Rose shook her head firmly. "Miss Isobel’s father made sure that she would never want for aught upon his death. He was a fine gentleman, and that fond of Miss Isobel." She stopped abruptly and frowned, realizing that perhaps she shouldn’t be gossiping with Lord Francis. "If that will be all, sir?"
"Thank you, Rose."
Lord Francis watched as she scurried out of the room and leaned back upon his pillows, reflecting that Miss Paley might be of considerable interest.
Chapter 3
Lord Francis gazed up at Isobel beseechingly, his light hair and gray eyes bright against the white linen of his pillow. "I shall go mad if I must remain cooped up in this bed on the verge of distraction, and my family would be distressed if you return me to them fit only for Bedlam."
Isobel laughed at the piteous voice, the pleading eyes, and the prayerful hands that accompanied this hyperbole. It had been five days that her patient had been cooped up in his bedchamber, and she felt some sympathy for his dilemma.
"Very well, Lord Francis. I have sent for Dr. Alvey, rather than risk my reputation by having it said that my hospitality drove Strancaster’s son into an asylum," she replied with a smile.
"What reputation can you have save that of being a diamond of the very first water?" came the flirtatious reply.
"Lord Francis, your time in the Wars obviously has left you ignorant of all of the town’s on dits. However, you really cannot expect me to gossip about myself."
Rose appeared at that moment to announce the arrival of Dr. Alvey, and Isobel whisked herself out of the room, leaving a fresh scent of lavender lingering on the air behind her. His lordship savored it with a dreamy smile.
Dr. Alvey was soon ushered into Lord Francis’ chamber by Isobel, and, attended anxiously by that gentleman’s valet; the worthy doctor spent some moments in silence observing his patient’s vital signs. When he examined the shoulder, Lord Francis winced, but did not show any signs of extreme pain.
"Hmmmm. Lord Francis, you either heal faster than anyone I have ever met, or your experiences in Spain have taught you to live with pain. Ordinarily, I would require you stay abed for another week. However, it is plain you have the constitution of an ox, and while I suspect that the shoulder is far more painful than you let on, it is obvious that your boredom and restlessness should I confine you to this chamber still longer, might do you more harm than the company of these ladies. Still, you are not to go outside, and you are to do no more than walk quietly downstairs and arrange yourself on a lounge in the sitting room or the library."
Lord Francis’ jubilation at this expansion of his universe could not be mistaken. His handsome face lit up and he smiled wickedly at Isobel.
"Now, you shall have the entertaining of me, ma’am," he said. "Of what do you like to converse, I wonder?"
"Alas, my lord, I fear it is my cousin’s company which you will have the most of," said Isobel a shade repressively. "I am so busy with the business of my estate and preparations for our return to London for the Season that there is but little time for sitting rooms in my day, particularly if the weather is fine. However, if you are a card or a chess player I feel sure that we shall deal extremely in the evenings."
Lord Francis' surprise at this slight snub was briefly evident and then quickly disguised. "I will be pleased with any time you can spare me," he said politely.
Isobel exerted herself to be pleasant that evening when Lord Francis descended to dine with them. She had dressed charmingly, in a white, worked muslin underdress, under a deep blue velvet gown with puffed sleeves. An artless coiffeur of curls threaded with a blue ribbon and a strand of pearls about her neck completed her ensemble. Lord Francis came downstairs wearing pantaloons in a fresh shade of canary, and pumps that shone in the candlelight. His cravat was elegantly tied in the difficult Waterfall style, and overall, as he could not wear a proper coat, he sported a colorful brocaded silk dressing gown. Isobel smiled at his exotic appearance. It was not the usual thing for a young lady to see a gentleman so dishabille, and Lord Francis’ gorgeously woven dressing gown made him look somehow romantic and forbidden, while the black velvet collar set off his fair good looks like a frame. This gentleman was far different from the invalid she had tended to for the past week. Isobel felt her heart thump in her chest, and the slightest blush came to her self-possessed cheeks. Fie, she thought, I have been too long from London when it takes nothing but a personable young man to set me all aflutter.
