Isobel had read the first few paragraphs and reluctantly felt the anger toward Drew melting away. Drat him! He would have to ruin it with the barely veiled biblical threat. And the postscript! The real Isobel indeed.
Her missive back to him had been much shorter.
Lord Saybrooke,
Though it pains me to employ your methods, I feel compelled to mimic you and quote scripture to my own end.
“Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.” Excerpt from the Gospel according to Luke, the 7th chapter and 34th verse.
Sincerely,
Miss Isobel Kennilworth, spinster
Ps: I had not realized that there is a counterfeit Isobel Kennilworth prowling the streets of London. Please give her my regards if you chance to meet her again.
Pps: The Wedgewood is merely short one teacup.
Saybrooke’s return communication was even shorter.
My esteemed Miss Kennilworth,
You have not said if I am forgiven.
Waiting expectantly,
Saybrooke
Isobel’s attention returned to the single letter that rested on the tray. She noticed Renfrew hovering, watching her with ill-concealed interest. She dismissed him and he left grudgingly, but obediently. Isobel could not suppress a smile as she reached for the solitary envelope that lay on the tray by her elbow, thinking of her final message to Saybrooke.
Saybrooke,
Nor have you.
I. Kennilworth
Isobel fingered the fine vellum as she looked at the exquisite writing. It was not from Drew, but Henrietta Fotheringay, Lady Mercer, who had not been in town of late due to the recent birth of her second child. Isobel took the silver letter opener and slit open the letter. Lady Whitcomb looked up from the newspaper and, noticing the letter, beamed.
“Isobel, darling, did you receive correspondence?” Lady Whitcomb asked full of anticipation. “It is not another nasty letter from Imogen, is it?”
“No, Aunt Maude. I believe my sister-in-law said everything she needed to say in the last one.”
“It is hateful, Isobel, your own brother banning you from your home! If it was not for you and your sacrificial marriage to Warwick, he would not have a home!” Aunt Maude was appalled.
“Oh, I doubt Geoffrey has a say in the matter. If it were up to him, he would let me come and go as I pleased. He would never notice me, but he would allow me to come. He cares only for The Glen, which understandably rankles with Imogen. Frankly, I am grateful that he has not squandered the money I secured by marrying Reginald, but put it into improving the land. No, this is Imogen’s doing. A sister-in-law embroiled in scandal will seriously affect her consequence.” Isobel allowed herself a sardonic smile at the social climbing aspirations of her sister-in-law.
“Her consequence, bah!” snorted Lady Whitcomb with contempt.
Isobel smiled and began to read her letter. Impatient to know who it was from, Lady Whitcomb spoke again. “Oh, is it just another impertinent note from Saybrooke?”
“No, Aunt, it is not from Saybrooke,” answered Isobel, a different sort of smile creeping over her impassive face. She gave her inquisitive aunt an abbreviated version of the letter. “It is from Henrietta, Lady Mercer. She gave birth to her second son, whom she has dubbed “the spare” a few months ago, and Lord Mercer has forbidden her to come to London. All of this, of course, I knew. She, however, is bored to tears. Henrietta, being Henrietta, has decided to bring London to her in Hertfordshire. She has invited me to a house party.”
“Does she know of your… situation?”
“Indeed she does. Listen to this,” said Isobel, her smile widening to a grin. “Though, I warn you, Henrietta writes as she speaks, with an overabundance of exclamation marks.” Isobel held up the letter, searched for the proper spot and began to read.
While “the spare” is a darling boy, I confess to a bout of ennui, abandoned as I am out here in the country. And since I am cut off from all manner of gaiety, Mercer has promised me a house party! I had not thought to invite you, due to Warwick’s recent death, until I heard the news from London! And what news! My dearest Isobel! What infamy! I knew Warwick was mean-spirited, but this! My dear, having heard the news, I was frantic to do something to help you. Though Mercer is dreadfully averse to anything that smacks of scandal, I used my feminine wiles and convinced him to include you. And so you shall come and once all is said and done, you will begin anew as the much sought after Miss Isobel Kennilworth!
