by Louise Allen
The lady who had just entered was exceedingly beautiful in a manner that Isobel could only describe as well preserved. She might have been any age above thirty-five at that distance—tall, magnificently proportioned, with a mass of golden-brown hair caught up with diamond pins to match the necklace that lay on her creamy bosom.
She swept round, catching up the skirts of her black gown, and surveyed the room. The colour was funereal, but Isobel had never seen anything less like mourning. The satin was figured with a subtle pattern and shimmered like the night sky with the diamonds its stars.
‘That, my dear, is the Scarlet Widow,’ Miss Monsom hissed. ‘I have never been this close before—Mama always rushes off in the opposite direction whenever she is sighted. I think she must have had a fling with Papa at some point.’ She narrowed her eyes speculatively. ‘One can quite see what he saw in her.’
For the first time in days Isobel felt something: recognition, apprehension and a flutter very like fear. The wide green eyes found her and she knew Pamela was right: this was the Dowager Marchioness of Faversham, Giles’s mother.
The lush crimson lips set into a hard line and the Widow stalked into the room.
‘She is coming over here!’ Pamela squeaked. ‘Mama will have kittens!’
Isobel found she was on her feet. Her own mother would be the one needing the smelling bottle when she heard about this. ‘Lady Faversham.’ She dropped a curtsy suitable for the widow’s rank.
‘Are you Lady Isobel Jarvis?’ The older woman kept her voice low. It throbbed with emotion and Isobel felt every eye in the retiring room turn in their direction as ladies strained to hear.
‘I am.’
‘Then you are the little hussy responsible for the damage to my son’s face.’
‘I shall ignore your insulting words, ma’am,’ Isobel said, clasping her hands together tightly so they could not shake. ‘But Mr Harker was injured in the course of assisting Lord James Albright to deal with his sister’s errant fiancé who had assaulted me.’
‘You got your claws into him, you convinced him that he must defend your honour and look what happened!’ The Widow leaned closer, the magnificent green eyes so like Giles’s that a stab of longing for him lanced through Isobel. ‘He was beautiful and you have scarred him. You foolish little virgin—you are playing with fire and I’ll not have him embroiled in some scandal because of you.’
No, I do not want to feel, I do not want to remember …‘I should imagine that Mr Harker has far more likelihood of encountering scandal in your company than in mine, ma’am,’ Isobel said, putting up her chin. ‘If a gentleman obeys an honourable impulse on my behalf I am very grateful, but as I did not request that he act for me, I fail to see how I am responsible.’
‘You scheming jade—’
‘The pot calling the kettle black,’ Isobel murmured. Her knees were knocking, but at least her voice was steady. She had never been so rude to anyone in her entire life.
‘I am warning you—keep your hands off my son.’ By a miracle the Widow was still hissing her insults; except for Pamela beside her, no one else could hear what they were talking about.
‘I have no intention of so much as setting eyes on your son, ma’am, let alone laying a finger on him,’ Isobel retorted.
‘See that is the truth or I can assure you, you will suffer for it.’ Lady Faversham swept round and out of the room, leaving a stunned silence behind her.
‘What dramatics,’ Isobel said with a light laugh. ‘I have never met Lady Faversham before and I cannot say I wish to keep up the acquaintance!’
That produced a ripple of amusement from the handful of ladies who had been staring agog from the other end of the room. ‘What on earth is the matter with her?’ Lady Mountstead demanded as she came across to join them.
‘Her son was injured assisting Lord James Albright to put right an unpleasant situation—I am sure you know to what I refer. The Dowager blames me for some reason.’ But not as much as she blamed herself.
Isobel lingered, working to dampen down the speculation, turn it towards gossip about the scandalous Widow and away from her own affairs. She felt reasonably confident she had succeeded when she left the retiring room, but her mother would be aghast, she knew it.
‘I had best go and find Mama and warn her of that little incident,’ she said to Pamela. ‘If we do not see each other again tonight, you must call, very soon.’
