Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage hp-2

by Jennifer Ashley

  Mac waved it under the noses of Cauli and Lord Randolph. “Come on then, gentleman, we’ve had the hymn and the sermon. Time to pass the offering plate.”

  Randolph and Cauli grinned, thinking it a jest. “Good fun, Mackenzie,” Cauli said.

  Mac shoved the hat into Cauli’s middle. “Dig deep, there’s a good chap. Give your cash to the good sergeant instead of wasting it on gambling and drink.”

  Cauli blinked, dazed. “Dear God, they’ve got to him. He’s joined the temperance movement.”

  “How the mighty have fallen,” Randolph snorted.

  “Thirty guineas?” Mac said in a loud voice. “Did you say you were giving thirty guineas? How very generous of you, my Lord Randolph Manning. Your ducal father will be proud. And you too, Cauli? The Marquis of Dunstan donates thirty guineas, ladies and gentleman.”

  The crowd applauded. Mac kept his hat pressed into Cauli’s chest until Cauli sheepishly dropped a handful of notes into it. Randolph glowered, but he added his cash. Mac turned to his next friend.

  “Forty guineas from you, the Honorable Bertram Clark?”

  Bertram’s eyes widened. “Forty? You must be joking.”

  “I never joke about charity. I am so moved by all this generous giving.”

  “Yes, I feel a movement coming on myself,” Bertram muttered, but yanked out a wad of notes and dropped them into Mac’s hat.

  Mac moved to Charles Summerville, who quickly paid up without fuss. Mac swung the hat to the other aristocrats his friends had persuaded to accompany them. Some gave, grinning. Others snarled until Mac caught and held their gazes, and they meekly paid up.

  Mac had known these men since the faraway days when they’d scrapped and fought at Harrow, establishing a hierarchy that had lasted into adulthood. Mac had been the leader of the troublemaking faction, a group that had fearlessly bullied older boys and tutors; sneaked out of school to drink, smoke, and lose their virginity; and scraped through with marks that barely let them finish. Though some of these men were or would become grand peers of the realm, and Mac was a third son, they still acknowledged him as their superior.

  Mac finished his collection, deliberately not seeking out any of the poorer members of the crowd, and took the full hat back to the lady sergeant. Her eyes widened as she viewed its contents.

  “My lord—thank you. And thank your friends. How kind they are.”

  Mac took up his cymbals again. “They are always happy to give to a good cause. In fact, I will make certain that they regularly support you.”

  “You are too good to us, my lord.”

  Mac didn’t answer. “More music, sergeant?”

  The sergeant brightened and led them off in a rousing rendition of a crowd favorite. Sweeping through the gates of the new Jerusalem, (Crash!) Washed in the blood of the Lamb! (Crash! Crash! Crash!)

  Mac rolled back to Mayfair in his coach with Isabella seated next to him and Aimee in his lap. His arms hurt from all the cymbal banging, but he felt content and at peace.

  And a little bit smug. The look on Randolph Manning’s face when he’d been forced to cough up thirty guineas had been priceless. Randolph was notoriously cheap, always touching his friends for money although he had thousands upon thousands tucked away in his bank.

  “What is funny?” Isabella asked.

  Mac realized he’d chuckled out loud. “Thinking that my friends should know better than to wager with me.”

  She smiled, her face soft in the carriage’s lantern light. “In other words, they thought you’d lost, but you really won?”

  “Something like that.” He didn’t explain that the wager had let him win everything he’d ever wanted. The courting game had given Mac a place to start with Isabella, but if it hadn’t been for the silly wager, he’d be a long way from the smile she now bestowed upon him. The wager had not only let him touch her and love her, but also to find the art that once more poured out of his fingers.

  “You are a rogue.” Isabella leaned her head on his shoulder. The straw of her hat scraped his chin, but he didn’t mind. He had a warm, sleeping child on one arm, his wife on his other. What could be better?

  He found out later, when Isabella waited for him at her bedroom door as he returned from carrying Aimee to the nursery. Mac decided he didn’t give a damn how sore his arms might be as Isabella took his hand and led him inside.

