Secrets of a Proper Countess (25 page)

“H
onoria is ready to see you now,” Jane Kirk said the next morning, unlocking the door to Isobel's room.

Isobel had been pacing the floor all night, dressed and ready, awaiting Honoria's summons like a condemned prisoner.

Her teeth clenched at the sight of Jane's oily smirk. She loved to see her in trouble, but this time she looked particularly smug.

“I see you changed your gown. Not that it will help you,” Jane said coldly as they walked along the hall. She leaned close to Isobel.
“She knows.”

Isobel's heart skipped a beat, but she kept walking, giving the appearance of calm even if she didn't feel it. What did Honoria know? That she overheard her conversation with Charles, perhaps, or knew that she'd tried to take her son out of the house?

“I saw you with Blackwood. You were getting out of his coach on Bond Street yesterday. Your dress was rumpled and his lordship wasn't even wearing a cravat. I came to the only conclusion I could.”

Isobel's feet stopped of their own accord.

“So I was right!” Jane crowed. “You're his whore. I told
Charles at once, of course, and Honoria as well, when she arrived home. They hardly believed it.”

Isobel's knees turned to water, and she put a hand against the wall to steady herself. “You told Honoria?”

“Of course,” Jane said sweetly. “It will be good to be rid of you at last, lady high and mighty!”

Isobel stared at Honoria's spy, read the malice in her eyes. “Why?” she asked, forcing out the single word.

Jane's lips twisted bitterly. “You really don't know?” She tossed her chin. “I suppose they never bothered to tell you.
I
was supposed to marry Robert Maitland. It was all arranged. The Maitlands were poor, and my father may have been a cit, but he had money, and I inherited every penny. I was going to be a countess until you showed up. Your father was willing to pay a devil's ransom to be rid of you, so Robert married you instead, and I was given a place in the household, companion instead of countess, because Charles still wanted my money.” Jane leaned close to Isobel. “He wouldn't even marry me. Now it's your turn to be left with nothing!”

Isobel swallowed, but the lump in her throat would not move. Jane would never know how sincerely she wished things had been different, and Jane had been Robert's bride.

Now, thanks to Jane's hatred, her worst fears were about to come true. She had gambled everything precious for a few moments of pleasure in Blackwood's arms, and she'd lost.

Isobel the Harlot.

Isobel the Fool.

She was not invisible now, and there was no way to explain this away.

Jane grabbed her arm roughly, tugging her forward. “Come on, they're waiting, and I wouldn't miss this for anything.”

Isobel pulled free. “Take your hands off me,” she com
manded, and met Jane's eyes, letting her read the disdain in her expression, the difference in their station that would never change. Jane slid her eyes to the floor.

“You'll only make it worse for yourself if you dawdle. Honoria hates to be kept waiting,” Jane muttered.

Isobel walked down the stairs, concentrating on taking each step with dignity, though her heart pounded. She had to find a way to keep Robin safe.

Jane slithered past her and skittered along the corridor to knock on the door of the salon before opening it.

“She's here, Honoria,” she gushed.

Isobel took a deep breath and smoothed her expression, determined not to let them read fear or guilt on her face. Her legs trembled but she held herself with grace.

Charles did not bother to rise. His eyes slid over her from hairline to toes, and he sniggered. Isobel felt her skin grow hot.

“Well well. Who could have imagined this?” he said. “Blackwood with
you
? I'll have to check the betting book at White's. Perhaps it was a wager, or a dare.”

Behind Isobel, Jane giggled.

“You may go,” Honoria said to her companion.

“But I thought we were—” Jane began. Isobel did not bother to look at her. Her eyes were on Honoria's cold countenance. At least she'd be spared the indignity of Jane's presence. She waited for the door to close.

No one invited her to sit, so she stood, her back straight, her eyes on the wall.

“Is what Jane told us true?” Honoria asked.

Isobel could tell them Jane was mistaken, that Blackwood had merely been seeing her home from tea at Marianne's.

“I—” she began, and closed her mouth. She was tired of lying, tired of subterfuge. Charles and Honoria had far greater sins on their souls than she did.

But there was Robin to consider, and surely accusations and admissions would only put him in greater peril. She lowered her eyes so they would not see the hatred burning there. She clenched her fists in the folds of her gown.

“I must assume the worst, since you won't answer me,” Honoria said. “You are your mother's daughter after all.”

Isobel's stomach curled in upon itself in mortification, but still her tongue remained glued to her teeth.
Speak up, deny him. Save yourself
, fear needled her.