“Oh, Isobel! This is just the thing! You will go with head held high and will show to the world that you are well and happy. Shortly the invitations will be streaming in again. You will be accepted back into the bosom of Polite Society! God bless Lady Mercer.”
“I thought you cared nothing for the opinion of the ton.”
“For myself, I do not. But, you are still young, my dear. And so lovely. You can still marry and find happiness.” Lady Whitcomb smiled and sighed wistfully.
“Dear Aunt Maude, after all you have been through with your despicable Lord Whitcomb and what Warwick has done to me, you still can place the hope for my happiness in marriage?”
Lady Whitcomb shrugged. “Marry for love this time, Isobel, and all will be well.”
Isobel looked at her in astonishment. “What of your new found enlightenment from the work of Mary Wollstonecraft?”
“She found love, she married.” Lady Whitcomb said in a slightly defensive tone. “To be an independent woman, one need not give up on love. I have always dreamed of a union where one could be oneself, without pretense, and still be loved and esteemed by one’s mate. Just think of it, Isobel. A true partnership based on love and mutual respect!”
A very unladylike snort was Isobel’s only response. Lady Whitcomb felt it would be best to change the subject.
“So, when do you leave for Hertfordshire? And for how long will you be gone?”
“The house party is to last a week and begins in three days’ time. Henrietta, however, has requested that I come the day before so that I can properly make a fuss over ‘the Spare’ and ‘lay bare my soul’. Those are her words. She also hopes I will be able to stay on for a few days at the end.”
“Will there be a large crowd? I know Adelphi can house a multitude of people.”
“Henrietta did not say, but I think the group will be quite large. There is to be a ball at weeks end.”
“A ball! How wonderful!” sighed Lady Whitcomb dreamily.
Isobel looked at her aunt’s wistful expression and felt a pang of guilt.
“And what of you, Aunt Maude? Would you care to come? I know our life has been quite flat since we have moved to Bloomsbury. If I were to write to Henrietta and ask if you could join us…” began Isobel.
“Nonsense. I am quite content here. I have to work on my article and I have a few invitations to tea.”
“So, your old cronies have not forsaken you?”
Lady Whitcomb laughed as she said, “Well, they are willing to overlook my proximity to scandal in order to be the recipients of a first-hand account replete with all the salacious details.”
Isobel smiled ruefully and rose from the table, taking up the letter. “I must consult with Manning about what to bring. You are sure you will be alright here alone?”
“Alone? There is a house full of servants to keep me company. Mrs. Riggs, Mrs. Kitchen, and I have been playing Whist at night…for penny stakes of course. Mrs. Kitchen is on a winning streak and I must stay and win back my money.”
Isobel laughed and pretended to be shocked. “Gambling? In my own home? And with the servants. I am mortified.” She went to her aunt and put her hand on the older woman’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.
Lady Whitcomb reached up and placed her hand on her niece’s. “I do hope you have a wonderful time, Isobel. You deserve some happiness.”
Isobel gave her aunt a shaky smile. “Thank you, Aunt Maude. I inten
d to enjoy myself.”
Lady Whitcomb returned Isobel’s tentative smile with a broad grin and patted her hand. “I’m sure you will, my dear.”
Lady Whitcomb watched the lithe figure of her niece as she exited the dining room, her eyes full of concern.
CHAPTER 4
“Good heavens, Wilkes! We are only going for a week,” cried Lord Saybrooke as he watched the carriage being loaded.
“Yes, my Lord, but there will be shooting and riding and a ball as well. And there are the linens and…” began the beleaguered valet.
“Linens? Why on earth would we bring linens?” interrupted Saybrooke. “You do not think they have linens where we are going? We may be venturing into the country, but I daresay they have sheets and towels!”
“I just thought that your lordship would be more comfortable…”
“Never mind, Wilkes. I am sure you have the right of it. I’m just not used to all this fussing. Well, you get on with it. I think I will toddle off. I need to make a brief stop and I shall leave straight from there. I will see you when you arrive.”