‘I will most certainly do that.’ Pamela was still wide-eyed with speculation. ‘And I expect to hear all about the shocking Mr Harker. But now I suppose I had better go and rejoin my party in the supper room.’ She hurried off.
Thoroughly flustered, Isobel took the other right-hand corridor. It was deserted, badly lit, but she thought it might lead to the end of the ballroom where she had last seen her mother. The temptation to tell her nothing at all was strong, but the gossip would be certain to reach her ears, so she had no choice but to warn her.
She hurried on, head down, trying to think of a way to break the news that she had been accosted, in public, by the Scarlet Widow. ‘Ough!’ The man she had walked right into caught her by both arms to steady her, then, as she looked up, the grip tightened. ‘You!’
‘Me,’ Giles agreed. He did not release her and she stood still in his grasp, not knowing whether that was because she wanted to have his hands on her or because struggling would be undignified.
‘Your face is healing well.’ It was the first thing that came into her head that she dared say out loud. I love you or You abandoned me or Take me away with you or I hate you were all impossible. ‘How long have the stitches been out?’ The scars were still red, but the swelling and bruising had gone—soon they would begin to fade.
‘Two weeks.’
‘You look…it makes you look dangerous.’
‘So I have been told.’ Something in his tone suggested that whoever had said so had been female. ‘You appear to be enjoying yourself, Isobel.’
‘Do I? You have been watching me?’
‘You are hard to miss in that gown and when you are so ubiquitous. Dancing every dance, flirting with so many gentlemen. Your heart has quite recovered, I see.’
‘And also whatever of yours was engaged.’ Isobel twisted her right hand out of his light grip and flicked at the trace of face powder on his lapel. ‘The lady favours Attar of Roses, I think.’
‘One of them, as I recall, yes.’ He sounded bored, like a tomcat who could hardly be bothered with the hunt. With his newly broken nose and the scars above the immaculate white linen and complicated neckcloth, he looked like a pirate playing at being a gentleman.
‘Such a bore for you, all these women throwing themselves at you,’ Isobel said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. ‘Still, I suppose you can hardly afford to neglect your admirers—who knows, one of them might be about to persuade her complaisant spouse that she needs her boudoir remodelled.’
‘The lady with the Attar of Roses wants a new library as a present for her husband.’
‘And I am sure she will be at home the entire time to supervise.’
‘Probably.’ He was angry at her jibes. The colour was touching his cheekbones and the green eyes were cold, but the drawl was as casual and as insolent as before. ‘What are you doing in town, Isobel?’
‘The Season. What else?’ She shrugged.
‘I thought that was the last thing you wanted.’
‘That was before a certain gentleman reminded me about the pleasures of the flesh,’ she said, smiling at him when his brows snapped together in a frown. A demon seemed to have taken control of her tongue. ‘I thought perhaps I might be…entertained if I came to London.’
‘And I thought you did not want to marry again.’
‘Were we discussing marriage, Giles?’
‘You little witch. If it is fleshly pleasure you want—’ He tugged on the wrist he still held captive, pulling her against his exquisite silk waistcoat. The lingering scent of roses warred with his citrus cologne in he
r nostrils and under it was the faint musk of a man who was hot with temper.
And lust, she realised as his mouth came down and his hands trapped her and his lips punished her for defiance. She knew his body and he knew hers. She found she had clenched one hand on his buttock, holding him tight against her. The pressure of his erection sent tongues of flame to the core of her as his mouth left hers and he began to pull at the neckline of her gown, his lips seeking the nipple, his tongue and teeth wreaking havoc with her senses.
They were crushed into a corner now, his hand under her skirts as she lifted her leg to hook it around his hip to give him access. It was mad, insane, they were both so angry, both so—
The sharp clip of heels on marble was like a bucket of cold water thrown in her face. Isobel gasped, found her feet, pushed at Giles even as he spun round instinctively to shield her.
‘Geraldine,’ Giles said. His mother.
From behind him Isobel could see the dark sheen of black satin, the glitter of diamonds. She pushed her way free to stand at his side and confront the other woman, her chin up.
