She would look chastised, all would be forgiven, and life would carry on as usual. Except why did that idea fill her with dread? No, she most definitely did not want to be married, neither to that damp Scottish mountain nor some boring peer. No one would command her body and mind. Perhaps she should run away and become a pirate or an explorer. That would teach her father a lesson. He couldn't sell her off if he couldn't find her, and she could finally have the adventure she longed for and travel the world. If she possessed real courage she would have donned trousers and run off to sea as a cabin boy years ago.
Isabel walked back through the maze as a plan formulated in her mind. Voices drifted on the night-time air. Snatches of conversation reached her ears, along with wafts of jasmine from the climber scrambling through the yew. The plant's pungent aroma released at night, and it settled on her skin. She imagined she was far away, perhaps in a humid Indian night with large cats and venomous snakes moving on the other side of the jungle curtain.
The unseen women giggled and chatted as they enjoyed the evening and lost themselves in the maze. Isabel caught phrases—it seemed they danced away from their partners, who they hoped would soon pursue them through the dark. Silly, giggling things, waiting for men to chase and catch them as though they were rabbits. From the sounds of it they were hopeless at basic navigation and didn't even know if they walked north or south. They certainly wouldn't evade capture for long.
Isabel kept on the other side of the thick hedge as she listened to their relaxed nattering. Their words echoed and rattled in her empty chest. No one ever shared a hushed confidence with her. What would it be like, to have a close friend to confide in?
Their talk changed from the beaus behind them to another topic of discourse.
"After tonight it seems we no longer need to worry about extending social invitations to Lady Isabel. She will not be of our class for much longer, thank goodness."
Isabel recognised the high nasal tone: Lady Agatha Bridges, daughter of a viscount, and what one would call on the shelf. She had been passed over a number of times in favour of her far more beautiful sisters, and a bitter tone flavoured her words.
Sighs and murmurs of agreement followed. Isabel snorted back her disbelief; how dare they rally against her?
"I, for one, am relieved," said a voice she didn't recognise. "She turns every event into a spectacle of her bad behaviour. I am glad to have the excuse to omit her from future events."
"She tries so desperately to be the centre of attention, I sometimes think it would have been better if she had been born with some Unnatural affliction; then she could have been exhibited to crowds."
"Perhaps a real harpie with a forked tongue or scales concealed under her fine clothing?" another murmured.
Louder agreement followed this time. Isabel stopped and placed her hands on her hips. Spectacle indeed. She enlivened events where they all risked death by boredom. What was wrong with showing a little life and personality? It wasn't her fault they only ever talked about fashion, needlepoint, or the weather, and never anything interesting.
And as for being born one of those Unnaturals, the very idea made her shudder. Although a practical gift from a touch of mage-blood would have been acceptable. Perhaps the ability to determine friends from enemies, or to know truth from lies. Or the ability to peer into shadows and reveal her father's secrets.
At times such whispers swirled around the duke that she wondered what unseen currents carried them along. Was everything as it seemed on the surface, or did unknown dangers lurk in the darker waters? What business drove his late-night meetings and made his men scuttle in the dark?
"We can breathe easy and not have to worry if she will dance on the table or throw insults that demand we be scarred for life by her sword." That was Agatha again. And Lady Charlotte was not scarred for life. It was a tiny head wound, but it seemed the lady had blown it all out of proportion. Isabel heard she’d had doctors wrap her entire head in bandages.
Another woman took up the topic. "No loss to society. I never liked her anyway, but her father is the duke and we cannot exclude her. Once she is a nobody, we can carry on without her."
Her heart constricted in her chest and tears threatened anew. That voice belonged to Sarah Bexley. Isabel had thought the fair lady was her friend, her bosom companion. Not that they ever shared confidences or girlish secrets, but Sarah was the closest thing she had to a friend and they had gone shopping in Bond Street together. Once, or was it twice?
Now she learned Sarah had never liked her, and that her position alone merited their conversation and invitations to visit. Is that what they all thought? That she was a spectacle with no worth? Someone loathed but tolerated because of her father? The ogre in their midst, that they all tried so valiantly to ignore?
Isabel bit her lip and waited for the women to move on. She only did it so her father would remember he had a daughter. Or so anybody would notice her. She just wanted somebody to see her and not look right through her as though she were a crystal bowl, a decorative but ultimately useless object.
A single tear rolled down her cheek as her world crumbled around her. What was left for her to cling to? Escape. She picked up her skirts and ran. Their stables were full of expensive horses, she could gallop all night and be far away by morning. Perhaps she would head east, across the country and to the ports that faced Europe. Or she could head north, to Scotland.
That thought made a heavily accented voice wash over her skin. No. Not north. And unlike the other simpering women, she actually knew which direction was north, and therefore which way to avoid.
Her dance slippers crunched on the gravel as she left the maze and headed around the side of the house. At the back lay the sprawling stables, home to her father's prize horses. She didn't care that she wore a ballgown. Once far away she could sell it for more practical clothes and some coin for a passage away from England. The plan took shape in her mind.
