Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  He had thought long and hard on how he might save her, but John was no closer to a solution than he had been some four and twenty hours prior. It worried him how the baroness had not argued about remaining in her bed; Satiné required the laudanum to survive: She would no longer fight for what motivated her.

  A light tap on the door brought Miss Neville. “Pardon me, my Lord. The stables have sent word there is some sort of issue with a wheel joint. Your journey may require a delay.”

  John rolled his eyes to the heavens. “Dear God,” he pleaded in frustration, “what other trial do you mean to send me?”

  “It is only a wheel, my Lord,” Miss Neville said in that familiar tone of absolute reason.

  John’s eyes met hers. “It is so much more, Miss Neville. I must remove my wife from London or risk losing her forever.”

  She stepped closer, and John’s heart lurched in recognition. “Perhaps it would be beneficial to speak upon your troubles. I am thought to be an excellent listener.”

  Despite his maudlin, John smiled. “I have no doubt of the truth of your words.” He knew he should not willingly accept Miss Neville’s closeness, but his lips spoke a different reality. “Come. Sit beside me.” He patted the adjoining cushion. “Whether we speak or not, I would savor your company. I am feeling quite alone.”

  He watched her closely; she hesitated before deciding to close the door. Finally, she sat, and the comforting scent he would forever associate with her filled his lungs. Instinctively, John’s hand covered her, and their fingers intertwined. The feel of another sharing his touch lifted his heart, and John sighed with contentment.

  They sat as such for a quarter hour before John spoke. The silence had not been threatening, and he had seen no reason to fill it with asinine conversation. Instead, he relished the feel of her skin under his fingers. “I am ashamed I was so easily fooled by Lady Swenton’s manipulations.” He chuckled ironically. “Among my friends, I am considered to be the one who possesses a keen sense of intuition.”

  “I do not believe the baroness means to deceive you,” Miss Neville said softly. “It is as if your lady cannot change her stars. She believes the world is set against her.”

  “It is more severe than you know,” he confessed.

  Her fingers stroked his palm. “Tell me.”

  The wish to know such tenderness forever overwhelmed John’s composure. His breathing turned shallow, and he swallowed hard to clear his raspy throat. “It is not a pretty tale.”

  A moment of probing stillness followed before Miss Neville said, “I prefer to know it all.”

  Reluctantly, John told the lady of the sordid details of Satiné’s abduction, of her Uncle Samuel taunting Lachlan Charters into claiming “husbandly” rights while Satiné was unconscious, and how Jamot had locked the Aldridge twins in the glass cone.

  “I was aware of some of what you have shared,” she explained. “Those of the aristocracy often speak openly before servants–as if we are all deaf. Before the incident with Master Fowler, an argument among those who attempted to reason with Baroness Swenton disclosed some of the details.” John had long since abandoned thoughts of Isolde Neville as a servant. “Could Mr. Charters’ use of the belladonna mixture be the source of Lady Swenton’s dependency on the numbing effects of the laudanum?” she asked in genuine concern.

  His headshake voiced John’s puzzlement. “I wish I knew for certain. It likely would not change anything, but knowing what ignited the baroness’s desire to punish herself might tell me how to assist her.”

  “You spoke to someone on your wife’s behalf, did you not, Sir?” she asked perceptively.

  John’s gaze drifted to the darkness beyond the draped window. He searched inward for an answer beyond the obvious. “I sought the advice of a Mr. Coyle, a man who has served the Home Office in difficult cases, those where the perpetrators suffered from a touch of Bedlam.”

  “Surely you do not think Lady Swenton has lost all reason!” Miss Neville accused.

  “A woman who has decided upon impossible perfection cannot be spoken of in terms of saneness,” he admitted.

  She paused, her gaze frozen upon his countenance, and John’s heart thundered in his ears. “How can any of us save Lady Swenton if what you say is true?”

  “Coyle says it will not be an easy task,” he admitted.

  “Perhaps you should begin again in your explanation by including Mr. Coyle’s assessment,” Miss Neville encouraged.

