"When I arrived at Kitswold in the spring I was fleeing from him, and Isobel was aware of all my woes,” said Letitia. “She tried to find a legal solution for me, but there was none, and she did her best to keep me from having to return. She has been very good to me, and I know my woes weigh on her mind."
"I am only sorry that I was so stupid as to not observe your difficulties previously, and that I remained civil to Lord Morgan," said Lord Francis. "Thank you for not holding my blindness against me."
Letitia smiled. "There is nothing to forgive, my lord. I feel as though you have returned my life to me."
Lord Francis bowed low over her hand. “I am entirely glad to be of service to you. I hope you understand that you can always command me in any way.”
"My lord, as long as I am trusting you with Isobel's secrets, I would tell you of one more thing," said Letitia hesitantly. "I received a letter from her that distressed me greatly. Let me fetch it." She rummaged in a little desk which stood in a corner and produced a folded letter.
"Here is the part which concerned me: 'And now Letitia, I must tell you of the adventure I shall undertake. I have decided that my latest findings at Ballydendargan are so remarkable that I must present them to the Society of Antiquaries myself. I have made arrangements to visit London and shall attend the meeting dressed as Marcus Paley. I have no doubt as to my ability to pull this off, for no one shall think to look for a female at such a place. It will be a great lark. I will write soon and tell you of my reception."
"When is this meeting?" demanded Lord Francis.
"In two weeks, at the British Museum," said Letitia. "I fear that Isobel's high spirits will bring her to grief."
"I needed to go to London to talk to my man of business, but now it seems I shall have another task to undertake while there,” said Lord Francis. “I promise you Miss Paley will come to no harm. After your affairs are in my agent’s hands, I will go in search of Marcus Paley.”
Letitia clasped his hand warmly. “I woke this morning to what seemed to be another grey day, but you have brought light and warmth to it. I thank you, Lord Francis.”
“I only regret it was not sooner,” said Lord Francis, kissing her hand lightly. “I blame myself for not having been more observant. Do not hesitate to send for me if you should need me.
He strode rapidly from the house and leapt into his curricle.
"The horses need to be rested, my lord," said Grissom. "Shall we look for an inn?"
"I will be staying in the inn in the village for some few days, Grissom. But you shall bear a note to London for me immediately. I have matters that must be wrapped up here quickly, for even more important work is to be done in town.”
Grissom shook his head as Lord Francis gave the horses their head and the curricle tore away from the manor. There was clearly to be no rest for him tonight.
Chapter 32
Isobel had planned carefully for her adventure. She had bespoken a room some weeks previously at Clarendon's hotel for a Mrs. Lacey, and sent a package containing men's clothing there to await this guest's arrival. She had informed Harriet that urgent business required her presence in London, and she and Harriet had traveled there and were occupying the house in Clarges Street for a few days. No one of fashion was in London at this time of year, which Harriet found lamentable, but Isobel assured her that their stay in town would be brief.
On the morning in question, she fabricated a series of engagements which would keep her from home most of the day, but which did not require Harriet's company, or the constant use of her coach and attendance of her coachman. She set out for Bond Street to shop, dismissing her carriage when she had been set down. After completing some few errands she announced her intention of spending the remainder of the afternoon with an ill friend, and dismissed her footman when she had found a hackney ostensibly to take her there.
Once inside the hack she pulled a thick veil from her reticule and arranged it over her hat, successfully obscuring her otherwise notable features. At the hotel, she asked for the package that awaited her, and repaired immediately to her room. Changing clothes hastily, and tucking her hair under the wig she had purchased, Isobel looked in the mirror and saw a slim, youthful looking man with rather thick brown hair and astonishing green eyes. Although not dressed in the first stare of fashion, he appeared to be neatly garbed and had an air of propriety, although it was plain that neither he nor his valet had an expert touch with a neckcloth.
Isobel sighed, and crammed a hat over the wig. If only she could wear it at the meeting she thought, for the hair was her greatest difficulty. She could not bear to crop her own hair for the sake of one morning, yet the wig, while the best she could purchase, simply did not look sufficiently realistic. But it would have to do. With another sigh, she grasped a leather-covered folio that contained her precious paper and strode from the room.
