“Isabelle. Good God, Isabelle, what have they done to you?”
“Phil.” She burst into fresh tears and walked into his open arms, still clutching the letters to her chest.
***
Isabelle didn’t want to go to her uncle’s to fetch her things, so she and Phil left with nothing but her letters and the ragged clothing on her back. The letters were her most valuable possessions, and beyond those, as Uncle Ewan had said, nothing truly belonged to her.
Isabelle sat mutely all the way to Inverness. Phil left her alone, staring out the window at the rain, seemingly occupied by his own thoughts. They arrived in the center of the bustling town late in the afternoon. The carriage stopped in the yard of a pretty inn with blue eaves and shutters.
Phil rented two rooms across the hall from each other and accompanied her to the door of hers. Taking her hand, he pressed the key into it, closed her fist, and brought it to his mouth and kissed it softly.
“I have some things to attend to,” he said. “I trust you find the lodgings satisfactory?”
She nodded, not having the first idea how to express her thanks.
“May I request your presence at dinner?”
“Of course,” she murmured.
“Six o’clock in the dining room?”
“That would be…fine.” She wondered idly how she could possibly make herself presentable by then.
He nodded, kissed her closed fist again, then released it, turned and walked down the hall.
Once ensconced in her chamber, a fresh-smelling place with a neatly made sleigh bed covered with warm plaids, a comfortable, chintz-upholstered chair, and trim, clean fireplace—the best room in the house, the innkeeper had proclaimed—she spread the pages of the coveted letters over the bed and put them in order.
Anna wrote that she and Lord Archer were as happy as clams. She wrote of all the exciting places she had gone with her lover. She said if only Isabelle was in London, life would be perfection.
Susan wrote that she and Pierre had stopped arguing and her nights with him had become very pleasurable indeed. She described the slow return of the old camaraderie she shared with Lord Archer, who spent more and more evenings with Anna at her house. She wrote about her son Harry, who would be traveling to London for Christmas. The missing page was from Susan, and as far as Isabelle could determine, it had contained gossip about the goings-on in Town.
Isabelle set the letters on the table near the upholstered armchair and wished she had some means to respond. It wasn’t necessary, really. She would be back in London soon enough. That knowledge sent a shiver down her spine, a combined sensation of terror and excitement.
She looked down at herself. Mud covered her shoes and stockings, well up her shins. Her dress fit her like a sack, drab in color and ill-made. Her hair had come down around her shoulders. It was amazing they had let her into this establishment looking as she did. It was amazing Phil hadn’t turned tail and fled right back to London after setting eyes on her.
But Phil hadn’t turned tail. He had behaved like a gentleman from the moment she joined him in the carriage. He seemed to have interpreted her needs and adhered to them. He did not try to kiss her or touch her in an inappropriate fashion—he had hardly spoken to her at all. If he had, she surely would not have known what to say or how to express her thanks.
Actually, Isabelle reflected, any touching he decided to engage in would at this point be appropriate, considering what he had done for her.
Still, he hadn’t tried, and her esteem for him grew by the hour. Only providence could have caused him to appear when he did. Surely it held a deeper meaning. Perhaps it meant that in the end, they were destined for each other.
A knock on the door heralded the entry of a reedy, red-haired, and freckled lass, primly dressed in an apron and a white frock with a white cap placed squarely upon her blazing curls. “I’m Ailis, miss. Mr. Sutherland’s hired me on as yer lady’s maid. I’m to be at yer beck and call until ye’re safely arrived in London.”
Crossing her arms over her skinny chest, she looked Isabelle up and down, turned on her heel, and returned moments later with two men hauling a bathtub.
While she scrubbed Isabelle’s hair until her scalp tingled, Ailis said Mr. Sutherland was paying her right fine and covering her expenses all the way back to Inverness, but maybe she wouldn’t come home to Inverness after all; maybe she’d take all that fine money Mr. Sutherland was paying her and see what she could make of herself in London.