  Isabella was surprised the afternoon after Mac’s bold debut with the Salvation Army to see her friend Ainsley Douglas stepping out of a coach at the front door, coming to call.

  Isabella invited her in and had Morton bring tea. Ainsley had news, Isabella could tell, but neither said anything while Morton delivered the tea tray and three-tiered platter of cakes. Under ordinary circumstances Isabella liked the formality of taking tea, a comfortable ritual that gave even the shiest person words and actions with which to fill in awkward spaces. At the moment, however, she wished the ritual of pouring tea would drop to the bottom of the nearest well.

  Ainsley set down her cup as soon as Morton had retreated and closed the pocket doors behind him. She leaned forward, a somber look in her eyes. “Isabella, I am so sorry. I came to warn you, before you read it in the newspapers.”

  Isabella jerked her cup, spilling a line of tea down her skirt. “Warn me of what? Has something happened to Louisa?” She thought of Payne and went cold.

  “No, no, she is well.” Ainsley said. She took Isabella’s cup from her frozen fingers and set it on the table. “This is not about Louisa. Not directly.”

  Isabella had already read the morning newspapers from the Pall Mall Gazette to Mac’s racing news and had seen nothing that might upset her personally. “What then? You have me nervous.”

  Ainsley took Isabella’s hands in hers, her friendly gray eyes filled with concern. “My oldest brother Patrick—you know he is something in the City and knows everything that goes on there, usually before the rest of the world does. He got wind of the news this morning, and knowing we were great friends, he advised me to prepare you.”

  “Got wind of what? Ainsley, please tell me before I scream.”

  “I’m sorry; I’m trying to.” Ainsley paused, her face drawn in sympathy. “It’s your father, Isabella. He’s ruined. Completely and utterly ruined. As of this morning, your family has been rendered penniless.”

  Mac had expected his friends to shun him after he’d embarrassed them over the Salvation Army wager, but typically, his antics had only raised him in their estimation. When he encountered Cauli outside Tattersalls in Knightsbridge that next afternoon, Cauli grabbed Mac’s hand and wrung it with enthusiasm.

  “You turned the tables on us but good, Mac old man.”

  Mac rescued his hand. “The Salvation Army was most pleased with your donation, the sergeant told me. She went on in adulation about you for hours. There was talk of putting up a plaque.”

  Cauli looked horrified. “God save me from being known as a philanthropist. Everyone in London will touch me for money.”

  “I was joking, Cauli.”

  Cauli sighed in relief. “Good, good. Very amusing. Ah, there’s your brother Cameron. Is this a family reunion?”

  Cameron was walking into the arcade with his usual long stride, a big man dressed in a greatcoat to ward off the chill in the October air.

  “Cauliflower,” Cameron greeted him when he stopped next to them. “Why don’t you go find some other vegetables to play with?”

  Cauli chortled. “Very good, very good. The fine Mackenzie wit. Well, I’ll be off, so you can indulge in family warmth. Tallyho.” He lifted his hat and wandered off toward the auction circle.

  Cameron gave Cauli’s retreating back a speculative look. “It’s said he’s the most erudite of the Dunstan line. Makes ye worry for the marquisate. I heard you were clashing cymbals over in Whitechapel last night, Mac. I never knew ye were so musical.”

  Mac shrugged. “A wager. When did you arrive?”

  “Late train. I had Jockey Club business.” He
put his large hand on Mac’s shoulder. “I need a word with ye, if ye don’t mind.”

  Mac nodded, and they walked away together, Cam not speaking until they’d reached Mac’s coach. Once inside, Cameron told Mac what had reached him from a friend of his in the City.

  “Bloody hell,” Mac exclaimed in shock. “How the devil did Scranton manage to ruin himself?”

  Cam looked somber, the deep scar on his cheekbone shadowed in the closed carriage. “Bad investments, mostly. A railroad line that was never built, an invention of some gadget that never got past the drawing stage. Things of that sort. The last straw was a diamond mine in Africa. The fighting there is preventing anyone from getting to the mine, so he’s been told. And it’s doubtful there are any diamonds in it at all. Lord Scranton wasn’t the cleverest when it came to his investments.”

