“He’s better—don’t you think?” Shelby had been diligent in his duties, scarcely leaving the earl’s side since the duel.
“He’s not worse.” The doctor was cautious, particularly with such severe wounds.
“Not worse is good news in itself.”
McTavert nodded. “It’s an indication of the earl’s general good health. He’s been able to fight off the infection I feared. At least, so far.”
“It could still appear?”
“It could, but it’s not as likely after this much time. I’m more concerned that his wounds won’t heal if he continues to be so unsettled.”
“I’ll take care of that,” a soft voice affirmed.
The men turned to find the dowager Countess of Bathurst standing in the doorway. “I’ve already been to see Dermott. He’s much too thin, of course, but he seemed to know my voice, and I was able to quiet him.”
“How did you know we were here?” Shelby was astonished. The earl had particularly wished his mother to be spared any anxiety.
“I believe you mentioned the seashore in your note, Shelby, and there is only one seashore for Dermott. He’s always loved this place. I came as soon as I received your note and could get my maid to pack.” She smiled. “Betty is not easily persuaded to travel.”
“Countess, may I introduce Dr. McTavert.” With a small gesture Shelby indicated the doctor. “He saved Lord Bathurst’s life.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Although I’ve been cautioning Shelby about being too optimistic. Not that your son is in any immediate danger,” he quickly added.
“But we must get some food into him,” the countess asserted, her mind crystal clear when it came to her son. “If someone would bring me a cup of tea and make up some barley soup for Dermott, I’ll go to sit with him.”
“I’ll see that a room is prepared for you,” Shelby said.
“Betty is already unpacking in my usual room, Shelby. And if someone would see that she has a wee bit of brandy, she will prove much more amenable. She likes it with warm water,” the countess added with a sweet smile. “Come, Doctor. I wish for an expert opinion on my son. And I warn you, I listen only to good news.”
While the doctor was explaining the nature of Dermott’s gunshot wounds, Isabella was aiming a small pistol at a target Joe had set up in the orchard. They’d been practicing for several days now, and as a pupil, she was showing great promise.
“Sometimes I wonder why I let you talk me into this exercise.” Isabella squinted down the barrel of the firearm.
“Because we saw those strange men loitering in the village and again, not half a day later, near your stables. And they weren’t lookin’ for work, even if they pretended they were.” And you needed to get out of your room, he thought, and stop crying. “Squeeze that trigger nice and slow now.”
Isabella exerted deliberate pressure on the trigger, held her breath, and fired.
“Right through the head!” Joe gleefully exclaimed. “You have talent, damned if you don’t.”
Joe had drawn a human form on the target, against Isabella’s better judgment. Which is why they were well away from the house. She found it mildly disconcerting to be learning to shoot another human being.
“Thanks to your teaching, Joe.” But she was smiling, pleased she was capable of learning to shoot straight. There was a certain satisfaction in taking charge of one’s safety, and she had Joe to thank for her increasing expertise. “Now, if only I could learn to reload faster.”
“That just takes practice, Miss Isabella. But an eye, now, that’s another thing. Some people have it and some don’t, and your aim is tops.”
“So you think I might actually have to shoot one of my uncle’s henchmen?” Still not completely reconciled to the possibility, she carefully took aim with the second round in the chamber.
“I’d say you’d better be prepared. I hope I’m here to guard you, but you never can tell. They know Mike and me are here, and any attackers are bound to try to deal with us first.”
“If I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hidden in my room, waiting for a possible attack, I suppose I’d better learn to protect myself.”
“Now you’re talkin’, Miss Isabella. I’m glad you’re comin’ around.”
His arguments had fallen on deaf ears at first, Isabella refusing to believe her life was still in danger. But Bathurst was gone, Joe had reminded her, and with him the only real threat her relatives respected. And the two strangers with their dubious story had finally convinced her. They hadn’t had the look of day laborers or farmhands.
A small explosion of gunpowder left a puff of smoke in the air, and her second ball took out the target’s eye.
