Isabel: A Regency Romance

by Keyes, Martha

  He debated where to take her. His lodgings were closest by a matter of minutes, and he felt a great deal of urgency—Isabel needed to be seen to by a doctor without delay. Every minute counted.

  But to take her to his own lodgings would be to court gossip, to endanger her reputation.

  His jaw clenched. It was all so ridiculous—endangering her very life in order to save her reputation?

  What were such considerations when she was lying unconscious in front of him? Besides, how could he entrust Isabel to her father's care when it was clear that her well-being was hardly a concern to him?

  It was Charles's fault that any of this mayhem had happened, and he had to ensure Isabel received the care she required, that everything was set right. It was his responsibility.

  But he couldn't sacrifice her reputation if there was any way to avoid it. He bit his lip, wishing he were able to call on his mother.

  A wry smile appeared on his face in the dark of the carriage. She would have liked Isabel. Certainly it wouldn't have taken Charles so long to come to his senses if he'd had his mother’s wise and guiding influence in his life.

  He sighed. If nothing else, he could have Isabel's maid sent for—someone who could vouch for the absolute exigency of the situation while safeguarding her mistress against scandal. Between the maid and his own housekeeper, he had to believe it would be enough. There was no time to do anything more.

  "To the house," he said curtly, noting the chaos that had begun around them, with people arriving on the scene and others leaving.

  The coachman nodded, shut the door, and had the horses put to in a matter of seconds.

  The coach ambled along the dirty streets, and Charles worked to still his ragged breathing. He cleared his throat, suppressing the urge to cough which the smoke caused.

  It was dark within the coach, and he could hardly see Isabel's features even though her face was right before him. He put a hand under her nose to check for breathing and realized that his hand was trembling. He clenched it. Now that the adrenaline of the fire was dissipating, he was left with his thoughts and emotions.

  That Farrow was responsible for it all, Charles had no doubt. Only a man who stood to lose as much as Farrow did could do something so entirely reckless. What if the fire spread further than the church? He had done his level best to kill Isabel, and he may well have succeeded in killing many more if Charles had not gone after Isabel—if Miss Holledge’s tongue had not slipped.

  His heart raced, and he felt his brow sweating again. He took slow, deep breaths to steady his anger, knowing that underneath it lay fear.

  He stared down at Isabel again, his lips forming a tight line at the sight of her, unconscious. If she had sustained any lasting harm or if, heaven forbid, the heat and smoke inhalation proved fatal, he would never forgive himself.

  He brushed away a hair which stuck to her damp forehead, and his eyes softened. What if he never had the chance to tell her how he felt? To apologize for how stupid he had been not to recognize it sooner, fool that he was. He swallowed and closed his eyes, laying his head back.

  It was only a matter of minutes before the coach stopped altogether in front of Charles's lodgings.

  With the coachman’s help, he transported Isabel's body inside, placing her on his own bed. Noting her still-flushed cheeks, he removed her pelisse as gently as possible and propped her head up with a pillow, letting his hand trail from her disheveled hair and down her cheek.

  The coachman cleared his throat, and Charles turned, hurrying to ring the bell as he instructed his stone-faced coachman to have the doctor sent for immediately.

  Once the coachman was gone, he sat on the edge of the bed, watching the rise and fall which evidenced Isabel's steady breathing.

  A knock soon sounded on the door, and the maid entered. He gave her swift instructions, and she left as soon as she had come, only to return in a matter of minutes. She carried a basin of water, a towel, and a blue vinaigrette.

  “I have sent a footman round to the Cosgrove residence, requesting that the miss’s maid be sent here immediately.”

  Charles thanked her and took the towel from her hands, dipping it in the water and wiping it across Isabel's forehead.

  "Isabel," he said softly. "Isabel, can you hear me?"

  There was no movement.

  He motioned to the maid, and she handed him the smelling salts. He took the blue glass vinaigrette from her and waved it lightly under Isabel's nose.

