The Earl's Mistress (6 page)

“I hate you, Tony! I hate you!” Anne set her forehead to his shoulder and sniffled miserably. “Why are you always such an ass? Until you were s-seized with good looks and charm, you were so n-nice! And I l-loved you quite utterly!”

She did cry then, sobbing into his loosely tied cravat like a little child, and clutching at both his lapels. He set a hand awkwardly between her shoulder blades and made soothing circles, his mind tallying up the clues; her old arguments dredged up anew, the irrational tears, her flowing dress—and the belly she was pressing rather high against his waistcoat.

“Anne, my love,” he finally murmured, setting his lips to the top of her head, “are you by chance expecting again?”

“
Y-yes
!” she sobbed. “Is-is-isn’t it
w-wonderful
? But Grandpapa is going to d-die, isn’t he? He will not live to see another child born, will he? He is going to die with only Harry and Bertie and Rob and Barbara and Lissie and
th-the twins—
!”

It would have done no good at all to remind Anne that Lord Duncaster was one of the richest, meanest, most self-satisfied men in Christendom, and that to have lived to the great age of ninety-odd years with a more or less happy family and an entire cricket team of nieces, nephews, and great-grandchildren was far from a tragedy.

But there was nothing else for it; she would not be reasoned with. Most of the time, Anne was the sweetest soul he knew, but she could turn into a raging lunatic during those early months of expecting.

More worrisome still, she might not be wrong.

About anything.

So he made another little circle, gave her a couple of neat pats, and said, when she lifted her head to look at him, “Do you know, Anne, I think you might be right.”

“I’m always right,” she snuffled. “Philip s-says so!”

“I’m sure he does,” said Hepplewood, straight-faced. “Go fetch Lissie for a visit. Take her straight to your grandpapa’s, if you wish. Uncle Duncaster isn’t especially well, and it will do them both a world of good.”

“Well, all right, then,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “Won’t you come up, too?”

He hesitated. “I can’t, Anne,” he said. “Not for a few weeks. I have business in the country.”

She pushed herself away from his chest. “I won’t bother to ask what sort,” she said darkly.

“I must look in on one of my properties.” He glanced again at Louisa’s letter and felt his blood stir dangerously. “But I promise to meet you back in London,
hmm
? In a month’s time, or thereabouts. That will give Lissie a long visit with you and Duncaster.”

“And then we will talk about her future?” said Anne.

Hepplewood gritted his teeth. He did not know, precisely, how to raise a little girl, but he damned well meant to manage. And no, he wasn’t doing an especially good job of bringing up Lissie—he did not need Anne to point that out.

He told himself with every passing year that the next year he would snap out of this god-awful rut. But Anne, he feared, was right. Lissie was almost six, and he was out of time. His mother was dead, and the child required more than swaddling and coddling now; she required a family.

Moreover, Anne was still looking at him expectantly.

“And then we will talk about her future,” he managed, “if that is what you think best, my dear.”

“Oh, thank you, Tony!” Lady Keaton stepped back, her face brightening. “Aren’t you just the best thing!” she added, dashing a fist beneath her eyes. “Don’t I always say so? And oh, what a watering pot I am. Look, why don’t you get dressed and walk me down to the arcade? You can buy me a new pair of gloves.”

Hepplewood glanced at the longcase clock and sighed.

Then, resigned to his fate, he yanked the bell and sent Fording off in search of his valet.

CHAPTER
4

T
he morning light cut across the wintry fields of Fulham, casting a faint sheen upon Georgina’s hair as Isabella swiftly braided. Above the glare on the window, she could see a rime of frost melting inside the glass, dripping inexorably into the cracked caulk and rotting wood.

Isabella looked away. She could not afford to have the glazier in, and with the rent barely out of arrears, her landlord would be less than sympathetic to complaints.

An old wool blanket tossed round her shoulders, Jemima sat perched on the end of the girls’ bed, her face a little anxious. Isabella knew too well the look, and it troubled her.

“Jemma, darling, what’s wrong?”

“Must you go so quickly, Bella?” she asked. “Lady Petershaw’s friend must be in a frightful rush.”

Forcing a smile, Isabella picked up Georgina’s hair ribbon and tied off the blonde plait. “Wealthy gentlemen are always in a rush,” she said, her motions deft. “Mr. Mowbrey’s library is vast, I’m told, and will take weeks to catalog.”

