The small clock on her mantle chimed six times in a restrained fashion as she turned and walked through a silent house, heading for the door. The maids were up an hour ago and one had helped her dress, but her father slept on.
The duke had come in late the previous evening from some political meeting about what to do with Unnaturals, and Isabel didn't expect him to rouse until after twelve. Plenty of time to put her plan into effect. The duel would cause a scandal, her father would haul her into his study to dispense her punishment, and she would be the centre of attention. However fleeting.
Downstairs the carriage waited with the driver up front and two footmen at the rear. Isabel had no second. She saw no need, nor did she have a close friend to hold her hand. It was a short ride from Berkley Square to the deserted corner of Hyde Park. The streets contained only those workmen who needed to be up at dawn. No aristocrat would be seen out at such an ungodly hour unless they were returning home from the previous night's entertainment, or possibly one of those vampyres that couldn't stand harsh sunlight.
The two duelling women were dressed in riding habits. It seemed the most sporting attire for a duel and it wasn't like they could strip off any outer layers like men. Etiquette had to be observed and propriety maintained. Isabel's habit was of a pale grey with black frogging, while Charlotte wore an ivory wool riding outfit. It was a colour entirely unsuitable for a duel to first blood, but it would make a dramatic backdrop when Isabel scored her point.
Isabel's big disappointment was the lack of an assembled audience to observe the final act in their little play. She would have to rely on the reports of others to relay events to her father's ear—a certainty she would ensure by leaking the details to a reporter.
Charlotte looked half asleep with her companion at her side and two footmen standing by the carriage. Isabel stood alone. From somewhere a sigh worked its way loose in her chest. Charlotte was surrounded by people fussing over her, while there was no one to worry over Isabel. She wondered if the driver would even muster the energy to care enough to bundle her into the carriage if she were injured. What would it be like, to be adored and protected?
Silly thought, really. She had no need of being mollycoddled. Life had taught her to be independent. Her mother had never recovered from her birth, despite the fact she had failed in her aristocratic duty to deliver the requisite heir and a spare. The duchess declared the activity of procreation far too uncouth for her and the duke was banned from the marital bed. The delicate woman refused to leave her chamber and malingered for the next twenty years.
The shilly-shallying about dying annoyed her father, who refused to pander to her mother's illness. His mistress, referred to as a noble cousin acting as understudy for the unavailable duchess, sat at the end of the table and planned all the entertainments a duke was required to host. Isabel wondered if he’d felt any guilt when the duchess finally passed away in her sleep one night, or was he relieved?
Would he be equally relieved to someday be rid of the burden Isabel caused him? Certainly her father had no interest in her; a girl was of no use unless she could be sold in an advantageous marriage. Isabel had successfully defeated his attempts to curry political favour by trying to marry her to different rising stars in the Tory party. What was left for him to do with her? She doubted any convent would take her, not unless it was one far, far away that had never heard of her reputation for causing trouble.
She took the two foils from the carriage and carried them to Charlotte's retainer, who would act as overseer for the event. Deep in her heart she hoped the duel would be the final straw for her father and he would pack her off to rural Oxfordshire. Just to make sure he got wind of it, she had a reporter hiding behind a bush. There was no point in being scandalous if no one heard about it. Having a reporter to call upon ensured she would make the papers. He would write the article with his usual purple prose and exaggerate her actions to delight and titillate the ton and to horrify her father.
"Ladies, I am required to ask, is there is any way this matter can be settled?" the dour man said.
Charlotte perked up a little. "An apology will suffice, then we can all go back to bed."
Gazes turned expectantly to Isabel. Really, as if she would go to all this effort just to apologise and slink away with her tail between her legs. "Certainly not. I have every intention to let the whole of London know about Lady Charlotte's shoddy luncheons."
Lady Charlotte narrowed her gaze and looked like she would prefer a round of bare-fisted boxing. She held out her hand for the foil and gritted her teeth. "Give me that."