  Isabel's eyelids fluttered, and her shoulders came up as she took a deep breath and went immediately into a fit of coughing.

  Charles quickly set the vinaigrette on the bedside table so that he could support her, scooting closer and wrapping an arm around her back as she coughed violently into her hand.

  The fit went on for what felt like an eternity to Charles, though it could only have been a couple of minutes. He noted the maid looking on with round eyes and felt impatient with her worry because it increased his own anxiety.

  He had no idea how long Isabel had been at the church or how much smoke she must have inhaled before his arrival.

  When the coughing finally subsided, Charles guided Isabel back down to a lying position and instructed the maid to have some broth brought up. He dipped the towel in the water again, wiping it gently over Isabel's forehead.

  Her eyes opened slowly. They were bloodshot, and the previous warmth of her skin at the church had been replaced by a pallor which worried Charles more than the earlier flush had.

  He saw her brows knit in confusion.

  "You are safe," he said, smiling down at her with tenderness.

  Her eyes began to widen, watering, and she whispered, "No, no." She turned her head away and brought her hand up to wipe at a tear, wincing. "I cannot bear it."

  He blinked slowly, unsure what to make of her reaction. "What is it?" He took her hand in his and felt it jolt.

  A knock sounded on the door, and he stood, hesitating as he looked down at Isabel. Her head was turned away, but she was still. A tear streamed down her face, and she wore a look of defeat.

  "You should not have come," she said softly.

  28

  Isabel listened as Charles spoke in low tones with the doctor. She had no idea what time it was—she only knew that it was dark outside and that her chest and throat burned whenever she breathed. Another tear pooled in her eye, and she tried to blink it away.

  She didn't know where she was nor how she had come to be there, but that Charles was there was enough to make her heart and mind feel weighted with lead.

  The only way he could have interfered in her plan was through Mary's tampering—confound her well-meaning stratagems. How Isabel could make an escape for Aunt Eliza's with a loud, debilitating cough and limbs that felt so weak as to be almost useless was beyond her ability to think through.

  Would Farrow be looking for her? Or had Charles encountered him when he arrived at the Church? She felt the hairs on her arms stand on end.

  Too many questions and troubling thoughts buzzed around in the fog of her mind. Which problem needed to be addressed first? In Charles’s company and with his voice sounding in her ears, she found it hard to focus on anything but him.

  No doubt his conscience was hanging over him like a dark storm cloud.

  She breathed deeply in an effort to calm her anxiety but doubled over in a fit of hacking.

  When she emerged, she felt Charles's steadying hand on her back and saw the doctor peering over at her. She avoided Charles's eyes, lying back as the blood from the exertion of coughing drained from her face.

  The doctor asked to listen to her heartbeat and her breathing, and Charles politely turned away during the short exam. Isabel tried to breathe in deeply, knowing that to truly do so would result in yet another fit. The doctor pursed his lips as he listened, saying, "You seem to have inhaled a great amount of smoke, but I believe a couple of days in bed and a cupping or two should have you feeling much better."

  I
sabel agreed to the doctor's words with a polite nod. "May we delay the cupping until tomorrow?" she asked. "I am feeling quite fatigued at the moment." She had a great dislike of doctors and even more so of the practice of cupping, but she knew that if she could but delay it, she would be gone by the time the doctor returned to perform the deed.

  The doctor looked less than pleased. "It would be much better to do it now when you are in greatest danger of succumbing to your injuries."

  Isabel took her top lip under her teeth, wondering how to refuse the doctor without seeming obstinate or ungrateful.

  "Thank you, good doctor," Charles interrupted with a note of finality, "but we will wait until tomorrow all the same." The doctor looked to be offended, and Charles added, "Your services are indispensable, and we rely on your continued care."

  The doctor looked slightly mollified and instructed a diet of gruel for the next day before taking his leave.

  Isabel's eyes flitted over to Charles, keenly aware that they would be alone.

