea that Robert Maitland could engender such passion. “My offer was genuine, by the way,” he said, but Marianne ignored that.

“Loved Maitland? Good heavens, it was quite the opposite. It was a very unhappy match, and she's not eager to repeat the experience.”

He frowned, puzzled now, and Marianne's expression softened with sympathy.

“You really meant to marry her? Poor Phin. You're hardly her type.” She poured out a cup of coffee and sat down next to him. “Here, you look like you could do with this.” His stomach curled in objection. “Now tell me why you proposed.”

He set the coffee down untouched. “Carrington wants me to marry. Isobel would have done as well as anyone else,” he said, hoping Marianne would think he merely wished to upset the duke by choosing the most unlikely wife possible, and drop the subject. But something Marianne had said tugged at him. “If Isobel didn't love Maitland, why does she still wear mourning for him?”

Marianne shook her head. “I don't know. Maybe to warn away suitors who only want to marry her for her fortune. Or perhaps she thinks Honoria and Charles expect it of her. If that's the reason, then her loyalty is misplaced. Neither of them is in mourning. Phineas, I don't think things are as they should be in that house.”

Neither did he, but there was damned little he could tell Marianne about it.

“Poor Isobel is so unhappy, and now I understand. You're obviously the reason.”

“Me?” Phineas asked. She did not seem unhappy in his arms. However, he recalled her fear for her son's life, and
the tortured look on her face as she leapt from the carriage after his clumsy proposal. Fortunately, Marianne didn't wait for an explanation.

“Yes, you. Your offer was badly timed. She doesn't need a husband. Not yet anyway. What she needs is a lover.” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth to protest. “I know I suggested Gilbert Fielding, but that was before I realized how you felt about Isobel. Perhaps
you
could seduce her.”

Phineas wondered if Adam had put his wife up to this. “Marianne, have you considered that perhaps this is not your concern?”

“Of course it is! Isobel is my friend, and you are my brother. I assume you're quite proficient at seducing ladies, given your reputation. I doubt if all the stories are true, of course, but where there is smoke, there's fire.” She looked at him with a gleam in her eye. “It
isn't
all true, is it?”

Was this what men felt like when he cornered them and badgered them until they could only tell him the truth? It was damned uncomfortable. He remained stubbornly silent.

“Well, it doesn't matter,” she said at last. “The important thing is finding out just what Robert Maitland did to Isobel. They were only married for three years before he died of fever.”

Phineas's head came up. “What?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do pay attention. I said they were only married a few years.”

“And she—you—believe he died of a fever?”

She frowned at him. “Whatever is wrong with you? Isobel told me he did, so why shouldn't I believe it?”

Because it wasn't true. Robert Maitland had been shot to death on the beach at Waterfield, by smugglers. Which side he was on, smuggler or innocent fool, was cause for speculation. Was that Isobel's secret?

“It was sudden, and he was away from London at the
time. He's buried in the family crypt at Ashdown Park,” Marianne said.

Robert Maitland lay under a plain stone in the churchyard at Waterfield. It was recorded in the thick dossier Adam held on the man.

“That aside, if we knew what Robert did to make Isobel so unhappy, you could fix it, couldn't you?” Marianne hinted again, leaning toward him like a conspirator.

Or perhaps the secret lay in what Isobel had done to Robert. He avoided Marianne's penetrating gaze. His skin was on fire and his head ached.

You don't understand! It is I who am not what I seem!

Suspicion rolled through his stomach and tried to claw its way up his throat.

In his cup-shot brain, Lady M laughed.