Isobel’s attention was riveted on the duke’s cold smile as he watched Alexander retreat. The expression became a sneer when a short man with sharp dark features tapped Mallentrye on the shoulder. The duke bent to the King again, obviously excusing himself, for he followed the other man into the anteroom. She had no desire to see the duke, and she was about to leave through another door when the duke’s words riveted her to the spot.
“Hartforde’s here after all, Fordham. Have you got it?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Fordham’s voice was gravelly.
“And you’ve taken care of Hawes?”
“Yes, I’ve taken care of Hawes.” The sentence ended in a chilling laugh. Something about their tone kept Isobel from leaving.
“Let me see it. I want to make sure you haven’t bungled the job.” She heard the crackle of parchment being unfolded, then silence. “Excellent,” the duke said. “When His Majesty sees this, Hartforde will rue the day he was born. Do you have the seals?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Then take this to my study and see that you finish the job properly.” The door shut behind the duke with a bang as he left to rejoin the reception. There was a softer repeat of the sound when Fordham left the room.
Isobel stepped out into the hall in time to see Fordham disappear around a corner. Heart in her throat, she followed him. She had to get her hands on that document. She stood outside the door to the room Fordham had entered, uncertain what to do. At last she took a breath and went in.
Fordham jumped at the sound of the door’s opening; and frowned at the sight of young Boxham, the composer. He was sitting at a desk, and he let go of the seal he was pressing into the wax spreading out over a slim packet. “Get out of here!” he snarled.
“Oh, dear me,” Isobel said. “This does not appear to be the musicians’ room.”
“No, sir, it does not, does it?” Hastily he pushed the packet into the desk and closed it.
“Do forgive me, sir. I had no intention of disturbing anyone.” She laughed and bowed.
“It’s quite all right. No harm done.” He relaxed at her abashed expression and stood so she would be prevented from seeing what he did with the seal.
“Do you think, sir, that you could point me in the right direction?” She smiled sheepishly. “I’ve simply no idea where I am.”
He gave gruff instructions and she gave him another clumsy bow. “I knew I oughtn’t to have drunk so much. Thank you, sir, for your kindness.”
She had to wait for what seemed an eternity before she heard Fordham leave so she could slip back into the room. When she opened the desk she thought for one horrible moment that he had taken the letter with him. She looked frantically through the papers and finally found it, tucked away under a pile of other documents. She sat down in the chair, surprised to recognize the seal as Alexander’s. The wax was still warm and she managed to separate it from the paper without breaking it. The letter inside the parchment wrapping was on plain paper, and when she unfolded it she almost believed she was looking at Alexander’s bold writing. When she finished reading the two paragraphs she understood what the duke had meant. The brief letter purported to be from Alexander and it outlined a plan to garner enough support in the House of Lords “to bring George to his knees and have myself named Prime Minister.” She was about to throw the letter in the fire when she stopped. She had a better idea. The sound of voices brought Isobel out of her intense concentration and into a panic of activity. She quickly replaced the letter and did her best to put the papers back in their original order. She was fairly certain that the duke did not intend to show the letter to the King until much later in the evening. With a silent prayer that she was right, she slipped out into the hall.
She made her way back to the reception hall and stopped one of the duke’s footmen, instructing him to bring her paper and pen. As soon as he returned with the required materials, she found an empty room and sat down to compose an entirely different document.
“There you are!” Isobel jumped at the sound of Faircourt’s voice. “Mr. Boxham, this is no time to be writing letters!” he cried when he saw what she was doing. “Come along, supper’s almost over!”
“In a moment!” She waved the paper in the air until it was dry. After folding it carefully, she tucked it away in her frock coat.
“Congratulations, Mr. Boxham!” Faircourt slapped Isobel on the back.
“’Twas well received, I think.” She took a deep breath and looked around at the crowd of well-wishers, searching for Alexander. This was no time for him to disappear; she had to warn him.
“What did the King say to you?” somebody asked.
“He was very charming and complimentary.”
“Bravo, Boxham!” someone else shouted.
“Will you excuse me?” She bowed nervously. If she couldn’t find Alexander soon, it would be too late. She was certain the duke would not show the King the forged letter until he was ready to leave, but His Majesty was beginning to show signs of boredom.
At last Isobel decided she could wait no longer. Making her way back to the duke’s study proved to be more difficult than she anticipated. Everyone wanted a word with the new young composer, but at last she escaped the crowd to find herself alone in front of the duke’s study. She listened at the door, and when she was satisfied there was no one there, she went in. With trembling hands she opened the desk and removed the duke’s letter. The seal had hardened and she began to loosen it gently from the paper with the tip of a penknife. Every noise seemed amplified and several times she froze with fear at the sound of footsteps going past the door. She wiped a film of perspiration from her forehead and continued working at the seal. “Hell and damnation!” she swore when a small piece broke off the edge. It seemed to take an eternity, and when she was finally finished, her shoulders were aching from the effort. Slipping out the letter, she replaced it with her own. She blessed the servant who had left several candles burning, and, though the underside of the paper was unavoidably blackened when she held it inches above the flame, at last the wax was softened enough to reseal the parchment wrapping around the letter. If it wasn’t examined too carefully it might pass for a fresh seal.