  He shut the door behind the doctor and turned back toward her with a fist covering his mouth. His fist came away, revealing a frown underneath.

  "We will decidedly not rely on him for your continued care. The man must cup a score of people every day," he said, shaking his head and approaching the bed. "I sometimes wonder if he truly knows any other treatment."

  Isabel heaved a sigh, smiling weakly. "Thank you for intervening. I have the greatest fear of being cupped. I had the treatment as a child and became violently ill for days afterward."

  He sat down near the foot of the bed, looking at her with a creased forehead. "How are you feeling, Isabel?"

  She swallowed at his use of her name. Now that their pretended courting was at an end, it made more sense to address one another formally. His use of her given name was an unwelcome reminder of what could never be.

  "I shall be well enough," she said, "if I can manage to sleep without constant fits of coughing." Even as she said the words, another fit came on, leaving her breathless and red-faced.

  The concern on Charles's face was evident—his mouth in a tight line, his black brows drawn together, and his jaw set. "Perhaps some laudanum might help?"

  "Thank you, but no," she said with a grateful smile. The thought of deep sleep uninterrupted by coughing or by restless dreams was enticing. But she needed her wits about her if she was to start on her way to Colchester. She had already missed the Mail, but she might well be able to find a hackney to take her to some inn just outside London—anywhere away from Charles—from his ability to stop her. To stay where she was would be to risk losing the opportunity to leave altogether. Where was she, anyway?

  “Mr. Galbraith?” She paused, looking around the room. "Am I at your lodgings?"

  A look of displeasure crossed his face. "Yes, you are at my lodgings," he said shortly. "Am I reduced then to 'Mr. Galbraith?'"

  She colored up as his eyes rested on her. She didn't wish to seem ungrateful.

  "Not reduced, surely." She felt suddenly tongue-tied.

  He said nothing, and she felt obliged to explain. "It is only that, since we are no longer required to pretend the level of familiarity we had assumed for a time, it seems proper to return to a more formal address." She swallowed uncomfortably, noting the large lump in her throat as she said the words aloud.

  "I see," he said, his irritation still visible. "Well, I am sure, Miss Cosgrove—" he said her name deliberately "—that you wish to be left alone. Please know that you need only pull the bell, and a servant or myself will be here in naught but a moment." He bowed with more stiffness than usual and turned to leave.

  It was unbearable to feel his displeasure, and Isabel couldn't help but call out to him, saying, "Charles, wait."

  He turned toward her, his brows no longer clenched together.

  Her mouth hung open as she tried to think what to say to him. She swallowed the persistent lump in her throat. "Was it you who saved me?" Her voice was quiet.

  Charles gave only the slightest, most reluctant of nods.

  Isabel took her lips between her teeth, and she felt her eyes burn. He had no doubt risked his own life to save hers. "Thank you," she said with a slight crack in her voice.

  His shoulders relaxed, and his hand dropped from the door handle.

  "I can only assume," she said, "that if it weren't for you, I should not be alive."

  He stiffened slightly and closed his eyes for a moment.

  She looked down at her hands, noting the red skin on her wrists from the ropes, reminding her of all that had happened. Her head came up quickly as she thought of all the questions she should have been asking. "What of Mr. Safford and the church?"

  "I believe the rector was safely engaged in other parish matters all evening—his coach left Mr. Ellis’s next door just as ours arrived.” Charles grimaced. “As for the church, I don't know. I sincerely hope that they were in time to control it before it entered the building or moved to the nearby houses. I’m afraid there must be much damage."

  Isabel nodded, hoping he was right. She shivered. "What of Mr. Farrow? Did you see him?” She tensed. “Did he follow us?" How had she not considered that possibility before?

  Charles's brow grew black. The veins in his neck protruded, and Isabel watched his hands ball into white-knuckled fists as he stared at the wall. "No, he did not follow us. If I had caught sight of him, I assure you that he would not have been alive to run like the coward he is." He looked to her, the anger still written across his face. "Are you raving mad? Why did you not tell me you had threatened him?"