But pride would not allow it. She did not regret Blackwood, even now. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong?” Honoria trilled. “Not by Charlotte Fraser's low standards, perhaps, but Robert's will was plain enough about what we expect of you. We can no longer have you living in this house, Isobel, or remaining in this city, bringing scandal and shame upon us.”

Blood drummed in Isobel's ears. She had been found guilty, and all that was left was to wait for the sentence. Did they still put wanton women in convents? She stood very still, her limbs stiff, everything but her ears and eyes numb, useless.

“We've decided you will marry again,” Honoria said.

“What?” Isobel croaked. Could Blackwood have spoken to Charles? A frisson of hope cascaded through her, but Honoria's cold expression dashed the possibility of any reprieve.

“We've had an unexpected offer from someone in the North.”

“Far, far North.” Charles chuckled.

Honoria quelled him with a glance. “You will leave tonight.”

Just like that? She felt her limbs loosen, and reached out to grip the back of the nearest chair. “Who—Who is he?” she asked.

“It hardly matters,” Honoria said. “You can't stay in
London, and we have to tell people something once you're gone.”

Isobel shut her eyes. They had sentenced her to death. Just like Jonathan Hart.

There would be no wedding. She would simply disappear.

“What about Robin? What will happen to my son?” Her eyes flew from Honoria to Charles. There was no compassion, no regret, in either face.

“Obviously the boy cannot stay in London now,” Honoria said. “None of us can. This scandal will ruin us all.”

Charles smirked. “You wanted the boy to have a holiday by the sea, didn't you?”

Honoria's head whipped around. “Charles! Be silent!”

“What difference does it make now?” Charles asked, but he subsided into sulky silence.

“Waterfield?” Isobel gasped. Where Robert had died, and Jonathan Hart had been murdered. The ugly rush of color in Honoria's face confirmed it.

Fury replaced Isobel's fear. “No!” She could not, would not, let them murder Robin.

She fought for an idea, a way to save them both, but Charles was smirking at her, his eyes cold and dark and empty, and Honoria's mouth was a tight pucker of disdain. “No!” she said again, her fists clenched. “I will not let you harm him!”

Charles laughed as he crossed the room to grab her arm and twist it painfully behind her back. “You'll do as you're told for once.”

She clenched her teeth against the pain, refusing to give him the satisfaction of making her cry out.

Charles pulled harder when she refused to move toward the door, but she stood her ground. “I want to see my son,” she said to Honoria, fighting the pain. If she had Robin in her arms, could look into his eyes, she'd think of something.

Honoria turned away. “No. You are not fit company for an impressionable child. Don't make more of a fool of yourself than you already have,” she said coldly. “You will go to your room and get ready to leave. I have already ordered your maid to pack a few things for you. If you make a fuss, I shall send Jane up with a sleeping draught. For the boy's sake, you will cooperate.”

She dangled that last thread of hope for Isobel to cling to, a promise that Robin would be safe if she did as they wished. She knew it was a lie, and fought to free herself from Charles's grip, but he twisted viciously, until a moan broke from her throat. She sagged, the agony unbearable, made worse by imagining the pain and terror her helpless child would endure.

Honoria smirked, her eyes glittering. “So your pride is broken at last. You should have thought of the consequences before you became Blackwood's whore.”

“Why don't you write the brat a letter while you're waiting?” Charles said mockingly as he dragged her up the stairs. “We might even let him read it.”

A letter.

Charles shoved her into her bedroom, and Isobel crossed to her desk and began to write. She barely heard the key scrape in the lock.

 

The door opened again, and Isobel leapt to her feet. A bottle of perfume spilled, and she snatched up the letter she'd been writing before it was ruined. She hid it behind her back and faced the door, her heart hammering in her throat.

It was only Sarah.

The maid frowned. “What's going on around here today, my lady? Lord Charles had to unlock your door for me. There are four maids packing for Lady Honoria, and no one seems to know where she's going. Now they tell me I'm to pack a
box for you. Jane Kirk is all smiles and secrets as well. It's a horrible sight.”

“They're leaving?” Isobel asked. The letter slipped from her fingers, slithered to the floor. “Sarah, where's Robin?”

“Upstairs, of course, having his tea,” Sarah said calmly. Her eyes widened. “My lady, you're as pale as death. Are you ill? Is something wrong?”

Isobel forced down the panic that rose in her chest. She needed a clear head. “Very wrong. I need your help, Sarah. Can you slip away, deliver a letter?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Isobel was grateful that she didn't ask any questions, though she knew Sarah must be curious. She picked up the note and folded it with shaking hands.

“It's for the Marquess of Blackwood.”

Sarah's brows shot up to her cap, but she tucked the letter into her apron pocket and turned to go without asking any questions.

