The Earl's Mistress (14 page)

At this, his breath seemed to hitch. “I beg your pardon?”

Lady Petershaw cast her gaze lower. “Well, probably not bigger, if my recollection is accurate,” she conceded, “and perhaps not even better. But if you threw the lady off, Tony, what is it to you where she goes—or with whom?”

“I did not throw her off,” he gritted. “At least—it wasn’t quite like that.”

“So she simply left you, did she?” Lady Petershaw narrowed one eye. “Were you cruel to her, Tony? Did you use her ill? Some women don’t take well to that, you know. Isabella was brought up in a high style, and accustomed to giving orders, not taking them.”

Hepplewood glared at her. “What in God’s name, Maria, are you saying?”

The marchioness just shrugged. “That perhaps those blue-blooded girls won’t bow down beneath your lordly hand as you’re accustomed,” she said. “Did you never think of that?”

“What blue blood?” he said. “She was your damned governess, Maria.”

“And governesses are gently bred ladies, or something near it,” replied the marchioness. “Isabella was Tafford of Thornhill’s daughter.”

“
Baron
Tafford?” His expression darkened, if such a thing were possible.

“Heavens, Tony! Could you not even be troubled to get to know the girl before you tossed up her skirts? In my day, we at least made a pretense of politesse. Anything less and—well, one simply hired a Covent Garden uprighter and saw to one’s business in the nearest alleyway.”

“Maria,” he said wearily, “you are vulgar.”

“
I’m
vulgar?” she declared. “Are you going to confess to me what you did to poor Mrs. Aldridge or not?”

His lips thinned angrily. “Fine, I had my wicked way with her—or started to,” he said. “Wasn’t that the plan? And now I wish to see her, damn it. Give me her direction.”

“Why?”

“I just need to see her,” he said. “I just . . . wish to reassure myself of something.”

“Of what?” said the marchioness snidely. “Your place in her affections? I think we can both assume it’s running level with the pavement.”

“Look here, damn it. I don’t care what you and Louisa claim—that poor girl was naive,” he said more determinedly. “A virgin, almost. So here is my concern—what if I’ve left her with child? That’s all I wish to know. I mean her no harm; I just need to be sure. And I need to see her
myself
. And then I will be on my merry and dissolute way.”

“Good Lord, Tony, hadn’t you sense enough to exercise caution?” But Lady Petershaw’s voice, Isabella noted, had gentled. “And what if she is with child? What then?”

“Then you
know
what,” he said hollowly, “and God help us all. Maria, please. I’m begging you. Just tell me where to find her. For if you won’t, I’ll simply have Jervis run her to ground. Or I’ll go down to Thornhill. Isabella is hiding out there, perhaps? The present baron must be a relation.”

“Tony,
no
.” The marchioness seized his wrist. “You will not. On no account will you go down to Thornhill or mention her to Lord Tafford. The trouble you might cause her then would pale to whatever you did to her in Buckinghamshire.”

Hepplewood cursed beneath his breath, jerked back his hand, and dragged it through his hair again. “That’s my very point, Maria,” he said. “If Jervis starts poking about—or if I go down to Sussex—both are bound to stir up gossip. And searching takes time; time she mightn’t have.”

“Oh, dear. A moment, Tony, if you please.” With an uncomfortable smile, the marchioness jerked from her chair. “I must be excused.”

With that, the marchioness marched straight toward the water closet, flinging open the door, scarcely leaving Isabella time to leap into the shadows. Cutting her a grim glance, the marchioness slammed the door shut again, plunging them into a darkness so deep that Isabella could see nothing but the crack beneath the door.

“
Shh,
” breathed Lady Petershaw.

Then, after a long moment had passed, she apparently reached out and opened the valve. A great rush of water ensued, gurgling loudly down the trap.

“My dear, you will not avoid this one,” the marchioness said beneath the racket, her mouth near Isabella’s ear, “not for long. And his concern, frankly, is not misplaced. Do you still refuse to see him?”

Isabella said nothing. For what was there to say? Lady Petershaw was right; a man of Hepplewood’s wealth and power would run her down like a rabbit.

“I . . . I will see him.”

The hand fell away, the water ceased to gurgle, and in an instant, the door swung open again.