“Remind me to keep on your good side,” Joe teased.
“And now I have to reload,” Isabella grumbled, the procedure lengthy.
“I’ll do it for you this time.” Joe took her weapon from her and bent to the task.
Dropping onto the grass, Isabella leaned back on her arms and gazed up at the sun-filled sky. “It seems so peaceful out here, it’s hard to fathom my uncles’ malevolence.”
Joe looked up from his task. “It’s just about money, miss. You have it and they want it.”
“It’s hard for me to fathom such greed when they have enormous wealth of their own.”
“People like them don’t never have enough. I’d suggest you think of their fat, evil faces when you’re aiming—”
She quickly shook her head. “I couldn’t, Joe. Not ever … even this target is disturbing for me, though I understand your reasoning. But I don’t want to think of them at all if I can help it.” She briefly shut her eyes, as though she could erase the memory of her relatives with so simple a gesture. “Let’s not talk about anything distressing,” she suggested. “Especially on such a lovely day.”
It warmed Joe’s heart to see her able to enjoy the fine weather, when she’d been so wretched their first week at Tavora House. Part of the reason he’d suggested teaching her to shoot was to deliver her from the prison of her room. She’d not stepped outside her apartments the first week in the country; she’d barely eaten, and whenever he’d spoken to her concerning some matter of guarding the estate, her eyes had been red from crying. He’d almost welcomed the Leslie spies, for it gave him the opportunity to lure her outside and attempt to distract her from her melancholy. The lessons had served to focus on something other than her loss of Dermott. And her constant fear that he was dead.
As an added advantage, the shooting practice gave Joe another opportunity to be near her.
That night after Joe and his brother had patrolled the grounds before trading shifts outside Isabella’s door, the two men stood in the kitchen garden and smoked their evening cigars.
“It wouldn’t do for you to fall in love with our employer.” Mike’s tone was mild. “Just a cautionary word.”
Joe didn’t immediately answer.
“I see how you look at her.”
Joe blew out a cloud of smoke. “It doesn’t hurt to look.”
“It will eventually. You can’t have her.” Joe half smiled at his younger brother. “Allow me my pleasures.”
“She’s very trusting.”
“She’s been protected all her life. And I intend to see that she continues to be. Fat Leslie isn’t going to have her.”
Mike chuckled. “At least she’d have a wide target if he shows up.”
Joe’s brows rose faintly. “Or I would.”
In the following days, Isabella made a conscious effort to keep busy, filling her time with numerous activities that would enhance her tenants’ lives. She began planning a new schoolhouse for her tenants’ children as well as an addition to the small lying-in hospital on the estate. She oversaw the enlargement of the south gardens and agreed to judge the yearly flower show in the village. She met with her steward and listened to his reports on the state of the crops. She even invited the neighbor ladies over for tea—an experience that required a fei
gned rendition of cheerfulness that would have done any actress proud.
But when evening came, her tenants returned to their hearths, neighbors went home, stewards must be allowed rest from their duties, and an immense loneliness stretched like an interminable void. She slept poorly if she slept at all, her melancholy crushing in the quiet of night, and she despaired of enduring a life without Dermott. She still yearned for him every minute, every second, with such a raw, aching sadness, she’d long before run out of tears.
She’d often lie awake at night, praying he lived—praying to any god who’d listen—to spare his life. And each morning she’d impatiently wait for the mail, hoping for word from Molly—for the blessed message that he’d survived.
But days passed and then weeks, and no one heard a whisper.
The afternoon Harold Leslie was announced, Isabella glanced at Joe, lounging on a chair in her office.
“You’re not home,” he said, coming to his feet in one lithe movement. “I’ll tell him.”
“No, wait.” She held up her hand and pushed away her account book. “He might know something of Dermott. Surely the Leslies are concerned with his whereabouts more than anyone.”
“Regardless, I’m not sure it’s safe.”
“Is my cousin alone?” Isabella’s gaze turned to the footman who waited in the doorway for her instructions.