Lord Francis’ emotions at the sight of Miss Paley were equally pleasurable, and unmarred by a need to castigate himself for enjoying the company of a very pretty woman. Politely, he bowed to Harriet first, before making an exaggerated salute before Isobel.
"Madam, if it brings me the uninterrupted company of one so beautiful, I must straightaway set about becoming more proficient at this business of overturning curricles," he announced. "I shall withdraw my name from the Four Horse Club instantly on my return to London, and set up the Cowhanders, a group of whipsters whose objective shall be to see which member can impose longest on the hospitality of the most beautiful lady. I feel sure that I have already won this competition, for I have now spent a week in the house of the most beautiful woman in England. The privilege of driving to Richmond once a month in a blue and yellow striped waistcoat simply cannot compare."
Isobel laughed. "Lord Francis, do not be so absurd, I beg you. ‘Tis no doubt your long years in Spain that have put your eye for beauty out. I assure you that you will see young ladies far more beautiful than I to take your fancy during the Season."
"But none who have saved my life, and nursed me back to health and fitness," he pointed out.
"La, sir," interjected Harriet, "you have the right of it. I am sure you could not find another lady of fashion in the country better versed in physicking or more capable of ensuring that you leave here with nothing but an ill memory to remind you of your accident. Ever since she was a little girl Isobel would be in the stillroom, and asking so many questions. Why I remember how her dear mother would be half distracted, trying to teach her to sew, and she would escape. And then when she began to study..."
Isobel felt that this line of conversation was coming perilously close to disclosing her less acceptable scholarly attainments, so she promptly fell into a coughing fit. When she had subsided, Francis turned to her with a smile.
"Dr. Alvey has said that I may entertain myself quietly. I must admit that I am eager to explore your library, which has provided me with so many excellent books. Would you have any objection to my making free of it?"
"I can see no harm in your wandering about the house at your will, and enjoying the run of my library, so long as you do nothing which will disturb your ribs or collarbone. And if reading gives you the headache, you will tell me immediately, for it may be a sign that the head injury does not heal so well as I had thought," said Isobel. "My father had a fine scholar’s taste and amply furnished his shelves with works from the classics, as well as more modern philosophers, and as my brother does not care much for reading, I have those in my possession. However, you will find that the ladies have purchased quite a number of more entertaining volumes. I myself have been reading some of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works. They are very amusing, I assure you. If Kitswold were not such a thoroughly modern and comfortable house, I should certainly go to bed each night shivering between the sheets with fear that a loyal retainer might suddenly turn out to be an ancient enemy of my family with thoughts of revenge, or that a wall might creak open in the darkness to reveal..." her voice dropped thrillingly, but Harriet burst in.
"How ridiculous you are Isobel, my dear. I am sure that if you have abused me once it has been a dozen times for my silliness in reading such things. A very pretty picture of yourself you will be giving Lord Francis. Why I never see you reading anything but those..."
Isobel interrupted Harriet again, heaving a mental sigh at her cousin’s naive candor.
"Yes, yes, dear Cousin, you are correct. It is the works of
Miss Austen rather than Mrs. Radcliffe to which I am most partial. I admit to finding some of the gothic tales rather foolish. But I am not so serious that I truly find fault with others who wish to read them. And indeed there are works of fiction in the library such as Tristram Shandy and those of Mr. Defoe which are quite unexceptionable. I hope that Lord Francis will find what he needs to alleviate the burden of dullness which late winter in the country sets upon even those of us who have the full use of our limbs."
With this, the conversation turned to other, less dangerous topics and Isobel heaved an inward sigh of relief as she conversed of music and gossip. Though long away from the social whirl of London, Lord Francis was of course very well connected, and was interested in hearing of the doings of friends whom he looked forward to seeing for the first time in several years.