“Heavens!” said the marchioness, marching back into the blade of light. “I’m not as young as I used to be. Now, Tony, what was it you wanted? Oh, yes! Mrs. Aldridge’s direction.”

“
Now,
Maria, if you please,” he ordered.

“Oh, very well,” she said a little irritably. “And once you’ve settled your business with her, perhaps you’ll come back and join my merry little band?”

“No,” he said tightly, “I won’t. Thank you.”

“Careful, old boy,” she cautioned. “All work and no play might make Jack—and all his tools—very dull indeed.”

With that, the marchioness drew up her chair to her desk and made a great pretense of looking for her address book.

Lord Hepplewood jerked from his chair and began to pace the room.

In a moment, the marchioness lifted a piece of paper, blew on the ink, and thrust it at him. “Fulham,” she said. “Enjoy the drive.”

“Maria,” he rasped, seizing her hand to kiss it, “
thank
you.”

“Well, don’t thank me yet,” said the marchioness peevishly. “You’ll first have to get by that gorgon of a cook—so good luck with that, my boy.”

“Her
cook
?”

“An elderly retainer, fallen on hard times. Cook. Nanny. Whatever. Mrs. Barbour guards Isabella’s virtue like a mastiff.” Here the lady paused to tap the side of her nose. “But the woman
does
go to evensong religiously on Wednesdays—no pun intended.
That,
old boy, would be your best bet if it’s privacy you want.”

“What?” said Hepplewood. “To go on Wednesdays?”

“And this Wednesday might be best,” replied Lady Petershaw, “before Isabella is off on her next adventure. After all, if she’s with child, you will wish to be sure it is yours, will you not? For once she’s taken up with her new gentleman, it will all be the very devil to sort out.”

Something ugly flashed in Hepplewood’s eyes. “Oh, I will sort it all out, Maria,” he snapped. “On that you may depend.”

“Very wise!” Lady Petershaw reached out and squeezed his hand. “Well, off with you then, Tony. And remember—evensong generally starts at seven!”

CHAPTER
7

D
uring her come-out Season at a very naive seventeen, Isabella had learned a great deal about the nature of men, and little of it bode favorably. Until that time, she hadn’t understood that men married not for love but almost unilaterally for power or money, or that once given in marriage, a woman became legally subsumed in her husband, to the point of near invisibility.

Perhaps her ignorance was understandable; her father had been a sweet, dithering sort of man, while her mother had been brought up in the Canadian provinces amidst the harsh wildernesses of the timber trade. Both organized and energetic, Lady Tafford had managed hearth, home, and husband with a deft hand, and when she collapsed and died on Isabella’s twelfth birthday, Lord Tafford had sunk into a swamp of perpetual bewilderment.

Isabella had sunk into a swamp of bad novels; novels that had—or so Lady Meredith claimed—stuffed her head with notions of love and romance, and left her ungrateful in the bargain.

The relict of Lord Tafford’s younger brother, Lady Meredith had for some years occupied herself with climbing the Table of Precedence by wedding a succession of doddering old noblemen who had just enough money to keep her in silks.

The dowager was no favorite of society, a fact that did not deter the well-dressed vultures from swooping down on Isabella, who was stunned to find herself accounted the beauty of her London Season. Once cheerfully informed, however, by the dependable Lady Meredith that Isabella had no fortune to speak of, most of the vultures flapped away again in search of richer brides.

After a few tears had been shed and her heart had been if not precisely broken, then at least a little trod upon, Isabella had been blithely told not to fret herself; that in the end it would be best for everyone if she simply married her cousin Everett and spent the rest of her days at Thornhill.

Everett shrugged his agreement and declared Isabella might do as well as anyone.

Isabella, however, had already seen the dark side of her cousin and his pack of vile friends, and had no intention of marrying him. And then, when the worst of Lady Meredith’s shrill accusations of ingratitude were being brought to bear, Isabella had been swept off her feet by Richard Aldridge, a poet and
bon vivant
just returned from Italy.

Richard was handsome, his father was rich, and Isabella was smitten to the point of idiocy. When Richard swore he would be unable to write without her beauty as his muse, Isabella had felt an almost moral obligation to run away with him to Thornhill, where it had been a simple business to press her father for approval, then call the banns in the parish church.