Isabelle, exhausted beyond reason, managed to work up enough energy to convince the lass, who was only fifteen, for heaven’s sake, to consider returning to her family in Inverness. When the bath was over, she fell into the warm bed, asking Ailis to wake her at half past five.
Ailis did as she was told and came in at the appointed hour, rousing Isabelle with her singsong voice. “Now would ye look at this, Miss Frasier, yer man has brung ye the finest gowns in all of Scotland, he has.”
Dropping her armful of parcels to the chair, she opened one, took out a spotted white muslin, and shook it out, holding it before her. Rubbing her eyes, Isabelle rose to sit on the edge of the bed.
Ailis moved right and left, pinned the gown to Isabelle’s shoulders, and whistled through her teeth. “Sure now, this’ll fit as if it were made for ye.”
Half an hour later, Isabelle descended to the dining room, her hair up in a loose twist, wearing the gown over a new petticoat, new stays, new chemise, new stockings, new shoes. A new pearl necklace hung around her throat, with matching pearl earrings clasped to her ears. Phil had generously purchased it all, and she had not asked for any of it.
Philip Sutherland had bought her. All Isabelle could wonder now was when he’d choose to collect the goods.
She entered the boisterous dining room. Scots, some with wives and children, ate their supper, laughing over whiskey and ale. Phil was seated at a table in the far corner of the room. He stood out from the lively crowd. Nobody else was as well dressed, as put together, as contained as he. He rose from his chair as she approached and reached out his hand. She took it, that old shyness heating her cheeks as she gazed downward.
His gaze wandered over her body. “Lovely.”
“Thank you.” She gestured at herself. “For all of this. It wasn’t necessary.”
It was a ridiculous thing to say, since of course it was necessary, if she wished to be seen with him.
He pulled out a chair for her and ordered their food. They waited in silence, though his questioning gaze spoke volumes.
Once the wine, chestnut-stuffed quails, and beef rolls arrived, he placed his hands flat on the table and said in a very soft voice, “Isabelle, I want you to be with me…I want you to be mine…when we return to London.”
She looked down at her lap, feeling so broken she could hardly breathe. “Aye, Phil. I will be…happy to have you. I am sorry I…I refused you before. I assure you it will not happen again.”
It wouldn’t, she resolved. She would be his mistress. She would give herself to him as generously as he had given to her. It did not matter that she did not love him. She liked him, and that was a gift in itself.
“I am relieved.” He twirled the stem of his wineglass between his fingers. “I am quite…taken with you, you see. I know you have not reciprocated my feelings but I hope, in time…”
As his voice trailed off, she looked past his shoulder for a long moment. A jovial-looking man with a tall thatch of curly black hair caught her eye and winked broadly.
“I am very fond of you, Phil.” She met his eyes but could not hold them. She dipped her gaze to her food.
“You’re distraught.” He reached across the table and opened his palm.
She clasped his offered hand. Anyone who saw them would think they were lovers. She didn’t care.
“I’ll wait, Isabelle. I’ll wait until we’re in London.”
She swallowed hard. “That is most kind of you.”
“I know you dislike it
here. You are unhappy. When we are together, I want it to be special.”
She was clearly deranged. Any woman in her right mind would be head over heels in love with this man. “You are the kindest, most generous person I have ever known.”
“In London, though, I want you to be mine and mine alone.”
He also had the ability to be quite direct. Blushing like a virgin, she nodded.
“I will rent you a house when we get home. Somewhere close to my own.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve all your kindnesses. I am truly overwhelmed.”
His lips curved, but he still looked concerned. “I shall try to be discreet, Isabelle, for I know that is what you want. However, it is inevitable that society will learn the truth about us.”
Now she did meet his gaze. “Let them. I’ll not hang my head.”
Leo was a part of London society—he would find out about them. A knife of pain sliced through her, but she steeled herself against it. Their story had concluded on that last night they were together, its pages slammed shut by her own cruel words. She wasn’t surprised he hadn’t come to Scotland for her. There was no hope for them. There never had been.