She heard voices, and her heart gave a sickening leap when she recognized the duke’s voice. There wasn’t time to make sure the original letter was burned, so she thrust it into her waistcoat. She quickly closed up the desk and replaced the candle on the mantel. The moment she stepped through the door, someone had her by the shoulders, slamming her against the doorway.
“What the devil were you doing in there?” the duke hissed, his face perilously close to her own.
At almost the same moment the duke grasped her, Alexander came around the corner. All Isobel could see was his shocked expression as he saw the duke holding her by the shoulders, pulling her so close they were almost touching.
The duke twisted around when he heard footsteps. “Get the hell out of my house, Hartforde!” he snarled.
“With pleasure, Your Grace.”
She called out to him, but he never turned back.
“So, Mr. Boxham,” the duke snapped, “would you care to explain what you were doing in my study?”
“Please, Your Grace.” She shook herself free from his grasp. She brushed off her jacket and looked at him as though insulted. I am going to be sick, she thought. “I was not actually in your study, though I freely admit I was headed there. These rooms all look alike from the outside.”
The duke’s expression relaxed, and he stepped back a little. He would probably have let her go if Fordham hadn’t come along.
“What’s he doing here?” Fordham cried.
“You know him?”
“Of course he knows me!” Isobel interjected. “Even the King knows me today. How wonderful to see you again, sir.” She nodded at Fordham.
“He was in here earlier, Your Grace.”
“I think, Mr. Boxham, we’d better talk.” The duke took her arm and
, opening the door, pushed her inside. “Check the desk, Fordham.” He jerked his head at the desk. “Tell me, Mr. Boxham, how is it you know Hartforde so well?”
“He has commissioned several works from me, Your Grace, and his lordship is not, as I have discovered, a man to stand on ceremony.” She purposely kept a bantering tone, hoping Mallentrye would be disarmed by it.
“It’s here,” Fordham said.
Please, don’t look at it too closely, Isobel prayed silently.
“Give it to me.” He held out his hand but merely glanced at it before putting it in his pocket. “Mr. Boxham, I find your manner insulting. You have let a small success go to your head. However, I will send you away with some advice. Don’t depend on Hartforde’s patronage; you will find it short-lived, indeed. Now, please be so good as to leave my house.”
“You are too kind, Your Grace,” she said, consoling herself with the thought that the duke was soon to present the King with a highly confidential letter that would prove to be an offer to purchase a racehorse. It would be some time before he gained the King’s ear again.
Isobel did not bother to make her excuses to Faircourt. She went directly to the line of cabs waiting in front of the house and threw a handful of shillings at the first driver, promising him more if he got her to Albemarle Street as quickly as possible. She sagged against the seat, fighting off a nauseating panic. “Please, let him be there,” she said out loud. But he wasn’t there, and, though she waited all night, he did not return.
Chapter 29
I
Isobel waited five miserable days before a letter finally arrived. Tersely worded, it instructed her to go to meet Alexander in Hartfordeshire.
It was still dark when Isobel was roused with difficulty. She ate only a few bites of one of the rolls Bridget had set out. Even more than most mornings, she had no appetite; just the smell of food made her stomach roil. Bridget pressed her to eat more and was rewarded with a killing glance. They had to wait only a few minutes for the arrival of the five men hired to see them along the route north and then they were on their way. Isobel looked askance at the heavily armed men; they had been paid handsomely to see there were guns and shot enough to discourage even the most desperate of highwaymen.
They left well before six in the morning. Though Bridget made a few attempts at conversation, Isobel sat in a corner of the carriage and stared resolutely out the window at the lightening horizon.
The ride north was a miserable bone-jarring journey over muddy rutted roads. Bridget had given up trying to draw her mistress out. They just sat in silence as the minutes slowly passed. They stopped every hour or so to change horses, and more than once Isobel took the opportunity to find a private place to retch. They were able to make good time; by noon they had traveled nearly fifty miles. They stopped twice for meals and both times Bridget had to make sure Isobel ate. Both times Isobel dreaded getting back into the carriage to continue that nauseating rolling and her constant battle with her stomach.
“Just be happy it hasn’t rained or the trip would be nearer two weeks than one,” the driver said as he helped her back in after a stop to change horses.
They traveled quickly, stopping at inns where Isobel got very little sleep during the six nights they spent on the road. On what proved to be their last day out, they stopped for a fourth change of horses, and Isobel was so weak that, this time, she did not have a chance to make it into the small public house. Doubled over at the side of the road, she waved Bridget’s hands away.