She had only made the corner of the grand mansion when the voice stopped her.
"Going somewhere, Lady Isabel?"
A man stepped from the shadows. One of her father's men. Not a footman. No, these men were far more. They carried out unseen orders, their very presence dipped in menace. His shadow men, Isabel called them. Unnaturals, she suspected, by the way they appeared from thin air when summoned and vanished again when not needed.
A shiver ran down her spine. The only weapon she carried was the small blade tucked under her garter, certainly not within easy reach.
"I am simply out for a walk to clear my mind. I thought to visit the stables and pat the horses. Father has a new stallion called Eminence, have you seen him?" She moved to step around the man. There was still a chance she could be long gone before he raised the alarm or reported her absence.
"Eminence has a tendency to bite and I think your father would prefer you returned indoors, to the ball." He didn't budge but reached out and wrapped his fingers around her upper arm—fingers that seemed much longer than those on an ordinary hand, as though these contained an extra joint.
She pulled against his touch, but his hand chilled her flesh and his grip was as tight as steel. "I do not feel up to any more company this evening. Please release me."
He kept hold of her. "I just want to make sure nothing untoward happens to you, out here all alone at night with drunk nobles about. I was going to step forward myself earlier, you know. I have long admired your form and I'm sure I could best you in any fight. It would have been most convenient to mix business with pleasure."
She didn't know if it was his words or the dull gleam in his gaze that chilled her most, as though it weren't the drunk nobles inside she had to fear, but the very sober man holding on to her. The idea that one of her father's shadow men would have duelled her and won terrified her more than the brute who did. In fact, she wondered if she should find her pretend fiancé and get him to demand satisfaction from this individual. A girl could hope they would kill each other and that could solv
e two problems at once.
But what should she do? Press on to the stables with this man at her back or regroup and escape at the next opportunity? I have long admired your form. His words chilled her and her mind screamed a warning. The latter option was the better course of action.
"I think I will return to my bedchamber, until my headache passes." She pressed one hand to her temple, feigning a pain, and angled her body back to the house.
At last his hand fell away, but he still did not move. "Then it will be my pleasure to escort you there."
Blasted man. Now she would have to go back inside the house, the place of her humiliation. She only prayed she did not encounter the treacherous women on their way back inside. She didn't think she could look at those she once thought her friends, knowing they thought so little of her.
She murmured her thanks to her escort, when she wanted to scream her frustration. Time was still on her side. Curious eyes watched her passing and a twitter arose in her wake, as the guests dissected her past, present, and future. She was laid bare for them to all cast judgement on her actions and characters. Let them; she no longer cared.
Through the house, up stairs and down hallways, the Shadow Man stalked her every step, a dark cloud that she could not shake. At length they came to her door and he pushed it open for her.
"Goodnight, Lady Isabel, sleep well." His gaze swept over her body and he licked his lips. "Perhaps if the Scotsman pales at the task before him, you would allow me to step in as a satisfactory substitute."
"We'll see what the morning brings," she said to stop herself from screaming out in horror. The next time he tried to touch her, he would find a blade stirring his intestines.
She stepped inside and once he closed the door, she turned the lock. Then she picked up the chair by her little table and tucked it under the door handle. Just in case. She disliked her father's secret men. They scurried in dark corners, doing his bidding. She often wondered what exactly they did, and whether she really wanted to know.
Once, when she felt especially brave, she had questioned her father over dinner about what they did and his political machinations. All she had learned was that it was a redundant exercise. He would divert her questions and ask her if she had sufficient thread for her embroidery or if she needed new sheet music for the pianoforte.
What would he say if he knew she used the silken floss to fashion tiny nooses fit for dolls? Or that the sheet music was grand for starting a fire in her hearth? No, they both kept their secrets. The only question was, whose secrets would be laid bare first?
6
Alick
* * *
A stone settled in Alick's gut and warned that this was a stupid idea. Normally it only took a few beers to convince him that even the most monumentally stupid idea would work, but not this time. He was a gullible fool if he thought the duke would marry his only daughter off just because the woman had lost a duel. Although she was a feisty thing and, he admitted, had some talent with a blade.
He followed the duke like a dog told to heel. They trudged through long, wide corridors as a livered footman led the way, holding a small candelabrum high. The walls were hung with dour portraits looking down on those who passed. It appeared that for the last two hundred years, no Duke of Balcairn, nor any of their wives, had learned how to smile. Occasional tables held priceless ceramics or enormous urns of flowers. The entire thing reminded him of a mausoleum, and they were the funeral procession. His, probably, for being a stupid oaf and sticking his big fingers into the wrong pie.
He should mutter his apologies, turn tail, and run. Except he couldn't. Beneath his surface, something rumbled that he could not let go of the proud woman, now that he had her in his grasp. His wolf whispered the word mate, but he shushed it quiet. Stupid critter must be more drunk than him.
Still, he wanted to see how far the duke would play his charade. Foolish of him to think he could secure a noble bride so far above him. No, his motivation wasn't for him, but for her. Perhaps this way he could offer her a place of safety, if events brought her father's world crashing down.