  So they talked late into the night. John spoke of what he knew of Satiné’s upbringing and of what Coyle had suggested, but he had also spoken of his childhood, of his father’s desolation at Lady Fiona’s desertion, and even of how he had attempted to foster a relationship with his estranged mother. The lady had reciprocated with tales of her childhood without a mother present, of her boisterous cousins and brothers, and of her devastation at learning of her father’s disappearance.

  “I am ashamed to say I have not asked of news of Mr. Neville’s investigation. Has Sir Carter discovered anything of import?”

  “There are conflicting reports of whether Papa actually boarded the ship. At first, I found this uncertainty a bit disconcerting, but Lady Lowery showed me a great kindness. The baronet’s wife has convinced me the inconsistencies will lead to a positive outcome.”

  John tightened his grasp. “No one in England is better than Sir Carter at resolving difficult investigations. It is as if the man was built for intrigue. The baronet will not rest until you have an answer.”

  “Sir Carter sounds an ideal companion.”

  John smiled wryly. “He has been just that for the past six years.”

  *

  John held no idea how long they had sat in companionable silence before she had slumped against him in sleep. During those long hours, he had never relinquished Miss Neville’s hand, as if she remained his anchor on reality. Instead, in the moonlight streaming through the shear panels at each window, he had studied the length of her slender fingers, the line of freckles at her wrist, and the small callus on the tip of her index finger.

  He knew he should release her to her quarters, but with the door closed to the outside world, they remained in a private cocoon–the heat of Miss Neville’s body lining his side. John had never known such soul-deep contentment. It was not simply the lady’s desirability, although Isolde Neville was exquisite. When he closed his eyes, John could easily imagine her slender legs wrapped about his waist. Rather it was how readily Miss Neville had given him her complete trust. From the moment of their first encounter, the lady had chosen his side. She wished to see him happy, even though she would not be a part of his future. It was a most frustratingly wonderful realization.

  John had never possessed the friendship of a woman, and Miss Neville’s faithfulness was a heady sensation. He had known the company of several discreet women over the years, nothing in comparison to the liaisons of James Kerrington or Gabriel Crowden, but satisfying in their limited scope. For a man who had held no knowledge of relationships, he had considered himself quite accomplished in the ways of courtship. However, a female friend was a novelty.

  “Come, my Dear,” he whispered softly as he relaxed into the loose cushions of the chaise, taking her with him. Miss Neville’s body rested against his right side, her left forearm draped across his stomach and chest. There was a familiar tug of desire in his groin, but John ignored his lust. He would not betray his honor or her trust. Miss Neville’s presence was the only source of sensibility in the chaos, which was his world.

  John closed his eyes and listened to the murmur of a breath that escaped her lips when Miss Neville exhaled. The sound brought a smile to his lips. A man could spend a lifetime listening to the soft sweetness. Within minutes, he joined the lady in sleep. Last evening, he had ignored his bed in order to tend his wife. Tonight, he would hold his most precious friend to him.

  *

  The early rays of light speared her lids, and Isolde reluctantly cracked her eyes to pe
rmit the morning sun’s entrance. She was lying in a most uncomfortable position, and it took her mind several elongated seconds to realize she was wedged between the back of one of the chaises in Lady Swenton’s drawing room and her mistress’s husband. Lord Swenton’s body surrounded hers. The warmth of awareness shot through Isolde’s veins: His Lordship’s knee rested against the core of her womanhood. Her body screamed for her to move against him and finally to discover what other women her age knew, but her mind maintained control. “Lord Swenton,” she whispered as she levered the palms of her hands against his chest. She would like to push him away, but Isolde feared if she shoved too hard, His Lordship would tumble backward to the floor, creating a commotion, and bringing servants in search of the unexpected noise. “Your Lordship, I must return to my room.”

  Lord Swenton rested precariously on the edge of the chaise. “Must you?” he mumbled sleepily. “I am quite addicted to your scent.”

  Despite the awkward situation, Isolde smiled: His words were the nicest thing any man had ever said to her. “Yes, I must.” She shifted slightly. “Someone might discover us,” Isolde insisted.