Phil’s features relaxed, and his smile widened. He squeezed her hand. “I will count the moments until we are home.”
***
That night at Isabelle’s door, Phil put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her. His lips caressed hers, soft and warm, and then pressed gently, urging her response.
Open to him, Isabelle, a voice inside her urged. He saved you. Show him your thanks.
She slipped her arms about his waist, parted her lips, and kissed him back.
He increased the pressure on her shoulders, and then one hand slipped down and rested low on her back, drawing her close. His other hand came forward to cup her jaw, his long fingers smoothing over the skin of her cheek.
He pulled away first. “Until tomorrow, then?”
She nodded. “Until tomorrow.”
Ailis had waited up for her. Apparently, the girl had kept busy packing all of Isabelle’s new possessions, many of which she had yet to see, into her trunk. Ailis’s smaller trunk stood beside Isabelle’s spotless and shining one, ready to go.
“Mr. Sutherland is a fine gentleman,” Ailis said. “He treats ye like a queen, too.”
“Aye, he does,” Isabelle said.
“I’m to stay with you tonight, miss.”
“Aye, of course.” Isabelle had noticed the pallet made up on the floor. “Will you help me undress, please, Ailis?”
The girl undid the tiny buttons and tapes down Isabelle’s back and stripped her down to her chemise.
Feigning exhaustion, Isabelle climbed into bed. Ailis carefully hung her clothing, then put out the lamp, snuggled into her pallet, and promptly began to snore.
Sleep did not come so easily for Isabelle. She lay in bed, her body stiff, her mind full. Leo kept leaking through, until, late in the night, he dominated her thoughts.
She missed him so.
***
Leo woke early and rode hard through the mists in the rising gloom, for dawn had never broken clean through on any of the mornings of his journey from London to Scotland this time. It sifted and filtered in, slowly weakening the blackness of the nights into cold, gray mornings.
By the time the obscured sun offered as much light as it was willing for the day, Leo reached Isabelle’s uncle’s manor house for the second time this month. It was a ramshackle place, gloomy on the outside, its gardens ragged, muddy, and unkempt. Ewan hadn’t kept the place as well as Isabelle’s father had.
Leo dismounted, tethered his mount, and rapped smartly upon the door. After a long interval, it creaked open to reveal the unshaven, sour-looking man. Leo doffed his hat.
“Frasier.”
The man regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Aye.” After a long pause, he added, “Milord.”
“Take me to Isabelle. I know she’s here. I know you lied to me before. This time I’m not going away until I see her.”
“She isna here.”
Leo ground his teeth. “You lied to me once. I suggest you don’t repeat the offense.”
Frasier shrugged. “I’m telling you the truth. She ran off yesterday.”
“Ran off?”
The man gave him a sour smile. “Aye, ’tis true. She ran off with some man, or so my servant tells me.”
Some man?
Seeming pleased by Leo’s aghast expression, Frasier’s face turned smug. He leaned indolently against the doorframe. “Can I help you with aught else, milord?”
Leo could hardly form words to speak. Belle had run away…with a man… No, it wasn’t possible. Not possible. Belle belonged to him.
He pushed inside, past the man, ignoring his expostulations. He searched the house, finding the room that smelled of Belle. All her clothes were there, all her possessions, few as they were. He found a little shagreen case on a table. He opened it, and Belle’s scent drifted out to him. He closed his eyes for a second, then turned to Frasier, who was glowering at him from the doorway.
“Do you know where she went?” he said thickly.
“England, I’d wager,” Frasier said. “Carriage looked as though it’d traveled quite a distance.”
Not Belle. No.
Too late. He was too late.
***
Leo rushed back to England, pushing his body to ride for long hours, exchanging mounts often. When he arrived in London, he rode as fast as his exhausted mount could swerve through the London traffic, directly to Lady DeLinn’s house.
The butler answered the door. If he was nonplussed to see Leo, he did not show it.
“May I help you, sir?”