Georgina twisted around on her dressing stool. “And there won’t be
any
little boys at this house?” she said again, her little brow furrowing. “Or any little girls? At
all
?”

“No, my only little girl is right here.” Isabella crooked her head to set her lips to Georgina’s temple. “And I will long for her madly—and for my big girl, too. Still, I did enjoy telling you funny stories about Lord Petershaw and his brother.”

“They were so
wicked,
” Georgina giggled. “Remember, Bella, when they put the mouse in the chalk tin?” The child flashed a grin that showed the gap where her bottom front teeth should have been.

The impossibly tiny teeth had been the first to appear, Isabella remembered wistfully, and now the first to go. Where would she be, Isabella wondered, when the rest of Georgina’s teeth came out?

Most likely in the mysterious Mr. Mowbrey’s bed, she thought bitterly, at least for the next two incisors. Beyond that, she might not hold his attention.

Still, that was how one remembered one’s life, she supposed, when a child was the center of one’s universe. Such memories became the milestones by which one measured happiness. The small triumphs and tragedies—like Jemima’s first fall from her pony in the ring at Thornhill. Or the time Jemima cut off all Georgina’s hair with the gardener’s shears. Or the day she’d taught both girls to skip rope in Green Park.

Dear heaven, how she would miss them! For an instant, she shut her eyes, already struggling against the yearning.

When her father and stepmother still lived, Isabella had spent her holidays and every other Sunday at Thornhill. After their deaths, Lady Petershaw’s mansion had been but a six-mile walk from this little cottage. Buckinghamshire seemed, by contrast, the backside of the moon. And yet she was fortunate, she knew, to be going no further; lucky, really, that she wasn’t stuck halfway to the Highlands with the wicked Earl of Hepplewood chasing her round the schoolroom trying to toss up her skirts.

Isabella drew the comb through the other side of Georgina’s hair. “No, I shall have no little imps to manage this time,” she said pensively. “Just books, mostly.”

“And bones,” added Jemima sullenly. “And dead bugs and stuffed birds and even dried lizard bits, I daresay.”

Isabella glanced at the clock, hating the fib she’d told. “A natural philosopher might have any of those things, I suppose,” she said, swiftly twitching the braid back and forth. “I will simply have to catalog them, Jemma, not carry them round in my pockets.”

“Well, you don’t look like a governess,” said Jemima, “or a librarian, or whatever it is you’re going to be.”

The ugly word Lady Petershaw had used flashed through Isabella’s mind.

But she must not think of that now. She must think only of all the back rent she had just paid, and of the monstrous goose Mrs. Barbour had just hung in the larder.

“Promise me, Georgie, that you will behave for Mrs. Barbour,” Isabella said, reaching for the comb, “and for Jemma, too. I’m counting on you both. Help wash and clear after dinner, please, and clean your teeth without being asked.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the girls in unison.

“I hope you will like Mr. Mowbrey,” Jemima added more hopefully, “and that he’ll give you lots of time to write home.”

“Of course he will,” said Isabella, “so long as I get the cataloging done.”

But Isabella deeply disliked misleading the girls, and the notion that had seemed so tolerable a few days ago in Lady Petershaw’s withdrawing room had begun to feel more like a trip to the gallows.

“Am I done?” Georgina craned her head back.

Isabella snatched the last ribbon and tied it. “Yes, off to school with you,” she said, giving the girl a little scoot. “Quick, kiss me. Oh, have you your reader and copybook?”

“I left it in the kitchen.” Hastily, the child gave Isabella one last peck on the cheek. “Love you, love you, love you, Bella!” she said, darting out and down the stairs, her tiny footsteps light.

But Jemima was still sitting on the edge of the bed, one coltish leg dangling. “I like your hat,” she said in a voice that was uncomfortably grown-up. “That shade of aubergine becomes you.”

“Thank you, Jemma.” Isabella stood and smoothed her hands down her skirts. “I like it, too.”

The carriage dress of aubergine velvet had come with Lady Petershaw’s letter, along with a faintly frivolous velvet hat with a dramatically curling black feather. Isabella had recognized both as having belonged to the marchioness. And while the ensemble was by no means
outré,
it was the sort of thing Isabella had not worn in a very long while.