They proceeded in to dinner shortly thereafter, and Isobel had the opportunity, not common in the country, of enjoying the company of a delightful young man at dinner. Harriet and she dined informally at Kitswold, and since, as an unmarried female, she would not be inviting the county to her home regularly, the gleaming table was small, though decorated with an assortment of the Paley family plate. His lordship was merry, yet sensible, and was able to converse on a variety of topics of interest with Isobel, while Harriet ate nearly silently, only interjecting a few of her longer meanderings when talk turned to Lord Francis’ plans to return to town.
"Oh, I hope that you will wait on us there. Isobel has the prettiest town house in Clarges Street. We will be removing there for the Season quite soon, when the roads become just a little better. ‘T’is trying enough to make a two day journey to London when the roads are good, never mind the three or four days it could be at this time of year. But dear Isobel must go early, for she must visit Lackington’s book shop and the modistes and milliners."
"The outcome of her visiting is so charming, Miss Harriet, that I must assume that Miss Paley spends far more time at the modistes than at Lackington’s," returned Lord Francis, glancing laughingly at Isobel.
Since the reverse was the truth, Isobel could only smile pleasantly, a look that Lord Francis misinterpreted to be encouragement of his flirtatiousness. His expectations of social discourse between women and men were rather limited. Despite a slight suspicion that Isobel might be different than most ladies of his acquaintance, his experience had taught him that women were primarily interested in fashion and compliments rather than rational conversation.
"Indeed, Miss Paley, you present so lovely a picture, that I daresay you have all of London at your feet. Do you perhaps have room there for one more admirer?" he asked in a languid tone.
Isobel shot a quick glance at him, perturbed. She wondered at what could have caused the sudden transformation of her charming dinner companion into a drawling Corinthian, quizzing glass at the ready.
"Pray, do not be nonsensical, sir," she said.
"This is not nonsense at all, but honest admiration," he announced. "One cannot help but pay homage to a lady as lovely as you, Miss Paley."
Isobel shook her head, unwilling to disabuse her guest of his evident belief that she wished to be flattered.
"You will have many opportunities to pay homage to numerous woman this Season. Pray, do not wear yourself out now," she said a trifle tartly.
"One could never weary of your beauty, ma'am," responded Lord Francis.
Isobel gave up her attempts to divert Lord Francis, and resigned herself to an evening of listening to him rattle on in a highly complementary vein. She had to admit to herself, however, that she felt a small pang of regret that the sensible, pleasant companion of earlier in the evening had been replaced by a handsome fribble.
Chapter 4
The next morning the pigeons came home to roost. Isobel, accustomed to spending the morning hours toiling over her scholarly works once her daily interview with the housekeeper was completed, was finishing the fair copy of her second paper of the year. Completion of this work was critical to her, as she felt that it must be done before she could travel to London for the Season. Most of her library of historical references was kept at Kitswold, and she wished urgently to be able to submit two papers that year to the Royal Academy instead of her usual one. Her library was known to the servants and to her cousin to be her inviolable refuge during the morning hours, and none of them would interrupt her between the hours of nine and noon unless a dire emergency occurred. Isobel repaired thence that day as all others to work, thankful for the continuing rain that made working more enticing than a turn in the garden or a ride on her horse.
Therefore, she started violently and created a large blot on the page she was industriously copying when the door opened, shut loudly, and a whistle was heard in the library.
"The devil," muttered Isobel under her breath, the most unladylike expression on her face matching her highly improper words. She snatched at the papers scattered about her desk, nearly tipping over the inkwell in her haste to hide the evidence of her activities, and then stepped on the flounce of her gown as she leaped to steady it. A slight ripping noise alerted her to this fresh disaster, and she dropped the papers to examine the damage. Thus, she had a very difficult time greeting Lord Francis with a pleasant smile as he came around the corner of the shelves that hid the alcove in which Isobel’s secretary stood. His lordship stopped in his tracks, his surprise at her presence evident.
"Good morning, Miss Paley," he said, bowing politely.
"Lord Francis," responded Isobel. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, equally at a loss for words.