Within weeks of meeting one another, Richard and Isabella were wed and Lady Meredith was outraged. Cousin Everett, however, was too busy defiling the tweeny to notice Isabella was gone. And even now Isabella was left to wonder how much of her misjudgment of Richard had been driven by her outright fear of Everett.

Yes, most men were relentless when they wanted something—and if they were not relentless in getting it, then they were manipulative. Isabella sometimes wondered which was worse. But she did not once wonder if Lord Hepplewood would turn up on her doorstep come Wednesday.

Even from a few feet away, she had been unable to miss the ruthless set of his jaw as he’d hounded Lady Petershaw. And though the good lady had held her ground admirably, the earl was just the sort of man, Isabella felt sure, who got precisely what he wanted.

Yes, on Wednesday he would come.

So when Wednesday dawned bright and fair, Isabella took the precaution of sending Mrs. Barbour and the children down to Brighton, for she hadn’t known what else to do. The children were all she had, a precious and very private part of her life. She did not want them tainted, and she did not know how to explain Hepplewood’s presence to them. Worse, the unholy wrath she’d glimpsed in the earl’s eyes had unsettled her just a little.

Still, a journey by train—even a modest one—was a luxury. But Mrs. Barbour had a much-loved niece in Brighton, and the girls had not enjoyed even the smallest treat since Isabella’s savings had run out some months earlier. A leisurely visit and an afternoon in the clean, salt-washed air, she told herself, would do them good.

But as the day dragged on and the house grew ever emptier, Isabella began to wish she’d not been so alone. To distract herself, she started on the ironing, for they had let their washerwoman go months past. Until this business of investing in a shop was settled, Isabella feared to spend an extra shilling.

At five she went up to bathe and to dress. This presented a conundrum. She was under no obligation to array herself in any of the tempting gowns Lady Petershaw had given her—nor did she wish to. Yet she could not quite bring herself to put on one of her old gray ones.

Rifling through her wardrobe, Isabella tugged out the old rose-colored dress she’d had made up for Georgina’s christening, only to find it hung off her frame like a sack. On a sigh, Isabella returned it to the wardrobe and drew out the least flamboyant of the marchioness’s made-overs, a lavender silk day dress with a full, triple-flounced skirt and a fairly modest décolletage.

The bodice fit like a glove—a very soft, very elegant glove—and the wide skirts floated like a cloud over her layers of petticoats. The unusual color, she noticed, served to deepen the intensity of her eyes—the feature that had so fascinated Lord Hepplewood.

Good,
she thought a little spitefully.
Let him look and see what he’s missing.

On her next breath, Isabella’s hand flew to her mouth. She glanced at herself in the mirror again and wondered where such a thought had come from. Was she really so vain? She wished neither to tempt nor to punish the Earl of Hepplewood.

She wished never to see him again.

With a ruthless jerk, she pulled a gray serge gown from the wardrobe, determined to put it on.

But it was too late.

Suddenly she heard the jingling of harnesses and the sound of hoofbeats in the lane; the sound of a carriage, not a mere farm cart, which was the sort of conveyance usually seen in this part of Fulham.

The arrogant man was early. She might have guessed he would not wait but come at his own convenience. At least she had sent everyone away.

Flinging the dress aside, Isabella hastened down the narrow staircase and through the hall just as a harsh knock sounded on the door.

Her heart suddenly pounding, Isabella threw it open.

But it was not Lord Hepplewood who awaited her.

Everett stood on the top step, his expensive beaver hat tucked beneath one arm. He startled when he saw her but regained himself immediately.

“Bella, my girl,” he said, his gaze sliding down her length. “Fancy catching you at home—and aren’t you looking splendid, by the way.”

“Everett,” she said very coolly. “We did not expect you.”

His gaze chilled at her words. “Nor did I expect you,” he pointed out. “Thought you’d taken a post up in Bucks.”

“And yet,” she said quietly, “here I am. Which begs the question—why are you here?”

The cold smile warmed. “What, can’t a fellow drop by to check on his wee cousins?” he said. “After all, I am at least a
little
responsible for their well-being, and you’re always off in parts afar, leaving the poor mites to their own devices.”