The Earl's Mistress (37 page)

“And she had a right to know why I rejected her,” he whispered. “I begged them a thousand times to explain; I could almost feel the blackness growing inside her. Oh, Father looked after Diana, in a backhanded fashion, and deceived Mother into complicity, but worldly goods don’t make a child feel loved.”

“The dowry did not raise suspicion?”

“It should have done, perhaps,” he said quietly. “We weren’t awash in cash. Everyone knew Diana was Father’s particular favorite—more than Anne or Gwen, I mean—but he was careful, and with damned good reason. Still, it was wrong to hide the truth, and I
knew
it was wrong. But I was weak. I couldn’t bear Mother’s tears. It was cruel to Diana. It drove her mad—and it very nearly got an innocent person killed.”

“Did you love her?” Isabella whispered. “Diana, I mean?”

He hesitated. “How could I not? She was beautiful and fragile, and she needed me. She believed that I was all she had.”

“And your mother?”

“My mother loved to ply her
noblesse oblige
where Diana was concerned,” he said, “but after she learnt Father’s secret, she let Diana know in ways both large and small that she believed Diana her inferior. She was an egregious snob, my mother. But she dared not tell Diana the truth and send her packing.”

“Lord, what a coil.” Isabella dragged the hair back off her forehead, considering all that he had said. The room had fallen silent, but beyond the window, morning was coming on fast, the birdsong stirring with it.

Just then, there came a faint rumble in the wall behind the headboard.

Isabella jerked upright. “The dining room windows,” she whispered. “Mrs. Yardley must have come in.”

“Damn it,” Hepplewood cursed beneath his breath. “Isabella, this—this awful business—is it going to come between us?”

She let go of the covers, searching her mind for the right words.

There was another scrape; a chair being moved, perhaps.

He sighed. “No, I had better go,” he said. “Will you come down to breakfast?”

She looked at him oddly. “Of course,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know.” He looked tired and angry as he threw back the bedcovers. He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, the muscles of his broad back knotted with tension. “Perhaps I’ve given you a thorough disgust of me and my entire family. Isabella,
have
I?”

“No.” She shook her head, but suddenly another sash rumbled up in the room below. “Anthony, just
go,
” she said, giving him a little push, “before Lissie comes to wake you. You are right; that was a tragic and terrible story. But you were unfairly torn. There’s no point now in regret.”

“At this particular moment?” he said, bending over to snatch his drawers from the floor. “No, I shall have plenty of time for that later. I shall have the rest of my life.”

CHAPTER
18

U
nable to put the tragic story of Diana Jeffers entirely from her mind, Isabella bathed and dressed like an automaton, then hastened down the passageway to the girls’ room as she did every morning just after six.

But having found herself a little sore from the night’s exertions—and in more than a few places—she was slow in her ablutions. She arrived to find that Caroline and Jemima were already putting on their shoes and Lissie was nowhere to be seen. Likely the child had run down to her father’s room to wake him, as was her habit.

Nanny Seawell was helping Georgina dress. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Seawell.”

“Bella, look!” said the child, eyes widening. “Pickles slept in the dollhouse last night. Caroline made him a bed.”

Isabella bent to look at the wooden dog, swaddled in a stocking and tucked inside the much-admired dollhouse. “How clever!”

Georgina scooted off Nanny’s lap, attired for a day in the out-of-doors. “Thank you, Nanny,” said the child, landing lightly on her feet.

It had been a great gift Hepplewood had given her, Isabella inwardly considered: the chance to see the girls romping in the country with friends their own age, away from London’s soot and traffic. The chance to relax, far from Everett’s prying eyes and annoyances.

The chance to learn the truth. To glimpse, for a mere instant, behind the veil of his family’s past and see the young man he’d once been; flawed and arrogant, yes, and yet so desperately, earnestly human.

But she could not long remain at Greenwood and remain afloat, too. And it simply was not possible, she told herself, to consider Hepplewood’s mad notion. He had offered it up as a gentlemanly sacrifice; a desperate solution for a desperate situation, and she was not ungrateful. But unless she really was with child . . .

“Mrs. Aldridge? Is anything amiss?”

Isabella realized she had settled her hand over her belly, and Nanny Seawell was looking at her oddly.