“Sarah? Tell him to hurry. I need him.”

M
arianne left her brother's house with a mission. Phineas deserved to be happy, and so did Isobel. Thanks to a pair of lost gloves and Phineas's misguided proposal, she could see now that Isobel and Phineas were perfect for each other. They just needed a well-meaning friend to help them see it. And since she was deliriously in love herself, who better than she? She smiled at Crane as she crossed the front hall, her boot heels clicking purposefully on the marble tiles.

Adam would forbid her from interfering if he knew, tell her again how planets and stars managed to orbit the sky without any help from her, but this was Phineas, her handsome, eligible, lonely brother, and Isobel, her dearest friend. Since the sparks were already there, it would hardly require interference on an astronomical scale to bring them together. Just a nudge, a push in the right direction, should do it. It could hardly even be called interference, now could it?

Crane opened the front door and preceded her down the front steps to instruct her footman to open the door of her coach. It wasn't necessary, but Crane was a butler who liked to put the stamp of protocol on every duty, no matter how trifling.

Marianne considered. If she was going to convince Isobel
and Phineas to become lovers, then she'd need to rent a house, set up a love nest, and—

A figure came hurtling along the sidewalk and crashed into Crane. He fell into the open door of the coach, his bottom in the air, his polished shoes kicking at the wind. The footman holding the door caught the young woman's arm before she toppled in on top of the poor man.

Marianne stopped on the steps and watched the melee. Crane scrambled to his feet as the woman straightened her plain bonnet and apologized. “I'm sorry, I'm sure. I was in a hurry and I didn't see you there.”

“Aren't you Sarah, Isobel's maid?” Marianne asked, recognizing the girl.

“Yes, my lady.” Sarah dipped a curtsy.

Crane glared at her as he straightened his coat and brushed at imaginary specks on the dark wool of his breeches. “Young woman, the servants' entrance is around back, but hooligans who go about plowing into their betters need not apply!” He turned on his heel and climbed the stairs to the front door.

Sarah blinked at the butler's retreating back. “I'm not here about a position! I have a letter for the marquess.” She held it up to one of the footmen as Crane disappeared into the house. “See?” she asked tartly.

Marianne snatched it from the maid's hand before the footman could move. “Is it from Countess Isobel?” she asked, though she could see that it was. Isobel's feminine scrawl swirled across the fine vellum, and the note was drenched in her violet perfume. That could only mean one thing.

A love letter!

Delight raced through Marianne's body. She itched to break the seal and read the words of love Isobel had written to Phineas. Had she reconsidered his proposal?

If she knew what the letter said, she could better plan her matchmaking schemes to suit.

She was curious, as well. She had never received a love letter, at least not one on paper. Adam didn't write poems or notes. He sent bouquets of flowers to her room. Each flower had a meaning, and each meaning added to the message he wished to convey. It was never as simple as “I love you.” It could take all morning to look up each flower and puzzle out her husband's thoughts, which were usually very romantic indeed. Still, there were times she wished he would just scrawl a note and leave it on her pillow.

She smiled at Sarah. “I'll deliver this for you. I'm just on my way in to see Blackwood,” she fibbed.

Sarah dipped another curtsy. “Thank you kindly, my lady. I must get back.”

Marianne watched her go. This was going to be fun—secret love letters, romantic trysts, even a wedding to plan, perhaps. She tingled with excitement.

A lady's laugh, all too familiar, rang out from the street.

“Miranda?” Marianne called, but her sister didn't hear her. She was riding with Gilbert Fielding, and they only had eyes for each other. Augusta's footman, obviously sent to chaperone, was lagging much too far behind his charge.

She watched in horror as Miranda leaned toward Gilbert, obviously about to make a cake of herself by falling into his arms in the middle of the street, right in front of the home of the notorious Marquess of Blackwood. Another Archer scandal was in the making, and this one would not be Phineas's fault.

She could not stand by and let her young and impressionable sister fall in love with Gilbert Fielding. Carrington would never allow her to marry him, and Miranda would end up with a broken heart.

Marianne knew from experience that a woman did not want to marry elsewhere when she imagined herself in love. She was spoiled for any other man by that first bloom of
passion, and especially so if the match was doomed from the outset. Carrington and Great-Aunt Augusta would disown Miranda if she married against their wishes. Gilbert Fielding might be handsome, but he was penniless. How long would love endure with no money to sustain it? Without family connections or dowry, Gilbert would still need to join the army to earn his bread, and Miranda would face a miserable life of following the drum. It was unthinkable.

Marianne stuffed Isobel's letter into her reticule and crossed the street to stop disaster.