“Are you sure you will not ride in the carriage, My Lord. It takes several hours to get to Hertfordshire,” said his valet with concern. Saybrooke would have been touched, except that he knew Wilkes’ concern was not for his person, but his appearance.
“Ezekiel and I are looking forward to the ride, Wilkes. The poor steed cannot get his fidgets out prancing about in Hyde Park. He needs a good gallop.” Saybrooke rubbed Ezekiel’s velvet nose as he spoke. “You go on with the coach. We shall be fine.”
“Very good, my lord,” Wilkes said, grateful that he could now do his job unhindered. His lordship had a lot to learn about his place in the world. Wilkes sighed, knowing that he would be the one who would need to teach him.
Lord Saybrooke mounted his chestnut gelding, Ezekiel, and headed for Bloomsbury.
Saybrooke had not answered Isobel’s last missive, simply because he did not know the answer. Forgiveness was such a tricky business. One could forgive with all sincerity one moment and then be overcome by feelings of anger and ill-use the next.
Having made several unsuccessful attempts at writing to Isobel to express the capricious nature of his emotions, he decided to see her in person and hope that her allure might give him the words he needed to make amends.
Renfrew answered the door and admitted Lord Saybrooke with a very unbutler-like grin. He was the first caller since Miss Kennilworth had moved in and, to be truthful, there had been very few callers at all during the Duke’s residency as well. His grin quickly faded as he remembered that Miss Kennilworth was not in town and Lady Whitcomb was working and not receiving visitors. He relayed this information to the handsome Lord.
“Out of town? Where on earth could she have gone?” wondered Saybrooke out loud.
“That is not for me to say, my lord,” answered Renfrew, quite properly.
“And you are certain that Lady Whitcomb cannot be disturbed. I would only trouble her for a moment.”
“I’m sorry, my lord, but she made it quite clear that we should not disturb her for any reason. She’s mighty worked up about that Bluestocking article she’s writing. Not going well, I take it.” Renfrew informed him, not so properly.
Frustrated, Saybrooke admitted defeat and left. Drat! Where could she have gone? He needed to talk to her. And now he had to leave for this ridiculous house party in the wilds of Hertfordshire. Why had he allowed Mercer to talk him into attending? He knew why. And it wasn’t just that Mercer had played on Saybrooke’s kindheartedness, lamenting about his poor, lonely wife and her need for society. It was his, Lord Saybrooke’s, mother. She had made him promise to participate in the season and look for a wife. But when Saybrooke thought of a wife, he could only picture Isobel and of course that would never do. He knew for certain that when his mother urged him to find a wife that Isobel Kennilworth would be among the last women she would choose for him. Why was it she seemed to be the only woman he wanted?
It began to rain lightly and the dampness suited Lord Saybrooke’s mood. His mother’s parting words echoed in his ears. “Make the most of this opportunity, Andrew. You may well find your future wife at Adelphi. House parties are infinitely better than balls and routs for throwing two people together. I heard that the Hyde-Price chit will be there. She is worth twenty thousand pounds.” He laughed out loud and without any humor. He continued on his way, becoming increasingly wet and out of sorts. But he persevered for it was too late to back out now. A house party would be a slow form of torture for Andrew Stafford, but as Lord Saybrooke it was his duty to attend as promised. Once outside the congested streets of London, Saybrooke gave Ezekiel a little kick and galloped off to his fate.
*****
“He is a sweet baby, Henrietta,” Isobel told her friend as she observed the sleeping baby in her arms.
“For the present,” Henrietta answered, watching her older son, Giles, knock down a block castle that his nurse had painstakingly built. He let out an ear-splitting screech of delight.
Isobel smiled. “Giles is sweet, too.”
“Sweet? He is a little savage,” said his mother, her smile and fond tone belying her words.
Giles confirmed his mother’s pronouncement by throwing the blocks wildly about the room.
“Come now, admit it. You are smitten with the adorable child.” Isobel laughed as she watched the toddler’s gleeful rampage.
“Of course I am. But that does not make him any less the savage. An adorable savage, but a savage nonetheless.”