“I was just thinking, Mrs. Seawell,” said Isabella, dropping her hand, “how very kind you have been to help my sisters, and what a lovely week we’ve had here.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” But she watched Isabella assessingly all the same.

Isabella shook off the worry and knelt to look at her younger sister. “Georgie, do you wish to dine downstairs on your best behavior?” she asked. “Or up here?”

“Here,” she said swiftly. “Lissie is coming back. We’re having toast soldiers and dippy eggs.”

“Ah,” said Isabella, winking at Nanny Seawell. “I would never interfere with that. I will go down, then. Jemma?”

The girl glanced at Caroline, and the two of them burst into giggles. “May we have toast soldiers, too?” she finally managed.

“A good choice,” said Isabella, smiling. “I shall take my dull breakfast of ordinary eggs and ordinary toast on my own, then.”

But she did not dine alone; Anne was there before her, filling a plate at the sideboard. Hepplewood followed Isabella in a minute later and headed straight for the coffee.

“Good morning, Anne, Mrs. Aldridge,” he said, cutting Isabella a telling look as he passed. “I trust you both slept well?”

“Thank you, yes,” Isabella murmured, moving a little gingerly.

“Like the dead, and now I’m famished.” Oblivious, Anne took a slice of bacon and returned to her place. “Oh, Tony, I’ve written Gwen. Can you post it for me?”

He turned from the sideboard to set his coffee down. “Of course,” he said, drawing out her chair. “What are the two of you conspiring over now?”

Anne smiled up at him as she sat. “Why, not a thing.”

“I mean to go into the village later,” he said distractedly. “Just set your letter on the hall table.”

“Any plans today, Isabella?” asked Anne, poking at her food. “I was thinking we might walk over that steep hill beyond Yardley’s cottage, and picnic on the other side. Is it pretty, Tony?”

“Very, but too steep for you to risk.” He pulled out Isabella’s chair, his hand lingering perhaps a moment too long at her elbow as she sat. “I can drive you out if you wish.”

“It should make for a pleasant walk,” said Anne. “What do you think, Isabella?”

“It is out of the question,” said Hepplewood more firmly. “The slope is too steep, and you are too far along.”

“Oh, how dictatorial you are, Tony!” But Anne did look a little chastened. “Fine. Everyone else may walk, and you may take Yardley’s great Shires from the stable to haul me up.”

“I think the regular carriage horses can manage, my dear, for another month or so.” Hepplewood took the chair opposite Isabella, watching her a little warily.

Isabella drew a deep breath, hating what she needed to say next. “Actually, if you don’t mind, Anne, I should begin preparing for the journey back to London,” she said, setting her fork on the edge of her plate with an awkward
chink!
“I have begun to feel quite guilty about neglecting the shop. I must write Mrs. Barbour to expect us.”

“Oh, no!” said Anne fretfully. “The children are having such fun.”

“I’m not saying we must go today,” said Isabella, “or even tomorrow.” She cut a questioning glance at Hepplewood. “I was thinking Wednesday or Thursday, perhaps? If you would be so kind as to make the arrangements?”

Something dark and unhappy passed over his face. “Certainly, but—”

Just then a slight figure appeared in the dining room doorway, one of the village girls who came in to help Mrs. Yardley from time to time.

“Begging your pardon, m’lord,” she said, bobbing. “Mr. Cosley at the Arms has sent round your
Times,
sir
,
and the post?”

“How kind of you to bring it early,” he said, motioning her in to put it down.

Blushing, she laid it on the table beside him, bobbed again, and backed her way out as if she’d just had an audience with the Queen.

“Paper, anyone?” he asked, nudging it down the table as he sorted through the letters.

“Yes, I’d like to see what the Commons is up to,” Anne declared. “I wonder they can function without my gentle hands so near the reins of power.”

But Hepplewood’s attention was suddenly transfixed. As if Anne had not spoken, he extracted something from amongst the post, tossed the remainder onto the newspaper, then tore the letter open almost viciously.

“Heavens, what?” asked Anne, leaning over her plate to look down the table at him. “Is someone dead?”

His eyes were darting over the lines. He seemed unaware Anne had spoken. In one motion, he refolded the letter and shoved back his chair.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, his expression severe. “Jervis. An urgent matter. I must get a message to him at once. Anne, can you have your letter down in ten minutes?”