  The baron sighed heavily. “I despise silly gossip,” he confessed, but he moved his legs to permit Isolde’s escape.

  She wiggled against him until she could stand. After brushing down her wrinkled gown, Isolde reached for a shawl on the back of a nearby chair. She spread it over Baron Swenton’s upper body. Cautiously, Isolde brushed a lock of black hair from his cheek. “Rest, my Lord,” she said softly. His breathing indicated he had returned to sleep. “You have provided me a night I shall treasure forever.”

  *

  Isolde reluctantly showed Lady Kelley and Lady Sanderson to the baroness’s sitting room. The women had insisted upon speaking with Lady Swenton, and her mistress had agreed to the visit. Isolde had wished Lord Swenton had remained at Swenton Hall, but the baron had meant to call upon the stables regarding his coach.

  “Oh, my dear,” Viscountess Kelley called as she rushed to greet Satiné Swenton. “It grieved me to know you were poorly again.”

  Isolde watched as her mistress’s eyes batted away the lingering effects of the laudanum. “It was nothing serious.” Lady Swenton worked a handkerchief between her fingers in agitation, but her visitors appeared to ignore the baroness’s quirk. “Please be seated. It is kind of you to call upon me.” Lady Satiné met Isolde’s gaze. “Would you pour the tea, Miss Neville?”

  “Certainly, Ma’am.” Isolde understood. Lady Swenton feared spilling the mixture. When she prepared her mistress’s cup, she left it only half full before placing it carefully in the baroness’s hands. She surreptitiously positioned Lady Swenton’s fingers upon the saucer so she might appear to hold the plate with confidence. Retreating to a nearby corner, Isolde remained alert to the girl’s condition.

  “We had to come,” Lady Sanderson began. “The most miraculous thing has occurred. European royalty has arrived in London We thought you might know one or both of them. They were recently in Vienna.”

  Lady Swenton’s posture stiffened. Cautiously, she sat the cup and plate upon a side table. “I assure you, Lady Sanderson, I did not travel in such esteemed circles.” Her Ladyship’s fingers had returned to the handkerchief.

  “But one of the princes claims to have hosted your husband when he called recently in Vienna,” Lady Kelley protested. “We had hoped you planned to attend the fete at the Duchess of Falkenberry’s Town home this evening. I know you were sent an invitation: Lord Morse saw to it personally. Rumors say Prince George will make an appearance. You really must come. We are dying for Prince Auersperg’s acquaintance, and we expect you to introduce us.”

  Isolde recognized the struggle for clarity, which crossed Lady Swenton’s countenance, but her mistress managed to say, “Baron Swenton means to leave for York. I fear we shall not attend.”

  “Yet, Auersperg has requested the baron’s company. You must convince your husband to change his mind, Lady Swenton. Having the princes’ acquaintances shall make you all the rage among the ton,” Lady Kelley pressed.

  Lady Swenton finally asked the obvious question. “Who has accompanied Auersperg? My husband will wish to know.”

  Lady Sanderson sat her cup and plate upon the low table. “A prince from a small principality near Switzerland: Prince Henrí Josef D’Anton of Rintoul.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lady Swenton’s countenance paled, but her spirits improved. “I shall speak to the baron,” she assured her companions. “I am certain His Lordship will wish to greet Prince Vinzens. They are long-time associates.” Isolde held other opinions as to Lord Swenton’s desire to socialize with Lord Morse’s family, even if Princes George and Auersperg were to attend the entertainment. “Now, I must cut our time short. I have an appointment with my modiste, do I not, Miss Neville?”

  Isolde swallowed her surprise. “It is as you say, my Lady.”

  Ladies Kelley and Sanderson rose. “Please search us out when you arrive at Falkenberry’s,” the viscountess instructed.

  “I shall do my best.” Lady Swenton also rose. “Miss Neville, please see my guests to the door and send Sally to me to dress my hair.”

  “Yes, Baroness.” Isolde did not approve of carrying the ruse so far, but she bowed to the group before leading the women through the house. Unfortunately, Lord Swenton chose that exact moment to return.