  Mac imagined Isabella faced with the news, her worry for her family. “Damn, I knew I should have stayed home this afternoon, but I needed to settle an account. A brief errand, I thought. The bloody idiot.”

  “Many men trust the wrong advice,” Cameron pointed out. “It sounded like a house of cards collapsing. A bottom card got yanked out, and everything else followed.”

  “Gambling with money meant to keep your wife and daughter in food and clothing is lunacy. I suppose when Scranton’s creditors hear, they’ll call in all their debts, if they haven’t already. Damned bloodsuckers.”

  “Scranton’s been sliding downhill for some time, Mac. Hart told me that years ago. The earl has had to sell off every piece of his estate that isn’t entailed, and he’s only leasing his house in London.”

  Mac stared at him. “Hart told you that? Years ago? Why didn’t Hart bother to tell me? Why didn’t you?”

  Cameron shrugged, but Mac could tell that Cameron hadn’t liked the decision. “Hart knew you’d feel obligated to let Isabella know, and he thought she didn’t need more to worry her. I agree with him about that. Hart thought Scranton might turn around in the end, but the man’s been damned unlucky.”

  “One day, Hart will have to stop deciding things for me.”

  “That will be an interesting day. I hope I’m there to see it.”

  The brothers were silent for the rest of the journey to North Audley Street, where Mac leapt out of the coach and hurried inside, followed closely by Cameron. Morton took their hats and coats and pointed to the closed drawing room door, a worried look in his eyes.

  Mac shoved open the pocket doors, and Isabella jumped to her feet, her face paper white. Ainsley Douglas, who had been holding Isabella’s hand, rose more slowly.

  “Mac,” Isabella said. He saw her struggle to retain her composure, not wanting to break down. “I’m afraid something rather dreadful has happened.”

  “I know.” Mac went swiftly to her and took her ice-cold hands. “Whatever I can do, I will do. I promise you that.”

  “I’ll leave you then,” Ainsley said. “I am so very sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Isabella.”

  Isabella turned to Ainsley, her eyes red with unshed tears. “I’m glad it came from you, my old friend. Thank you.”

  The two women hugged, and Ainsley kissed Isabella’s cheek, tears in her own eyes.

  As she moved to leave, Cameron stepped through the open door, and Ainsley stopped. The two froze in place for a tense moment, Cameron staring at her with narrowed eyes, Ainsley not quite meeting his gaze. Finally, Cameron gave Ainsley a cool nod. Ainsley flushed bright red, gave him a slight nod in return, and dodged past him out the door.

  At any other time Mac would have been more curious about the encounter, but just then Isabella sank into him, her tears spilling from her eyes.

  Cameron sat on the sofa in the very place Ainsley had occupied and pulled out his whiskey flask. “I was on my way to you with the news, Isabella, when I met Mac,” he said. “I can poke around the City if you’d like and find out what happened. Hart has friends in moneyed places who can find out how up against it your father truly is.”

  Isabella shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I only want to make certain my mother is all right. She’s never very good at managing in a crisis. And Louisa will be heartbroken. This will mean she’ll have no debut ball.”

  “Not necessarily,” Mac said. “Your father is lucky that his son-in-law is so rich and well connected. Hart knows the best financial wizards in the City—in all of England and Scotland, for that matter. I’ll see what can be done to save your father from destitution, and your sister can go on with her plans for her coming-out.”

  “He’ll not let you,” she said sadly. “He’ll never take a penny from a Mackenzie.”

  “We’ll fix it so that he never knows. It sounds like an entertaining endeavor. I’ll save him and keep his pride intact.”

  The small smile she gave him made Mac feel better. The expression Isabella had worn when he’d entered the room had reminded him strongly of the one he’d seen on her face the night he’d come home after her miscarriage. Mac hadn’t been able to fix that tragedy, but he might be able to fix this one.

  He got Isabella to agree to go upstairs and let Evans look after her, and then he and Cameron departed for the City to find out what they could.

  Unfortunately, when Mac and Cameron met with Hart’s man at the Exchange, he confirmed that Lord Scranton’s situation was dire indeed. He’d not only been involved in bad investment schemes, but he’d borrowed heavily from banks and friends in order to do so. Now, those banks and friends were demanding to be repaid. In addition, it looked as though Lord Scranton had also been dipping his hands into funds from a syndicate he’d formed with some old school friends, and now he couldn’t replace their money. He’d certainly dug himself in deep.