“Yes, miss.”
She set down her pen. “Is anyone outside in his carriage?”
“He rode up on a bit of new horseflesh he bought at Newmarket.” The young flunky grinned. “And he couldn’t control that high-spirited animal. He were sweating mightily, miss.”
“Perhaps he’s looking for a ride back to Newmarket in one of my carriages.” Isabella couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Harold’s corpulent body astride a temperamental steed. “Show him into the Chinese saloon and bring tea.”
“You’re not going in there alone,” Joe declared.
“Heavens no. I wouldn’t think of it. You have tea with us.”
“I’d rather throw his fat ass back up on that horse and whip him down the drive.”
“He’s here for a reason though.” Stacking the papers on her desk into a neat pile, she rose from her chair. “Let’s go and see what Harold wants.”
“We know what he wants,” Joe muttered.
“But he might have news we want as well.” Isabella moved toward the door. “And don’t be surprised at what I might say. I intend to make it clear, he needn’t call again.”
“I could do that.”
She smiled faintly. “I believe I can do it without bloodshed, however.”
Harold was scrutinizing the stylish Chinese wallpaper, the hand-painted designs portraying colorful vignettes of Canton.
“Do you like the scenes, cousin?” Isabella inquired as she entered the room, keeping her voice intentionally bland. “Grandpapa preferred this room above all the others. He said it reminded him of his youth in the China trade.”
Harold spun around and immediately frowned at Joe, who stood directly behind Isabella. “I’d prefer a private audience, cousin.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said with artificial sweetness. “I’ve become attached to Joe.”
Harold’s face flushed a vivid crimson. “In what way—er—that is … I say, cousin, don’t know that’s all the thing—with an employee—”
“Oh, dear. You misunderstand. I meant Joe is the ideal bodyguard. He never leaves my side. I confess,” she murmured, “it makes me feel delightfully safe.” Let Harold take that titillating bit of misleading information back to his father. They might think twice about any base plans. “Could we interest you in a cup of tea,” she pleasantly added. “Joe particularly likes Grandpapa’s special blend, don’t you, Joe.” She smiled at him over her shoulder.
If Joe weren’t a head taller and solid muscle, Harold would have answered differently. As it was, he consoled himself with shooting the expugilist a black look and answering Isabella with as much politesse as he could muster. “I’d be pleased to stay for tea.”
“Isn’t that nice. Joe, isn’t that nice?” She touched Joe’s hand lightly, intent on giving Harold every impression that she and her bodyguard were very close. “Do sit down, cousin. And if you’d ring for Henderson, Joe, we’ll all sit and chat. Tell him to add a little brandy for you men with the tea,” she added, smiling at her bodyguard. “What brings you to Suffolk, Harold?” She turned back to her guest.
“Came for the Newmarket races.” As he sat, the points of his shirt collar pushed up into his heavy jowls, his lofty neckcloth crushed between his tightly waistcoated stomach and his chin. His plump thighs stretched the fabric of his fawn-colored pantaloons, his weight tested the strength of the fine Sheraton chair, his red-faced corpulence an anomaly in the saloon’s refined decor.
“You must give us the news from London. We’re sadly behind in the latest gossip here. Has the Prince of Wales tired of Lady Hertford or has her husband tired of the Prince?”
“Neither, apparently—according to the news sheets.”
“And does the Princess still languish at Blackheath?”
“I believe so.”
Isabella asked several more frivolous questions concerning the ton before casually saying, “And is my Lord Bathurst back in town after his misfortune? Or did we miss his funeral?”
Harold’s mouth tightened into a grim line, his jealousy of Bathurst’s claim on Isabella intense. “There’s been no word,” he muttered.
Isabella felt such relief, she unconsciously offered Harold a warm smile. “Did you enjoy your ride from Newmarket? It’s such a lovely day.” More so now that there was no news of Dermott’s burial. She almost felt sorry for poor Harold, who was quite out of his depth on this mission for his family.