She shrugged. “Oh, never mind,” she said. “Get on with your crisis.”

But she spoke to her cousin’s back, for Hepplewood was already striding from the room.

“Trouble at Loughford, perhaps?” Anne muttered as if to herself. Then she shrugged again, dug into her eggs, and returned to her usual breakfast banter about the children.

Isabella made mechanical responses, but her mind was still elsewhere. After a time, Anne sensed it. She settled back into her chair, her curiosity clearly piqued.

“Now what, I wonder, is going on?” she said musingly. “Have you any idea what was in Tony’s letter?”

“None whatever.” Isabella felt her eyes widen. “How should I?”

“Well, he left like the house was afire,” said Anne a little uneasily. “I know he’s a bit obsessed by things at Loughford, but he looked . . .
worried
.”

“If he’s so worried about Loughford, why does he prefer it here?” said Isabella, staring at the empty chair.

“Sad memories,” said Anne evenly. “We all have a few, don’t we?”

They do indeed,
thought Isabella.

“By sad memories,” she said, “you are speaking of his late wife?”

“Well, amongst other people,” Anne replied. “After Lissie was born, Loughford became Aunt Hepplewood’s domain—and she could be a bitter pill. As to Uncle Hepplewood, he was a great statesman, but I’m not sure he was a great father. Or a good husband.”

“Felicity was your friend, I understand?” Isabella murmured.

“So Tony told you that, did he?” Anne said softly. “Yes, she was a dear friend. Her father supported one of Philip’s political causes and was very rich. Vulgar, a little, but his heart was in the right place. I invited him to a charity event and met Felicity there.”

“May I ask what she was like?” asked Isabella, “if you don’t think me too forward?”

“She was lovely,” Anne swiftly answered. “Well read and well educated, and she sang beautifully. She was charmed by Tony, of course—women always were in those days—but she did not love him. Still, I do think that if life had not taken such a terrible turn, they might have come to love one another. He meant to try, I know.”

Isabella felt herself blushing.

Anne looked at her askance. “Isabella, my dear, are you perfectly all right this morning?” she said. “You seem . . . different, somehow.”

“Do I?” said Isabella. “I suppose I am thinking how sad I will be to leave so beautiful and so restful a place.”

“Oh, balderdash.” Anne’s gaze had sharpened. “Whatever is troubling you, I think you should tell me; I have a notion what it is anyway. But I waste my breath, don’t I? You are the very soul of discretion.”

Isabella smiled wanly. “My troubles are of the most dull and trying sort,” she said. “I would not bore so new—and so kind—a friend with them.”

“But what are friends for, my dear, be they new or old?” Anne suggested.

For a moment, Isabella played with her food, considering it. According to the unwritten rules of ladies’ tittle-tattle, one learned a little something, then shared a little something.

Moreover, this was far from the first time Anne had encouraged her, however subtly, to discuss Lord Hepplewood. Clearly Anne wondered why her cousin had brought Isabella here—or wondered, more correctly, why he’d brought her with an entourage rather than alone, as was apparently his habit with women.

Last night had stirred in Isabella a depth of emotion she had not known she possessed, and a burning curiosity, too. She had fallen so deeply in love with Hepplewood that the very thought of giving him up entirely swamped her with grief.

And if she was choosing to return to London—which she was, for she’d little choice—then her opportunities to learn anything from Anne were fast coming to a close.

But to learn what? And to what end?

“Come, Isabella, out with it,” Anne murmured. “Something has happened.”

Isabella shook her head and stared at her food, uneaten. “Nothing,” she said. “I merely wonder about your cousin’s past. He is not precisely charming now, is he? Instead he is . . . I’m not sure how to put it, really.”

Anne pursed her lips a moment. “Well, let me ask you this,” she said. “What has Tony told you about his past?”

Isabella managed to laugh. “Most of his past, one gathers, is not fit for a lady’s ears,” she said lightly. “But he has told me what I need to know, certainly.”

At that, Anne smiled and toyed for a time with the spoon perched on her saucer. “So has he told you, Isabella, that he and I were once informally betrothed?” she asked. “It was ages ago, of course.”