Isobel made her way to the British Museum, where the Society of Antiquaries would be meeting. She enjoyed the unaccustomed freedom of walking about the streets unattended, unremarked by the stares of the vulgar, which she so frequently attracted as the elegant and beautiful Miss Paley. The early autumn sun was strong and she felt the warmth of it shining on her dark wool coat.
Feeling a bit nervous, Isobel slipped quietly into the building, her head down to avoid catching anyone's eye. However, it soon became apparent to her that her disguise, at least for now, was sufficient. The gentlemen seating themselves for the first talk gave her not a second glance. She took a chair near the back of the room and composed herself.
The morning passed rapidly in a series of interesting speeches. Isobel was delighted to be able to attend the presentations rather than being forced to read accounts of them long after, and to hear the learned comments and questions which followed. She began to relax and enjoy herself, but her growing calm was disrupted when she realized that the next speaker was to be Mr. Marcus Paley.
While the audience politely applauded Mr. Gore's presentation, Isobel fingered her neckcloth nervously. A light sweat had sprung up on her brow, her palms were decidedly damp, and she felt anything but confident about her decision to attend the meeting. But the moment was upon her and she suddenly realized that the chairman had begun to introduce her. She heard him announce sonorously, "...distinguished record of publications, Mr. Marcus Paley will describe his latest findings during his ongoing efforts to elucidate the nature of the Roman sites in Scotland. His paper is titled, "On the Contents of a Roman Fortification near Ballydendargan."
The polite applause began again, and feeling slightly nauseous, Isobel rose and made her way towards the podium. Nervously, she walked up the steps to the stage, and, crossing to the lectern, grasped it as though her life depended on its reassuring solidity, noticing that her knuckles were quite white. She pried her fingers away, glancing down at the first page of her manuscript.
"The outlines of the Roman occupation of Britain are well defined," she read. "However, many details remain sketchy and are only beginning to respond to the diligent efforts of scholars to shine the bright light of knowledge on the dark corners of history. One of the darkest of these must surely be the nature of the Roman remains in Scotland." As the familiar words emerged from her mouth, Isobel forgot the sea of staring faces, the risk of exposure, and her own nerves, losing herself in the delight of presenting her ideas to an audience of others knowledgeable about a topic of special interest to her. Her voice gathered strength, steadiness and expressiveness, and she made an eloquent case for her theory that the Roman ruins she had examined were much more than the rudimentary military facilities generally supposed.
When she came to the end of her talk, and the applause began, she blinked, startled, and smiled brilliantly. A question was asked, which she answered with animation. Then a second questioner, a pointy-featured gentleman wearing a wasp-waisted coat and an extraordinary cravat, rose with a sneering air.
"I find your postulations incredible, Mr. Paley. Surely you are not proposing tha
t in the most remote outposts of the empire the Romans built extensive civil structures for the comfort of the troops and for the purpose of local government?" The gentleman's voice rose with exaggerated incredulity.
With a sinking heart, Isobel recognized Mr. Braithwaite, the irresponsible young man who had caused the accident in the park. “Why is such a finding so amazing, sir?" she asked, hoping to discourage him quickly. "The ruins quite clearly include a bath house, though on a much smaller scale and more crudely constructed than would be found in areas farther south, while the commander's house definitely contains rooms whose purpose must have been public in nature. Surely this does not differ greatly from the situation that prevails today in our English colonies? Even at the most distant outpost in India, English law and custom are to be found."
Her quick response surprised her tormentor, who raised a quizzing glass, peered at her intently, looked as though he would like to say more, but instead sneered and subsided into his seat. With no further questions forthcoming, Isobel was able to leave the podium and return to her seat.
The next speaker discussed the details of the coinage in common usage towards the end of the Roman period, and she listened carefully, taking detailed notes, for she believed that this could assist in her endeavors to more accurately date her findings, and perhaps further identify the coins that Lord Francis had returned to her. When the talk was over, Isobel felt so confident that she stood to query the speaker on some details.