He tried to hide his impatience. He failed. “Lord Leothaid here to see Lady DeLinn. Tell her it is a pressing matter, if you please.”
The butler’s face remained bland. “Just one moment, my lord.”
Leo paced nervously, trailing mud over the parquet floor of Lady DeLinn’s front hall, slapping his gloves against his thigh as he waited.
The man was not long in returning. “Follow me if you please, my lord.”
Leo nearly trampled the butler’s heels as he was led down the hall and into Lady DeLinn’s gilded drawing room, but he stopped short just inside the doorway.
Beneath the shimmering candlelight of a crystal chandelier, between a statue of a Roman goddess in one corner and a potted palm in another, stood Thomas Archer, flanked by Lady DeLinn and Anna Tomkins. Archer, his lips stretched into a taut grimace, glared at him. He set one hand on each of the women’s shoulders.
Though Archer and Lady DeLinn had different coloring, Leo could see the familial resemblance in their almond-shaped eyes and oval faces. Cousins, he remembered. No doubt Archer knew the whole story of what had happened between Leo and his cousin.
And of course Archer must also know the whole story of what had happened between Leo and Anna.
What Leo didn’t know was whether Archer knew of his stint in Lady DeLinn’s cellar. The man had been wary and aloof since Leo had returned from his fabricated journey to Scotland, but that could very well be simply because of Leo’s past with both ladies. Still, he wasn’t certain.
But Leo didn’t have time for any of this. He had to find Belle. He turned to Lady M.
Not Lady M, Lady DeLinn.
“Where is she?”
Lady DeLinn arched one slender eyebrow. “Good evening, Lord Leothaid.”
“I don’t have time for pleasantries. Where is she?”
“Do you mean Isabelle?” Lady DeLinn asked.
He bit back a curse. “Of course I mean Isabelle!”
She gave him a blank look. “I am confused. Have you come from Scotland?”
He gritted his teeth. “Yes. They told me—” He couldn’t finish. “Just tell me where she is.”
“Leo, are you foxed?” Archer asked. “Barging in here and making rude demands? What�
��s got into you?”
Anna stepped forward, but Archer grabbed her hand protectively, preventing her from coming too close.
Ha. Clearly Archer did not know that Leo had much more to fear from these ladies than they had to fear from him.
At least this was evidence that Archer had no knowledge that his mistress had practiced a most wicked kind of torture in the cellar a few weeks ago.
“Goodness, my lord,” Anna said. “You’re frightening me. What’s happened? What happened in Scotland?”
They didn’t know? How could this be? Leo gripped the back of a chair for support. “I went to her uncle’s house as you said”—he heard Archer draw in a breath—“and he told me she was gone. That she’d returned to London with…someone.”
This news was met with a resounding silence. Archer finally broke it. “Ah, is this about Miss Frasier?”
He swung his gaze to Archer. “Do you know her?”
“I do. That is, I met her here a month or two ago. I didn’t know that you and she…ah, that she, ah, knew you. You do realize—” Archer’s voice faltered. He turned to Lady DeLinn.
“What?” Leo fisted his hands at his sides. “Who is it, damn it?”
“Have you been assisting Lord Leothaid in locating Miss Frasier?” Archer asked his cousin, as if astonished she would help such a blackguard.
“I have.” Lady DeLinn’s gaze swept over Leo, taking in his disheveled appearance. “He seems to be madly in love with her, coz.”
“His intentions are honorable,” Anna Tomkins added somberly. “That is why we have helped him.”
“Honorable?” Archer gaped at her, bug-eyed.
Leo felt like screaming. “Where the hell is she?”
“There’s only one place I can possibly imagine,” Lady DeLinn said.
Anna Tomkins shook her head. “But she said she’d never—”
Archer cut in. “I know where she is.” He looked Leo in the eye. A small smile curved his lips. “Sutherland followed your advice and chased her to Scotland. I saw him at the club this afternoon. She’s with him.”
The Sweetest Revenge Page 25