Duty satisfied, and since there would be no apology forthcoming, events proceeded and the retainer rattled off the rules in a monotonous drone, before stepping back and declaring, "To first blood, ladies."
Isabel saluted with the foil and eyed up her opponent. It was ludicrous, really. She doubted Charlotte had ever held a fencing blade before, and the sum total of her experience seemed to be in wielding a knife at suppertime. There was no doubt that Isabel would score the victory blow; it was simply a matter of figuring out where to place it. Charlotte's riding habit had a high neck and long sleeves. The only exposed skin on either woman was the face, and that was not to be touched.
Normally she would go for a light graze across the back of the knuckles, but Charlotte wore her soft doeskin riding gloves. A strike there was still possible—Isabel would just have to apply a little more pressure to cut through the leather.
She lunged at Charlotte, who held up her foil and squealed. Isabel rolled her eyes. Honestly, what was wrong with these women? Why were they not learning to fence, like she did? Did they not see there was far more to life than sitting in a parlour? How she longed to break free of her confines and see the world. To explore, and possibly ride a camel in Egypt or see the jungle of India. Not for the first time in her life, she wished she had been born a man.
The farce of a duel continued until Charlotte tripped over her long skirts, stumbled forward, and hurled herself in the path of Isabel's blade. It was not the strike Isabel intended and she reacted as quickly as she could to whip the weapon out of Charlotte's way, but too late. The thin metal grazed down the side of the young woman's face.
In that instant, Isabel learned two facts simultaneously about Charlotte. First, that her opponent was a screamer. The instant the foil grazed her skin, the woman shrieked as though she feared for her life or was being violated in her own boudoir.
Once, a banshee had taken up residence in the forest near their country estate and kept everyone awake at night with its blood-curdling screams. A mage had to be called to send the creature back to wherever it came from. Charlotte's scream was of a similar pitch as the banshee’s, and could have been used as a foghorn to warn vessels in the Channel of impending disaster.
The second interesting fact Isabel learned was that Charlotte was, apparently, a bleeder. The tiny scratch in her hairline issued a prodigious amount of blood. It ran down the side of her face and, when Charlotte raised a hand, it coated her glove—which lead to more screaming. Anyone would have thought the woman was being murdered, not that she had a teeny tiny scratch.
Isabel rushed to offer assistance, which resulted in more screaming and general hysterics, as though the murderer were trying to finish the job. Then, probably overwhelmed by all the overacting, Charlotte fainted into the arms of her companion. The older woman hissed at Isabel and called for help from the coachmen.
Isabel backed away. Never had she intended for her little argument to go so catastrophically wrong. Not that Charlotte was in danger of dying—far from it, but her devoted retainers made Isabel feel like the worst sort of storybook villain. She gathered up the fallen foils and paused at her coach.
"Take me home, please," she said to the driver, and stepped into the dim interior.
Events didn't explode until later that evening. Thankfully the large mansion in Mayfair provided a few hiding spots, and Isabel knew them all. But eventually her father's deter
mination, coupled with a servant whose mage-blooded taint was a finding ability, finally revealed her form behind a curtained window seat in the library.
The duke's cheeks puffed out before he exploded. "You scarred the Lady Charlotte for life!"
Isabel rolled her eyes and tossed the book to the cushion. "It was a tiny scratch in her hairline. It will be gone by week's end."
"It is in the evening paper, Isabel. Lady Charlotte is reported as being mortally wounded and bleeding profusely from a head wound." Her father smacked the paper in question against his palm and Isabel wondered if she would be hit with it next, like a naughty puppy.
There was one slight problem with soliciting a reporter known for his purple prose to cover events. Lady Charlotte's one small nick had been blown all out of proportion to some fatal strike. Honestly, the woman would dine on the drama for weeks and have all the beaus rushing to shower her with gifts, flowers, and probably marriage proposals. A brief moment of jealousy flared in Isabel's stomach. Perhaps next time she should fall on her sword and see if she became the centre of attention? Or would she suffer the cruel disappointment of discovering no one cared?