She was back in a moment with a tumbler of water. “Here, Lady Hartforde.” Bridget pressed the water on her.
“We can stop here for the day, milady,” the driver said, his voice edged with concern. “We can make the trip to Hartforde Hall tomorrow.”
“Are we close?” She held out her hand and Bridget helped her up.
“Two or three hours.” He shrugged.
“Please, let us go, then. I am sick to death of traveling. I want to be done with it!”
“I doubt you are up to it, Lady Hartforde.”
“Please! I don’t want to spend the night here. I want to sleep in a real bed and eat real food and have a real bath!” She could not keep the wavering note from her voice. I want to see Alexander, to explain to him, she thought.
“Yes, milady,” he said softly. He picked her up and carried her back to the coach. When he put her back inside, she leaned back into the corner of the seat and gave Bridget a wan smile that was meant to be reassuring. As soon as the horses were changed and the men gathered, they left.
Isobel felt her eyes drooping, and though it seemed incredible that she could sleep through any small part of the bouncing, she balled up her wrap and, putting it between her cheek and the side of the carriage, closed her eyes.
II
“Wake up,” someone was saying, while gently shaking her shoulder. “At least move your head! My leg’s asleep.” She was jostled some more and she struggled to sit up. “We’re here.”
“Where?” She looked around, trying to shake off the effects of her exhaustion.
“Hartforde Hall.”
“Oh,” she said, as the door to the carriage was opened, and a footman held up a hand to help her out. “But it’s practically a castle!” she cried when she stepped down. The hall, built of a dull grayish stone, had no fewer than six turrets. Two rose up on either side of the massive front doors, and the other four stood toward each of the four corners. The walls between the towers were crenellated all around, and there were two domes rising up from the middle of both north and south wings, with a third dome in the center. The multi-paned windows at the ground level were narrow but rose until they were even with the top of the front doors. The windows of the first floor were wide, while the rest of the windows were narrower and, like those below them, had not yet been converted to the increasingly popular sashes.
“Not so long ago, it was a matter of necessity to be well protected from the Scots,” the driver said, while Bridget reached into the carriage to get her cloak. It snapped in the breeze when Bridget shook it out before putting it around Isobel’s shoulders. The hedges and lawns were neatly manicured and there was a circular pool with an algae-covered nymph rising up from the center. They were met at the door by the steward, who looked surprised when he saw Isobel.
“You may inform the staff that Lady Hartforde is unable to meet them today but will do so tomorrow morning,” Bridget ordered imperiously. “She shall be having supper at eight tonight. Nothing heavy, just some soup and perhaps some chicken.”
“Is my husband here?” Isobel asked.
“No, my lady. He’s not expected to return from the Continent for several months.”
Chapter 30
In spite of Alexander’s determination that the Continent should cure his wretched condition, he was constantly tortured by the image of Isobel locked in an embrace with the duke of Mallentrye. She had lied to him. The duke had clearly known who she was. Not even Paris could distract him from his misery.
He returned to London in time for the opening of Parliament in October, and although he threw himself into his work, he managed to remain isolated, seldom going out and rarely consenting to see anyone. The only social function he attended was his sister’s wedding, and he made himself scarce even then because Julia insisted on questioning him about Isobel.
He met Angelica Vincent purely by accident one afternoon but he discovered she no longer held even the slightest attraction for him. She was surprised when he left not half an hour after arriving at her apartments. “But, my lord!” she cried out. “Everyone knows you had to marry her!” It unnerved him that she had so easily divined the reason for his leaving and he scowled at her. “It doesn’t mean you can’t be with a woman you do want,” she cajoled.
“I married the woman I want,” he responded, without even thinking.
“Don’t tell me you’re in love with that American?” She stared at him openmouthed. She must have seen the answer on his face, for
she had burst out laughing. “Go on, then, go back to your little wife!”
The first thing Alexander did the next morning was to visit his solicitor to inquire about beginning a proceeding for divorce. But for some reason he never went inside the office.
Chapter 31
As the days passed and her child grew inside her, Isobel became more and more unhappy. It was awkward to sit down and nearly impossible to get up without help. Her ankles would sometimes swell so she could not even walk out to the garden without discomfort. As the weeks passed into months, she was less often nauseated, but still the simple task of washing her teeth made her quite ill. Eating was unpleasant for though she might feel ravenous, after only a few bites her stomach was uncomfortably full. She was beginning to think she was going to be with child for the rest of her life.
She had finally taught herself not to think about Alexander; she half believed she would never see him again. If it wasn’t for her music, she was sure she would go mad. At least what she wrote while she was in Hartfordeshire seemed to have benefited from her melancholy. During her enforced solitude, she had written a third and fourth symphony. They were by far her best works, but she had to wonder if they would ever be performed or whether they were doomed to grace only the inside of her leather case.
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