King George was descending deeper into madness and he doubted the Regent would want another casting covetous glances at the empty throne. Parliament would tear the duke apart like a pack of hyenas if they found proof of his treachery.
At length, the footman at the front flung open the double doors and stepped to one side. He barely waited for Alick's common arse to make it through before drawing the doors shut. They didn't slam; that probably wouldn't be allowed in a grand house like this. Instead, the solid doors closed with a disapproving snick, as though the house itself tsked under its breath at having him within her.
The study was enormous and opulent. A fire burned in the hearth but gave the room no comfort or warmth. Row after regimented row of priceless books stood behind glass, as though no one ever took one out and curled up in the sun with it. The gold spent decorating the room made it cold and barren. Like the occupant.
"You are a soldier?" Balcairn asked as he strode to a long cabinet and picked up a crystal decanter that sat on a silver tray. He poured two drinks and held one out.
"Yes, your grace. I am a sergeant in the Highland Wolves. We are a somewhat new regiment." He took the offered liquor and downed half in one gulp.
This was a stupid, stupid idea. He should have pushed Ewan into the duel with the lass, while he helped Hamish escort the man Aster had recognised out the door. Lady Isabel would have fallen at the handsome man's feet and cut herself. Plus the lieutenant would have known how to make small talk with a duke while figuring out the finer points of purchasing his daughter.
The gaze narrowed, as though assessing him anew. "The Wolves? You are the Unnaturals that turn into dogs?"
Alick's fingers tightened on the tumbler and he swallowed the rest before he blurted out the first thing in his mind. He'd be hard pushed to find a bigger insult to a wolf than being compared to a dog. "Wolves, your grace, hence the name of our unit."
The duke made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. "Well, whatever. I assume it has four paws and a tail. You might be just the beast I need."
What did a man have to do for a refill? He wondered if it would be poor form if he helped himself to the liquor.
"I make you nervous." The duke took a seat on a sofa embroidered with peacocks hiding amongst shrubbery, but he left Alick standing.
Arrogant actions like that did make him nervous. It highlighted the distinction in their lives when the duke sat and left him impersonating one of the staff. Not that standing bothered him; it allowed for a quick exit when needed. What made him fidget was his lack of conversation topics suitable for time alone with a duke. Especially one they believed to be conspiring against England. Perhaps he could ask if he had any French brandy in his cellars or vampyres hanging in the attic?
"I am not much in the company of gentry." He'd rather have a pint of ale in a dark pub and laugh at crude jokes than pretend the man opposite him was his better.
The duke laughed. "Well, now you will have my daughter to practice your manners on. Although you may find her rather a handful. I call her my conundrum."
He'd rather have a spirited filly beneath him than a sheep. But again, that was one of those comments best kept in his head. This was why people thought him dim—he held his own counsel because he had the intelligence to know some things shouldn't be uttered aloud. "A conundrum? Why is that?"
A brief flicker of a smile before it dropped away. "Because she should be one thing, but is another. Although well bred, Isabel has some rather… common traits."
Alick didn't see that as detracting from her appeal; rather it made her more interesting. If she could belch she just might be the perfect woman as far as he was concerned. "She's quite fine with a sword."
The duke laughed. "She demanded a fencing instructor when she was six years old and realised all the boys had one. I said no. The tantrum lasted for five days before I relented."
Spirited all right. Alick was starting to like the lass. Which was stupid and dangerous. If he didn't watch himself, next he would be pulling a calf face at her and doing her bidding like a well-trained butler. Instinct drove him onward and he refused to pull up, not since the wolf had reached out and demanded he lick his tongue along her skin.
"I assume your offer of her hand was spoken in jest, to teach the lass some lesson, and you wanted to tell me in private?" It was the question scorching its way through Alick's brain.
Actually it was the second thing on his mind. The first was how good the noblewoman felt in his arms and how she roused his blood. He shouldn't have kissed the scratch he made, but in that instant his wolf had craved to taste her and to know the warrior within.
What if she was his mate? Was such a thing even possible? The wolf said yes, but the man hung back, not wanting to expose himself in such a fashion. The woman had her nose so far in the air she would never see Alick. Not that any woman wanted to stare at his scarred face. Hamish and Quinn finding their mates had made his brain go soft with such wonderings, that was all.
The duke placed his glass on the end table and stretched his arm along the back of the sofa before responding. "I will admit you are not my first choice of husband, but I am sure you will be capable of the job. As such, I am firm in my offer. Isabel has defied me once too often and refused far too many eligible suitors. She has made her choice, now she can live with it."
Alick swirled the glass in his hand as though it contained more than vapour. He had the distinct impression that marriage to him was supposed to horrify the noble girl. Nothing like being cast as the malformed beast in a play to make you realise how low you were. Ironic that it took an actual beast to defeat the woman. But despite the duke's words, it had to be a jest. They would all obey Balcairn's stage directions until he declared the charade over.
Layers to Peel Page 5