Isabel studied her father as he paced. She pondered and discarded adjectives to describe his mood. Angry seemed too ordinary and mad too short a word. Incandescent with rage was the only phrase that seemed to fit the duke. As he paced, he flailed his arms and ranted about Isabel's upbringing. Isabel closed her ears. She was long familiar with his lectures. His face turned florid as his volume of speech increased but still she never heard a single word. Yes, incandescent with rage did seem the most apt description.
"You have brought shame to his household by stabbing a noblewoman." His pacing ceased, and he commanded a section of floor and crossed his arms over his chest. His stance indicated it was time for Isabel to pay attention and mutter a few insincere platitudes.
"It was the tiniest of cuts, barely enough to call first blood." Well, that wasn't strictly true. The tiny cut had flowed with blood like a great river in flood. Rivulets had tumbled down the side of Charlotte' face and spilled over her pale ivory habit, permanently ruining the garment. At least when she’d swooned, the awful screaming had stopped.
Rage flowed off the duke and Isabel stood exposed in its path. "You have gone too far this time, Isabel."
Perhaps her father would ship her off on a grand expedition around the world? Far better to let her explore the jungles and remote reaches of the globe than to risk her behaviour at the next afternoon tea. Oh yes, do let his punishment involve sending her off to explore the Amazonian jungle or ancient Indian temples encased in vines!
"If I were a man I would be expected to stand up for my words." It wasn't her first petticoat duel, but it did have the most spectacular ending ever.
"You are to travel to the estate immediately. The carriage is already waiting for you downstairs. You will not return to London. I will not have your behaviour impacting on Walter's marriage negotiations with the Marquis of Winchester."
Ah. There was the true reason for her banishment. Her cousin was purchasing a worthy bride and no one wanted Isabel embarrassing the family. Her father had no heir; Isabel was the only fruit to fall from his loins. Her entire life she had been made to bear the weight of that disappointment. The duke had adopted his nephew, the next in line, at a young age. The male had been educated and groomed into an appropriate heir to take over the Balcairn name and fortune.
Isabel could argue, scream, throw herself to the floor and pitch a tantrum, but there was no point. This was the outcome she’d sought. All the same, anger and frustration simmered under her skin. She wanted to smash down the glass walls pressing on her and make her escape. Why could her father not see what she really wanted?
His affection and attention.
As she rose from the window seat she suppressed the sigh welling up in her chest. At least she was swapping her current cage for a larger one. The estate afforded her some freedom, and the tight constraints of etiquette were loosened in the rural environment. It afforded her some peace, but for how long? Once her cousin moved in with his bride, it would no longer be her home. She would be the interloper, the spinster dependent on the charity of others. Perhaps it was time she made an escape plan, rather than drifting through life, blown by the whims of others.
"Yes, Father." She dropped a curtsey and wondered what her punishment would be this time. When she was a child, her father used to order the butler to take his belt to her backside, but they soon learned that had no effect upon her. Then they tried a diet of bread and water and banishment to the nursery. In the last few years, since her disastrous debut and efforts to keep all suitors away, her father had cut her allowance.
That didn't stop her for long—it simply lead to a secret life of larceny. Not that she saw it that way. The first time had been accidental. A dear friend had dropped a brooch one night at the theatre. Isabel picked it up and had been on the point of retuning the beautiful trinket, when the diamonds caught in the candlelight and spun rainbows in her hand.
That one brooch had replaced six months of her allowance. Since then she ensured she only stole small items, things that could be passed off as lost while out. She had some conscience, and didn't want a maid losing her job for missing jewellery. A single earring, bracelets with a broken catch, or a jewelled hairpin were the sorts of trinkets that fell into her pockets. And still her father never questioned how she was able to buy a new dress.
Or, perhaps, he simply never noticed?