  Mac did not want to report this awfulness to Isabella. He stayed away until late that night, trying to come up with ways to mitigate the damage. If he worked hard enough perhaps he wouldn’t have to explain until things were slightly less awful.

  He arrived home after Isabella had gone to bed, but he found her awake in the bed in his room, waiting for him. Mac held her, neither of them speaking, both of them worrying, until they fell asleep in exhaustion.

  The next day, still more dire news reached Isabella. Inspector Fellows sent Mac a note to tell him that Earl Scranton was dead, having died of apoplexy in the night.

  Chapter 19

  The Season opened as usual with a grand ball of the Lady formerly of Mount Street. Her North Audley Street residence was resplendent, her three brothers-in-law, including the duke, helping her to host the festivities. Rumor had it that her estranged Lord had holed up in Paris with a Lady Paramour, but that rumor is happily false. He spends his days brooding in Mount Street, or wandering alone about the Continent, or sequestering himself in the ducal castle in Scotland, while his wife remains a glittering and popular hostess. —January 1880

  “Mama.” Isabella rushed across her mother’s drawing room to the woman standing still as marble near the window. Lady Scranton turned at her footsteps, then with a sob, caught Isabella in her arms.

  Mother and daughter held each other for a long moment, rocking and crying. Isabella sensed rather than heard Mac enter behind her, his presence filling the room like the sun after a long cold snap.

  Lady Scranton disengaged from the hug and seized Isabella’s hands. She was dressed from head to foot in black, her eyes swollen and red behind her veil. “Oh, my child, I thought I would never see you again.”

  “How could you not? Of course I would come to you, Mama. Of course you would see me again.”

  “I thought . . .” She trailed off on another sob. “I thought you would hate me.”

  “Never. Come and sit down, Mama. You need to rest.”

  Lady Scranton allowed herself to be led to a sofa. She glanced up as she sat, saw Mac, and gave a start. “Oh. Lord Roland. I didn’t realize.”

  “Call me Mac.” He seated himself on a chair, folding his arms on his knees. “I place myself at your service, madam. Anything you need
or want done, you tell me, and I shall make it happen. Command me.”

  “That is kind, but . . .”

  “Mother.” Isabella sat at Lady Scranton’s side, still holding her hand. “This is no time for politeness, and Mac isn’t being polite. I know Papa was ruined. I know the creditors are busy taking everything. I know there isn’t money even for a proper funeral.”

  Her mother’s face crumpled. “I have a small widow’s portion—so the solicitors tell me. In a trust.”

  “The creditors might find a way to take that too,” Mac said in a gentle voice. “Do nothing until you know, and let me worry about your expenses.”

  “I can’t. Isabella, your father would never have wished that I be on your charity.”

  Isabella rubbed her mother’s hands, which were cold through her lace gloves. “Of course he never meant for you to be on anyone’s charity. He lost his money trying to make a fortune for you. But we’re family. It isn’t charity at all. It’s what families do.”

  Pride warred with desperation in Lady Scranton’s eyes. Isabella saw that her mother did not want to be dependent on Mac, but also that Lady Scranton had been raised in a world in which she’d always been taken care of. A fortune wiped away with a stroke of a pen was not part of her understanding. Neither was a husband wrenched from her by a sudden illness. Isabella’s mother’s back was straight, her posture always perfect, but she trembled like a sapling in a storm.

  “Isabella, I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

  “My dear lady,” Mac said, rising. “You do not have to do anything. You sit and have a chat with Isabella, and I will rush about the City putting everything right. By this time tomorrow, all will be well.”

  Lady Scranton drew a shuddering breath as she looked up at him. “Why? Why would you do this for me? Lord Scranton refused to let your name even be mentioned in this house.”

  Smiling his most charming smile, Mac lifted Lady Scranton’s limp hand in his. “I do it because I love and cherish your daughter.” He leaned and kissed Isabella’s cheek, letting his lips linger on her skin. “Stay with her until I return,” he murmured.