At length, the morning session of the meeting was over, and the crowd of attendees streamed towards the exit, Marcus Paley, feeling quite jaunty, among them. Once outside the meeting room in the grand foyer, however, Isobel was accosted by Mr. Braithwaite.
"Aaaah, Mr. Bevan Braithwaite of Balliol," he drawled. "And, you of course, are Mr. Marcus Paley. I believe that I have heard your cousin, Alexander, present your work previously. As I recall, he said that you were an invalid, but I see you here before me, quite hale and hearty to all appearances."
"I have recently returned from a trip to Jamaica which has resulted in great improvements to my health,” improvised Isobel. The warm weather there is very beneficial to weak lungs."
"To be sure, as long as one also avoids the fevers. But you do not appear to be feverish, Mr. Paley."
"Not at all," remarked Isobel rather stiffly.
"Ballydendargan," pursued Mr. Braithwaite. "Do you live there year round, Mr. Paley?"
"Certainly not," answered Isobel. "I make my home in the Cotswolds, near Wereham where my family is located."
Mr. Braithwaite looked at her curiously. "So you are a connection to the Paleys of Wereham," he said. "I myself am a younger son of Baron Cromley. I have some acquaintance with your family, being friendly with the current Viscount. We were at Oxford together. I do not recall him ever mentioning you."
Frederick would have made a friend of this blithering idiot, reflected Isobel grimly. "Our connection is not close; I am Wereham's uncle's grandson. Being one of nineteen children, it is unlikely that I would have stood out much in the brood, and I am quite a few years younger than he is." Isobel did indeed have a cousin with nineteen children, and she was grateful now for his wife’s fecundity.
Braithwaite seemed only slightly mollified by this information. "It seems so young a man as you, with so many scholarly works to your name, would certainly have stood out among his relations," he said. "I saw Wereham only a few months ago and he said nothing when I told him I would be attending this meeting."
"Wereham and my father have quarreled of late; I believe they do not talk. He would be unlikely to mention me under the circumstances," said Isobel, with a fine disregard for the truth.
"You do have the look of the Paley's," said Braithwaite. "Your eyes are remarkably like Wereham's sister's, Miss Isobel Paley.”
"I thank you for the compliment," said Isobel, feeling mischievous. "I believe Miss Paley is much noted for her fine eyes."
"Fine eyes, indeed," said Braithwaite. "She may have fine eyes, but that is all that is fine about her. She thinks herself too good to dance with a younger son such as myself."
The shoulders of a tall, blonde gentleman standing with his back turned to the pair were observed to shake at this moment, but he did not turn around.
Isobel's eyebrows rose. "I beg your pardon?" she said, her voice suddenly frigid.
"I danced with her once at Almack’s, thinking she was a fine piece. But she would have none of me, and dismissed me for the attentions of a duke’s son. Doubtless my lady is too good to talk with any below the rank of Marquess," said Braithwaite, in a bitter tone. "And after she caused an accident that nearly cost me my life, driving a sporting vehicle that no woman of true modesty would be seen in, I got the sharp side of his lordship’s tongue. 'Tis an unpleasant lady, to be sure."
Isobel stiffened. "I do not care to discuss this with you, sir," she said. "Miss Paley is a particular friend of mine."
"Is she so? Perhaps that explains your arrogance. Your conclusions show an impertinent disregard for previous scholarship, much as Miss Paley has a disregard for good manners."
"I am sorry if my findings disagree with some studies you have made, Mr. Braithwaite. But if we were never to alter or amend previous work, there would be little point in study," said Isobel, relieved to find the conversation back on more scholarly, if still controversial, ground.
Mr. Braithwaite raised his elaborately chased quizzing glass and viewed her through it. "There is something not quite right here," he murmured.
Isobel felt a rising sense of panic and fought it back. "Just because you do not agree with me does not mean something is wrong," she said haughtily.
"That voice..." said Mr. Braithwaite.