“You look glamorous, Bella, as you used to do at Thornhill,” said Jemima quietly. “Before all the gray, when I was very little.”

Isabella wanted to stroke the child’s hair and tell her that she was
still
little. That she was a good, sweet child who deserved to be protected from the world’s harsh realities. But the realities already told in Jemima’s fraying cuffs and in the disquiet that shadowed her eyes.

“It is going to be all right, Jemma,” said Isabella, bending over to tuck a loose lock of hair behind the girl’s ear. “I promise. Things are looking up for us.”

Just then there was a harsh tattoo upon the door. “She’s come, Mrs. Aldridge,” said Mrs. Barbour through the planks. “I daresay you’d best go down.”

Isabella tipped up Jemima’s chin. “I’m off, then, my love,” she said. “I wish I did not have to ask you to look after your sister, but I do.”

It was a dance they had done a score of times before. Jemima slid off the bed and silently hugged her.

“I can do it, Bella,” she finally said.

“I know,” Isabella whispered into the girl’s hair. “I’m counting on you. And thank you.”

There was little more to be said. After a moment, Isabella released her stepsister, blinking back an unexpected tear. “Well, then,” she managed. “Don’t be late for school.”

Then, before she began to cry in earnest, Isabella turned and went out the door to find Mrs. Barbour still standing there.

“I shall say it again, miss,” the elderly cook grumbled, handing her the marchioness’s ivory calling card, “but I don’t like the sound of this business.”

“Oh, pray do not scold me, Barby,” said Isabella as they went down the stairs. “It will be quite all right.”

“And your aunt and cousin?” she said fretfully. “You’ve seen to them, ma’am?”

“Oh, yes! I wrote Lady Meredith yesterday,” Isabella said over her shoulder, “and refused her invitation to Thornhill. Indeed, I told her as much in the train station eons ago. I begin to wonder if Everett is desperate? Now, do let Lady Petershaw know if I’m needed, and she will send for me straightaway.”

“
Hmph,
” said the old woman, jerking her head toward the parlor door. “Well, I’ve put her in there, miss. Now hug my old neck before you go tearing off again. Natural philosophy, indeed!”

Isabella did, then kissed the old woman’s cheek. “What a dear thing you are,” she said. “And what would have become of those poor children without you, I shudder to think.”

“And I never thought I’d see the day you’d be so burdened,” the old woman returned, starting down the kitchen stairs. “That Sir Charlton is Old Scratch himself, and your cousin Everett and his mother are worse. They could have spared you this.”

But Isabella had long ago learnt there was no point in grieving over right and wrong. Sir Charlton had refused to support his sister’s children, or even to bring them up—not that Isabella could have borne surrendering them.

Returning her attention to Lady Petershaw’s plan, she turned, gathered her courage, then pushed open the parlor door, trying to look willing and properly grateful.

But the marchioness did not herself look willing. She turned from the windows that overlooked the lane, her beautiful face a mask of pique.

“Well, my dear, I am come as promised.” She crossed the small room to hand Isabella a folded paper. “Here is the direction and Mrs. Litner’s letter of introduction. But I shall tell you straight out, this leaves me a trifle uneasy.”

“Does it? Why?” Isabella glanced down at the address, scarcely a three-hour drive away.

The marchioness’s brow furrowed. “I cannot recall a Mr. William Mowbrey, and I know nearly everyone. I also didn’t like the look I saw in Mrs. Litner’s eyes yesterday.” She made an airy, uncertain gesture, lace swinging from her cuff. “Oh, I cannot call it fear—no, it was not that—but it came an inch too near desperation for my comfort.”

“What did she say about Mr. Mowbrey?”

Lady Petershaw snorted. “That he is thirty-something, handsome, widowed, and wildly rich, if that comforts you,” she answered.

The vision of Lord Hepplewood’s mouth hovering over hers went skittering through Isabella’s mind. What would it be like, she wondered, to go to his bed? Would the mysterious Mr. Mowbrey be as handsome?

He could not possibly be as arrogant—or as dangerous.

“I suppose handsome and widowed is better than ugly and married,” she said with a shrug.

“Very true.” The marchioness smiled. “But she admits, too, that so far as she’s seen, Mr. Mowbrey cannot be pleased; that you are the fourth or fifth young lady of grace and beauty to whom she has ‘introduced’ the gentleman—and if you will not do, she means to give up.”