As she passed through the entranceway, a maid handed her a bonnet and her pelisse for the journey. The building sigh worked loose as Isabel took her seat in the carriage. Life seemed so futile. She hammered her fists on the transparent barrier that enclosed her and screamed, yet no one even heard her. No one ever saw the real Lady Isabel Grayson, the one who curled up in the corner, pressed her face to the silken velvet lining the interior, and cried.
3
Alick
* * *
"I hate creeping around and spying like a damn rat. Give me a decent fight any day." Alick stood in the front parlour, his arms crossed and his foul mood darkening the room.
He had been perfectly content growling in a corner, until he was threatened with a rolled-up newspaper if he didn't shift back to human form. Alick was one of four Highland Wolves in London, on a mission to uncover a plot against England. They were reduced to scratching around in dark corners like vermin, when he wanted to see the whites of his enemies' eyes as he grabbed them by the throat.
"Word of the Highland Wolves spreads. Colonel Powers says it is only a matter of time before we are deployed openly," Hamish, his captain, said.
"Bloody war will be over before they let us run alongside them, instead of having us sneak up on the enemy in the dark," he grunted. The War Office wanted to measure the strengths and weaknesses of their newest type of soldier before deploying them, which meant either an endless round of trials in Scotland or suicide missions in Europe, used to whittle down their numbers.
Alick didn't mind the impossible odds of their secret missions if he got to kill some Frenchies. Currently they languished in London trying to hunt an enemy vampyre. "Still no sign of hide nor hair of Callum Forge."
Forge was a turncoat spy who had once worked for an English spymaster, until the French turned him to their side and then made him a vampyre. Dead bodies piled up in his wake as they had pursued an encrypted list and then tried to discover the particulars of the plot. Alick became a regular at shady taverns in the East End, hoping to catch a whiff of garlic-munching vampyre, but he turned up nothing. Forge had tried to slit the throat of one of the Wolves, grabbed a fake list of traitors, and then disappeared like a bat at dawn. They had sought any trace of him for over two weeks now, and his trail grew cold.
"We keep looking. He will resurface once he realises the list we gave him was false, or his need to feed on blood will expose him." Hamish placed his hand on a woman's shoulder. Of regular build with br
own hair, she seemed unremarkable, until you met her violet gaze. A razor intellect lurked within and her work was pivotal to their mission. Aster, Hamish's bride, had decoded the list and revealed the true traitors. Then she set a false trail to keep Forge occupied. She also wielded a rolled-up newspaper to keep the wolves in line.
With no trail in London, circumstances presented an opportunity to investigate another name on their list. The Duke of Balcairn stood just one step behind the throne, but perhaps he thought he should stand even closer? He also happened to be holding a house party in the country. Another thing on Alick's list of social niceties to avoid.
"So we go for a jaunt to Oxfordshire?" Alick asked.
"Yes. It’s a rare opportunity to search the duke's estate," Hamish said.
Lieutenant Ewan Shaw had managed to wrangle invitations to the grand ball. Alick stiffened at the thought and hoped he got to stand point outside or, even better, prowl the perimeter in his wolf form. Who wanted to be crammed in with a hundred uptight nobles with blasted dancing and only tiny, ridiculous dots of food that would never satisfy a man's hunger? Nor would the women know what to do with a real man, let alone a wolf. The whimpering, delicate slips of muslin would probably blanch and swoon when they saw him.
"Courtesans all over London are rather miffed at the exodus. Eligible young bucks are heading to Oxfordshire and the house party. Rather early in the season, but rumour is that the duke is going to announce something that will be of interest to unmarried eligible men," Ianthe said. A former Cyprian, she knew all that went on in the demi-monde.
"Lady Isabel is all the talk of London with her petticoat duel against Lady Charlotte. She struck quite the blow by all accounts, and Charlotte is besieged by wealthy well-wishers. They say she will be quite fortuitously engaged by the end of the month," Ewan said.
Layers to Peel Page 2