  She swallowed, knowing that this conversation had been inevitable. But what right did he have to lecture her? He didn't need to protect her. She lifted her chin. "Mary talks far too much for her own good."

  "And thank heaven she does," he said with a bite to his voice. "It is to her you owe your life, for I should never have known where to find you if not for her.” His jaw shifted. “I never thought that I would come to trust Miss Holledge's confidences and mistrust you."

  Isabel's eyes stung.

  His voice grew thick, and she saw betrayal and anger in his eyes. "Why would you lie to me about your sister and Lord Brockway?"

  Her lip trembled, and she clenched her jaw and shut her eyes to ward off the emotion. How could she explain it all to him without betraying her feelings for him? She suddenly felt tired of it all. Of the pretending. Of the feelings. "Oh, what does it matter?"

  "It matters a great deal," he said, running a hand through his hair and walking toward her. His expression softened. "I told you that I wouldn't let ill come to you as a result of my folly. I meant it." He took her hand in his and knelt beside the bed. "I promised your father I would marry you. I am a man of my word, Isabel."

  She put a fist in front of her mouth, stifling a frustrated scream. Again, he offered to sacrifice himself and his future with Miss Darling—all to save her. Out of pity, out of honor. Whatever it was, she didn't know if she could bear his martyrdom another second. "I don't want your word. I don't want to marry you. Please," she said, closing her eyes as a quick breath escaped her. "Just let me go."

  He blinked quickly, an injured look in his eyes, and released her hand. He rose to his feet stiffly, inclined his head slowly, and then turned on his heel.

  The sound of the gentle closing of the door was followed by a few moments of silence.

  Isabel sat motionless, her eyes staring at the drawn curtains on the window opposite her bed. Tears slowly began to course down her cheeks, and her eyes burned as the salt and smoke in her eyes combined.

  29

  Anaïs arrived shortly after Charles’s departure, all concern and shock at the sight of Isabel. She and Mrs. Crewe, Charles’s very matronly housekeeper, had attended to Isabel’s needs for close to an hour.

  But they had since left her to rest, Anaïs installing herself on the floor of the adjacent sitting room where Isabel hoped fervently that she was sleeping soundly, and Mrs. Crewe reassuring
Isabel that the lightest tug on the bell would bring her to the room.

  While Isabel had been grateful for Charles’s forethought and propriety in sending for Anaïs, it was a wasted effort in the end. Isabel had little need of her reputation any more.

  Despite that, it made her cringe to think of the tales Anaïs would bear when she returned to the Cosgrove house the next day.

  Isabel had been surprised when, upon questioning the maid about what story she had given for her sudden and urgent departure, Anaïs had assured her that she had pleaded a family emergency. It was uncharacteristically loyal of her, and it granted Isabel the extra hours she needed.

  It took time for Isabel to gather the physical strength to stand. She waited until all the sounds of the house had stopped. She had barely the energy to walk, but it didn't matter. She had to find energy, to generate it from sheer willpower if necessary.

  The maid lay in the adjacent sitting room, and Isabel fervently hoped that Anaïs was a sound sleeper.

  Her lungs burned with each breath, and she had to stop to cough into a pillow more than once. Her pelisse lay on the chair next to the bed, a fact which led her to close her eyes in a silent prayer of gratitude.

  She had put her money in the pocket Anaïs had sewn into her pelisse rather than in the portmanteau, which was nowhere to be seen. It would be a burden to earn the money for the clothing the portmanteau had contained, but she hadn't any other option.

  She looked around the room, wondering if there was anything of use to take with her. She opened a door that led off from the bedroom, relieved when it proved to be a dressing room. A clothes press stood up against the wall opposite the door, and she stifled a cough in the crook of her elbow as she opened it and scanned its contents. Cravats and shirts were folded neatly inside, and Isabel drew back slightly. Had Charles placed her in his own quarters, then? But where, then, was he sleeping?