"What a handsome piece of furniture," said Lord Francis, finally, indicating her desk. "I believe I detect the hand of Hepplewhite. There is a grace and lightness to his work that I find sadly lacking in so many of today’s craftsmen. And of course, it is far more lovely than the current, and to my mind, lamentable fashion for the Egyptian style. Such a piece of furniture is highly appropriate for a gentleman’s library."
Isobel wondered about a lady’s library, and couldn’t quite prevent her annoyance from showing. "Thank you, Lord Francis," she said. "It belonged to my father, and therefore you can be sure that he employed it as it should be; I have no doubt that my use of it is inferior."
There was another moment of silence as Lord Francis absorbed this statement, and then his eye dropped to the papers on the desk, most of which Isobel now clutched. Unfortunately, the title page remained on the open writing surface.
"'On the contents of a Roman fortification near Ballydendargan, Scotland: An inquiry into the nature of the campaigns of Hadrian,'" pronounced Lord Francis. "Upon my word, madam, this is heavy work for the forenoon. How does such a charming lady come to be troubling herself with such nonsense? Surely, there are fashion plates to be examined as you prepare for the Season, which must make a much better activity for such rainy morning as this."
Isobel bit her tongue this time, and counted to five mentally before taking a deep breath.
"I make fair copies for my cousin, Alexander Paley," she replied. "He is very much interested in the archaics of Scotland, but has no income to pay for a clerk to copy his manuscripts, and no patience to do it himself. We have been close ever since childhood and I do this small favor for him over the winter of preparing his papers for submission to the Royal Academy. Although I am a lady of fashion, my life is not wholly given up to frivolity, sir." She spoke rather tartly, and Lord Francis’ sleepy eyes opened wide.
"My apologies, ma’am" he said blandly. "I had no intention of insulting you. "’T’is merely an unusual topic for just after breakfast. I am sure that your cousin and the Society of Antiquaries are both very grateful for your assistance." His face returned to its customary good humor, and she failed to notice the spark of curiosity lurking in the depths of his eyes.
"I hope they are. It is tedious work on occasion, but I find the information of interest. The Romans were fine builders you know, as well as--" She hesitated, and reined in her enthusiasm before continuing
in a more languid tone. "As well as providing us with inspiration for some of the sillier fashions of the last few years. I believe that the work I do with my cousin has led me to a greater appreciation of the fashionable in clothing and furnishings in this classical era. For example, another cousin, Lady Grosbridge, has recently had built a charming folly at her summer home in Kent. The work I have done with Mr. Paley allowed me to assist her and her architect in identifying suitable models in antiquity for her folly and grotto. However, I must suspend my thinking when I look at a Roman sandal, or a Grecian gown." She laughed rather stiltedly and swept up the papers.
Lord Francis had been knitting his brow while she talked. "Alexander Paley, your cousin," he said, thoughtfully. "Surely you do not mean the Alexander Paley of Balliol College? I was at Oxford with him, but I thought that he was a scholar of Grecian antiquities, not of the Roman period in Britain."
Isobel wished his lordship at the devil for the second time in as many minutes, but replied, "I believe that his primary body of work has involved Grecian antiquities. However, he has also made some researches in this area, with which I enjoy assisting him, so that it will not distract him too greatly from his principal focus." She paused. "Are you well acquainted with my cousin, Lord Francis?" she asked, attempting to keep her tone light.
"Lord no, I haven’t seen him these seven years, I suppose. But we did kick up a few larks together during our undergraduate days. I recall--" His lordship paused, the guilty look on his face clearly indicating that his memories were quite unsuitable for discussion with ladies. "I recall any number of afternoons spent swotting in the library," he finished lamely.
Isobel had perforce to laugh at this. "Liar," she commented without heat. "I really must be getting on with my preparations for our removal to London. My cousin’s work will have to wait for another day," she added dismissively.
The Secret Bluestocking: Isobel's Traditional Regency Romance Page 3