“My new mount’s a bit high-spirited—frisky … got him from the racecourse—needs some training, I don’t doubt.”
“Would you like Joe to take you back in my phaeton?”
So the damned guard was driving her phaeton. Not suitable at all. Harold’s flush deepened at the injustice. “Wouldn’t mind a hand at that phaeton myself,” he bluntly said. “Might just take you up on your offer.”
“Joe knows my team so well though, cousin. I’m afraid the horses might balk at your handling. They’re too temperamental, I’m afraid. Didn’t you just say that to me the other day, Joe?” She glanced at him walking back from conferring with Henderson, and smiling, patted the settee, indicating he sit beside her. “I’m afraid Joe does most of the driving here,” she murmured, fluttering her lashes in a parody of female submission.
Joe kept from laughing only with supreme effort, Isabella’s driving skills the equal of any Corinthian whip.
“I say … I say, Isabella,” her cousin stammered, his expression one of dismay. “Can’t think it’s altogether proper—I mean—”
“Oh, there you are, Henderson.” Her majordomo was carrying a salver with two brandies. “We don’t worry about propriety so far out in the country. We’re quite informal. Aren’t we, Henderson?” she cheerfully maintained as he waved in a footman carrying the tea tray.
“Yes, miss, very informal,” her majordomo replied, humoring her when he ran her establishment of two hundred servants and laborers, putting the fact that Joe was sitting much closer than usual to his mistress to the unwanted presence of Harold Leslie. Bets below stairs were that Joe would throw Cousin Harold out within the half hour. Personally, he’d placed his money on twenty minutes, but his face was expressionless as he set a brandy before each gentleman.
“I do adore those pink cakes. Thank Mrs. Parker for me, Henderson.” Isabella picked up the teapot from the tray that had been placed before her and began pouring tea. “Milk or lemon, cousin?”
With Joe a bulwark at her side, Isabella took a measure of revenge for the indignities she’d suffered at her Leslie relatives’ hands. Flaunting her simulated relationship with Joe, she would glance at him as they conversed or smile affectionately
at something he said, while he played his role of stalwart companion with aplomb. He spoke little, but when he did, Isabella always listened and agreed.
Increasingly ill-tempered and petulant, Harold couldn’t long suffer the insolence and presumption of a man of Joe Thurlow’s station behaving toward his cousin with such disgusting familiarity. Faced with the limited options of challenging Joe or departing, he chose the more prudent. Abruptly coming to his feet, he took his leave with a stiff bow and a tight smile.
“I wish you good-day, cousin,” he said with constraint, ignoring Joe.
“It was so nice of you to visit us. We get so little company. You must come again, mustn’t he, Joe?”
Joe had risen when Harold did, and his towering height required Isabella look up a great distance.
“It’s a mighty long way from Newmarket. I doubt Leslie will care to ride so far again.”
“Oh, pooh, Joe, when Cousin Harold has that wonderful new mount? He won’t mind riding to see us at all, will you, cousin?”
“I won’t be long in Newmarket,” Harold curtly said, thinking Isabella was going to require a very strong hand once they were married.
Isabella made a small moue. “Dear, what a shame. And when I was so hoping you might come for tea again. I fear we weren’t good enough company.” Her smile was dazzling. “Would you like Joe to see you out, cousin?”
“No need, no need,” Harold quickly replied, not inclined to be alone with Joe Thurlow, whose dislike was patent despite his quiet forbearance.
“Well, we wish you good journey, cousin,” Isabella cheerfully declared. “And give our regards to your family.”
“Isabella said ‘our regards’ about Joe Thurlow, damn her wantonness. And Bathurst not even cold in his grave.” Harold Leslie pursed his fleshy lips, his eyes snapping with indignation. “I tell you, Thurlow was sitting so close to her, you couldn’t have slipped a piece of paper between them.”
“Interesting,” his father murmured. “She seems to have found her calling. Who would think Uncle George’s sweet granddaughter, the apple of his eye, would turn out to be a trollop?”
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