‘You little fool,’ the Dowager hissed. ‘So you lied to me. You will be sorry for this. Very sorry.’
Isobel simply turned on her heel and walked away. Neither of them made the slightest attempt to stop her.
The passage turned and she jumped at the sight of someone coming towards her, then she saw it was her own reflection in a long glass. Her bodice was awry, her hair half-down, her skirts crumpled. With hands that shook Isobel righted her gown, twisted the loose ringlets back into order, fanned her face with her hands until the hectic colour began to subside, then went out into the ballroom before she had time to think about what had just happened.
‘Mama.’ Lady Bythorn was deep in conversation with the Dowager Lady Darvil, but she turned with a smile that became rigid when she saw Isobel’s face.
‘Are you unwell, my dear? You look quite—’
‘Flustered,’ Isobel hissed. ‘I know. Mama, I must speak with you alone. Urgently.’
‘You have the migraine?’ Lady Bythorn said clearly as she got to her feet. ‘Do excuse us, Georgiana, I fear Isobel is suffering from the heat—we had best go home. Come, dear.’
With a suitably wan smile for Lady Darvil, Isobel let herself be led to the hallway and fanned while their cloaks were found and the carriage called.
‘What is it?’ her mother demanded the moment they were inside. ‘Has someone been referring to the scandal?’
‘No. Mama, the Dowager Lady Faversham found me in the retiring room and said the most horrible things. She blames me for the injuries Mr Harker suffered.’
‘Oh, my heavens! That frightful creature. I knew Frederica Leamington could not be trusted not to invite the wrong sort of people. Did anyone hear her?’
‘Only Pamela Monsom and she is very discreet. There were other people in the room, but they did not hear exactly what she said and when she left I explained that she was upset about Mr Harker’s scars and they were very sympathetic. But they are sure to gossip.’
‘And now your name will be linked with his,’ her mother observed grimly. ‘There is nothing to be done but brazen it out—thank goodness he was not there tonight!’
Isobel bit her lower lip. She did not feel capable of confessing to her mother that Giles Harker had indeed been at the ball. Her body still quivered from his touch and from the anger that had flashed between them.
‘There, there.’ Her mother leaned over in the shadowed interior to pat her hand. ‘It will be all right. That woman has such a dreadful reputation that no respectable person would believe a word she has to say.’
But I do. She said I would be sorry, and she meant it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘WHAT THE DEVIL are you about?’ Giles planted himself squarely in the corridor to block his mother’s furious, impetuous path. She was quite capable of sweeping out into the ballroom on Isobel’s heels and continuing this scene there.
‘You fool,’ she snapped at him, eyes flashing. ‘You aren’t content with having your face ruined for the sake of that little madam, but now you are getting yourself entangled with her. She’ll be the ruin of you! She’s an earl’s daughter—Bythorn won’t stand for it and he has influence.’
‘And he never slept with you, so you can’t play that card,’ Giles drawled, hanging on to his temper by a hair’s breadth. ‘I am not entangled with Isobel Jarvis—’
‘Hah!’
‘We were merely continuing an argument.’
‘An argument? I have heard it called many things, Giles, but never that!’
‘I am not having an affair with the girl.’
‘No,’ the Widow said grimly. ‘You fancy yourself in love with her.’
‘I am not in love with her. I am considering strangling her.’
‘Listen to me! I have found you the perfect wife, Giles,’ she said as he turned on his heel.
‘Really?’ he threw back over his shoulder. ‘Some plain daughter of a Cit?’
‘No. Caroline Holt, the daughter of Sir Joshua Holt.’
‘And what is wrong with her? Or the family, that they should consider allying themselves with us?’
‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with Miss Holt who is tolerably pretty, intelligent and twenty-three years old. What is wrong with her father is a series of investments that have gone badly wrong, an estate mortgaged to the hilt and four unmarried daughters on his hands.’