Giles began to stomp on the remaining bricks, scattering them about the nursery floor, all the while screaming, “I winned! I winned!”
Henrietta took “the Spare” from Isobel and kissed his chubby little cheeks before handing him to the nurse. She stopped Giles mid jump and kissed him on the forehead. He wriggled free and continued to jump. His chant of “bye, bye, mama!” followed them down the hallway until they descended the stairs and could no longer hear him.
“Let us have some tea before the throng descends, shall we?” Henrietta led Isobel into the comfortable sitting room used solely by the Fotheringay family.
Teacup in hand, Isobel sipped contentedly and smiled at Henrietta. “I am so grateful to you for inviting me. It is just what I needed.”
“Well, I cannot vouch for the company since Mercer chose such a strange assortment of people, mostly out of obligation. His political career is promising to be quite brilliant, despite the fact that he is a Whig, but it requires us to invite a number of rather lofty people who can be rather high in the instep.”
“Perhaps I was too precipitate with my gratitude,” said Isobel with a grin. “Who are these paragons?”
“The Marquess and Marchioness of Stoughton, and their stunning daughter Lady Cynthia, who while beautiful, has ice water running through her veins. Also, there are the Earl and Countess of Doncaster, and their daughter Lady Joanna, who is an unrepentant hoyden. I rather like her. And there are a number of Lords this and Captains that, whom the esteemed aforementioned guest requested attend, I cannot quite remember who is who.”
“Were you allowed to invite anyone?”
“Such was my question to Mercer. We had quite a little set to about it. That resulted in my being allowed to include our local vicar, Mr. Parrish, and his wife and daughter. They are of good family, but he is a fourth son and practically penniless. He is a good vicar, though, and I enjoy their company. And you, of course.”
“I hope I do not cause undue awkwardness for you, Henrietta, due to my circumstances. Lady Stoughton and Lady Doncaster are sure to disapprove of my being here.”
“Well, if they are unhappy, they are free to return home! It is my house and my house party! “
“But you have Mercer’s career to consider.”
“If Mercer’s career cannot weather his wife inviting a dear friend who is temporarily excluded from society, then he is not as clever as both he and I think he is.”
&
nbsp; “I certainly hope mine is a temporary banishment.”
“Poor Isobel! I know you felt abandoned. The ton can be so merciless. I only wish I had been in town to comfort you sooner. Did no one come to offer support?”
Isobel sighed. They had stayed up late into the night talking. Isobel had truly bared her soul for the first time since hearing the staggering words from Mr. Pickens. But there was still more to tell.
“Only my childhood friend from Kent, Andrew Stafford, recently become Lord Saybrooke.”
“Ah, yes. I heard about poor Lionel succumbing to the influenza. Such a pity. But, wait, Isobel. Is not the new Lord Saybrooke, the Drew that you almost married so long ago?” asked Henrietta with relish, sensing more drama.
“The very one.”
“My, my, that is interesting. Did he come to comfort you?” she asked, a sparkle in her eyes.
“I believe that was his intent, but we argued and it ended with me hurling a tea cup at his head,” Isobel answered, her face suffused with a rosy blush.
“My, my,” said Henrietta again. “Did you hit him?”
“I am afraid not. My aim is off since becoming a respectable duchess.”
“Well, now that you are a ‘Miss’ again, you will have to practice.”
“Shall I practice on your guests this week?” Isobel laughed, enjoying her blunt friend’s frankness.
“You may need to. He is coming.” Henrietta pronounced.
“He? You mean Saybrooke? He is coming here?” Isobel’s smile faded.
“Yes, he is a friend of Mercer’s. At least he is a Whig and shares some of Mercer’s ‘radical’ views. He is also an eligible bachelor, so he made the list. But, my dear, there will be others. You need not see much of him if you do not want to. There will be plenty of other very eligible men here ripe for the plucking.”
“Henrietta, I did not come here to find a husband.” Isobel sounded a bit petulant, even to her own ears.
“No?” Henrietta smiled and spoke in an off-hand manner. “No matter. Perhaps we will find you one nevertheless.”
Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) Page 4