  “Oh, Baron.” Lady Kelley latched onto his arm. Isolde noted his frown of disapproval and wondered if her countenance held a similar expression. “We have just had the most informative visit with your baroness.”

  Lord Swenton’s frown lines deepened. He shot an accusatory glance to Isolde. “My wife felt well enough for visitors?”

  Isolde swallowed her first words. “The viscountess and Lady Sanderson insisted upon assuring themselves of Lady Swenton’s return to health.”

  “And we meant to bring the baroness our own form of good health,” Lady Sanderson said with a purposeful snit. “We brought your lady the news of Prince Vinzens of Auersperg’s arrival in London. The prince will be the guest of the Duchess of Falkenberry this evening. Even Prince George is reputed to join the entertainment. When we discovered Auersperg named you as one of his closest associates, we rushed to Swenton Hall to bring you the news personally.”

  Lord Swenton peeled Lady Kelley’s fingers from his sleeve. “You have shown my wife a kindness, but I will write to Auersperg to inform him I will not be attending this evening. My baroness’s health takes precedence over such frivolities.”

  “I assure you, Lord Swenton,” Lady Kelley stepped closer to the baron, positioning herself to provide him a better view of her cleavage, “your lady speaks of visiting her modiste.”

  He deftly sidestepped the woman, and Isolde bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. He motioned to a waiting footman. “Peter, please escort Lady Kelley and Lady Sanderson to their carriages. I mean to see this miracle revival of Lady Swenton’s spirits for myself.” With that, the baron disappeared into the small dining room, one which would take him toward the servants’ entrance.

  Isolde remained with Peter until the baroness’s guests made their exits. Then she too stepped into the same room, trailing the baron through the back hallways of the house; therefore, when he caught her arm and pulled Isolde into a pantry, she was not surprised and did not squeal. Rather, she fell into his loose embrace.

  “Tell me,” he whispered close to her ear, “what happened?”

  Isolde played with a loose button upon his jacket and thought to retrieve her sewing basket and repair it. “Much of what the ladies said is true. Despite my efforts to send them away, the baroness’s friends insisted upon speaking to her. Sally overheard my stubborn reply and raced to Lady Swenton’s quarters. Your wife sent word she would receive her callers.”

  “How was she?” he asked softly.

  “Lady Swenton’s hands displayed her agitation, but she demonstrated great aplomb when pressed by the viscountess, who de
sires an introduction to Auersperg. The baroness explained you meant to leave for York.”

  The baron puzzled, “My wife turned away her friends’ applications?”

  Isolde’s scrutiny quickened. “It is not in the baroness’s nature to avoid such a prominent social engagement.”

  Lord Swenton’s voice was tight when he responded. “The Bard would say, ‘There is something rotten in the state of Denmark.’ My wife has concocted a plan. Of that particular fact, I am certain. Now the task lies for me to discover the truth of it.”

  *

  John slipped into Satiné’s room to find his wife tossing gowns from her wardrobe. “Going somewhere, my Dear?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Why did you not inform me of the Duchess of Falkenberry’s invitation? I have no time to commission a new gown, and none of these will do for such a prestigious occasion!”

  He stifled the groan, which rushed to his lips. The shrewish Satiné had returned. “Then I suppose it is exemplary that I declined the duchess’s kind gesture. I would not wish my wife shamed before the ton,” he said blandly.

  “Do not mince words with me, Baron!” she charged. “You cannot pretend having the recognition of both Auersperg and Prince George is not important to your–to our position in Society. I shall not believe you mean to ignore such important guests.”

  John sat on the corner of her bed. “I would be pleased to introduce my wife to Auersperg over a private meal where he might learn to appreciate my baroness for both her beauty and her wit. A brief introduction at an overly crowded event is nothing of import. And as to Prince George, since I assisted in saving his life recently, we may call at Carlton House with a reasonable notice of intent.”

  His wife stared at him in complete bewilderment. “Neither of those introductions would be viewed by the beau monde,” she reasoned.

  “However, we must be satisfied. I do not intend to partake of Falkenberry’s entertainment this evening.” John spoke as if she were a misbehaving child.