"If you will excuse me," said Isobel, preparing to move away.
Mr. Braithwaite's hand shot out and seized her wrist. "Not so fast, my boy," he said sharply. "Or are you a boy at all?"
"What can you possibly mean?" demanded Isobel. "Let go of me at once!"
"I do not believe you are Marcus Paley at all. You are Isobel Paley!" hissed Mr. Braithwaite.
Isobel looked about her. She did not want to attract attention to the situation by struggling or calling out, but she certainly wanted to be rid of Mr. Braithwaite.
"Do not make yourself ridiculous with bizarre accusations, sir," she said sharply.
The grip on her wrist tightened. "And now I am positively sure that you are Miss Paley," said Mr. Braithwaite in a menacing tone. "When one looks at you presuming you are a man, all is well, but when one looks at you and thinks of Miss Paley, it is quite clear that you are her. Your manner gives you away as much as much as your appearance. That wig is really quite impossible," he sneered.
"Your conclusions are once again faulty, Mr. Braithwaite," said Isobel coldly.
"How dare you, madam, make a mockery of this Society and its proceedings and a scandal of your sex by shamelessly disguising yourself as a man and presenting these absurd ideas?" demanded Mr. Braithwaite.
"My ideas are not absurd!" Isobel argued vigorously, defending the only part of Braithwaite's argument susceptible to scholarly rather than emotional debate. "The evidence clearly indicates that the Roman structures in Scotland were constructed with purposes far beyond those of military operations."
"Pretty words, coming from a woman. I do not think they will be much regarded," said Braithwaite, tightening his grip on her wrist.
"If you do not release me you will regret it, sir," said Isobel angrily.
"And who will make me regret it? You have abrogated the rights of a gently bred female by attending a gentlemen's meeting in this low manner," said Braithwaite with a leer. "You make yourself no better than a woman who goes on stage. Not only do you lower yourself, but you lay yourself open to any kind of insult with this hurly burly behavior, I may tell you."
"No, not to merely any kind of insult, Mr. Braithwaite, but certainly to those of gentlemen who cannot support their beliefs based on the historical record, an
d must fall back on personal attacks instead," Isobel said heatedly.
"Touché," interrupted a lazily amused voice. The well-tailored back which had been turned to towards Isobel and Braithwaite during their conversation swung around, revealing the handsome countenance and piercing gray eyes of Lord Francis Wheaton. He looked Braithwaite up and down with his quizzing glass, clearly finding fault with that gentleman's astonishing array of seals and fobs as well as with his remarkable neckcloth and shirt points.
"We meet again, Braithwaite, though I cannot say that this encounter gives me any pleasure," Lord Francis drawled. "I fear I must request that you immediately cease to annoy this lady. You see, I am afraid that you are quite, quite mistaken in your assumptions that she is unattended or hurly‑burly, and quite particularly in your belief that she is open to any type of insult at all. She is in fact, my fiancée and has made a wager with me, that she could present her invalid cousin's work undetected. A foolish wager perhaps, possibly even slightly improper, for a very young lady in her first Season. For Miss Paley, however, escorted by her fiancée, I believe that her credit is quite sufficient to carry off even an escapade far more daring than a mere appearance at the meeting of an excessively dull scholarly society. Therefore, Mr. Braithwaite, I really think that you will have to apologize to Miss Paley, and refrain from carrying ugly tales, do you not agree?"
This last inquiry was made in very sweet tones, but his lordship's voice carried an unmistakably menacing note and his stance clearly indicated that he would be quite happy to do violence to Mr. Braithwaite’s person if his wishes were disregarded.
"Quite so, quite so, Lord Francis,” Braithwaite stammered out, his pugnacious demeanor evaporating under the stare which had caused many a balky subaltern and drunken trooper to quail. “I most certainly would not wish to have any gossip spread about which might misconstrue Miss Paley’s entirely innocent actions in an improper way result from our encounter. Certainly not, certainly not.”
A Lady of Passion: Isobel's After Dark Regency Romance Page 27