Giles turned round fully to face his mother. ‘So Caroline is the sacrificial lamb. You buy her for me, Holt pays off the debts and the other girls can enter the Marriage Mart with some hope of attracting respectable husbands. Provided they aren’t seen with their brother-in law, that is.’
‘Exactly. And you get a well-bred wife who will be grateful for all we have done for her family.’
‘How did you find her?’ he asked even as he wondered how he was managing to keep his temper, and the urge to storm into the ballroom and drag Isobel out of it, under control.
‘I have excellent enquiry agents.’
Of course, Geraldine had always prided herself on being able to find out anything about anyone. It was how she made such good choices in her lovers, avoided blackmailers, kept away from men with wives who had connections that would be dangerous to her and always found the right place to invest her money.
‘I hope you have not made the Holts any promises.’ His body was throbbing with frustrated desire. He felt as though he had been kicked in the gut and he had an overwhelming need to break something. ‘Because I am not marrying the girl, for which she should be profoundly grateful. I have told you before, there is nothing you can buy me, least of all a wife.’
A dismissive flick of Geraldine’s hand was all the acknowledgement she gave that she had heard him. ‘Caroline Holt is not going anywhere far from her home in the wilds of Suffolk,’ the Widow said with a thin smile. ‘She will wait until you come to your senses about the Jervis chit.’
‘My senses are perfectly in order, ma’am. My refusal to marry Miss Holt has nothing to do with Lady Isobel.’
‘Liar!’ she threw at him. ‘She ruined your looks and yet you lust after her like a—’
‘Mother,’ Giles said. It stopped her in midrant. He never called her that unless he was deeply angered and she knew it. ‘I have it on good authority that a broken nose and a couple of scars gives me an interesting air of danger. Really, I should thank Lady Isobel.’
The Widow took a deep breath. ‘I would sacrifice everything for you, Giles. I would do anything to ensure your future.’
It was guilt, he knew, although she would never admit it, or probably even recognise it. Her actions had made him a bastard—now she would fight tooth and nail to force society to accept him.
‘I can look after my own future,’ he said, not unkindly. He hated it when her voice shook like that. ‘Society accepts me for who I am and I make my own way in it. Go back to Carstairs and stop plotting: I’ll not ha
ve Lady Isobel insulted.’ Knowing Jack Carstairs, her current youthful lover, he would be scouring the house trying to discover where Geraldine had got to, well aware that he would probably have to extricate her from some scrape or another when he did find her.
Giles walked away with the firm intention of getting drunk. Behind him he thought he heard Geraldine repeat, ‘Anything,’ but he was not certain. Besides, there was no need to worry—there was nothing that she could do to harm Isobel. He was her only dark secret and Geraldine would not risk involving him in further scandal.
‘Who is your letter from, Isobel?’ Lady Bythorn glanced up from her own correspondence. ‘You’ve been staring at the same page for minutes. Is the handwriting bad?’
‘No. No it is from Jane Needham. I am just…thinking.’
We are all in the best of health and the children are flourishing despite being cooped up with the dreadful weather, Jane had written. Nathaniel wants a puppy and Annabelle wants a kitten, so I foresee scratches all round before much longer. The oddest thing happened the other day: there was a stranger staying at the Needham Arms—we heard all about him because, as you know, we hardly ever get any strangers in the parish and the rumour was he looked like a Bow Street Runner. Which is pure fancy of course, because no one here has ever seen a Runner!
But he came to the house asking for you and when I saw him and told him he was mistaken, that you do not live here, he just brushed it aside and said he’s heard you stayed here sometimes. I demanded to know his business and he said he had been sent by a distant relative of yours, a sea captain, who was estranged from the family and was trying to make contact again, but who did not want to go directly to your parents. It sounded the most perfect nonsense to me and I said as much and he bowed himself off. But the thing that worries me is, when Molly went out for firewood yesterday afternoon she found him talking to the children in the yard—they had gone to look at the puppies.
She sent him about his business and I have had young Wally Hoskins go with them everywhere since then, just in case. But if he was intending to kidnap them—why these children? We are not wealthy, he must have realised that.
