“Isobel, I know that you are angry and hurt. You have every right to be. I handled everything so badly. Can we begin again? I meant what I said. I love you more than I can say, more than I have ever loved anyone. Please believe me.” Westcott spoke from the heart.
“I do believe you. It…it was just such a shock to me. I had never considered myself to be…unmarriageable. You must give me time, Jeremy.”
“My darling, if it is time that you need, then time you will have. I just hope that you will not bar me from your door.”
“Not at all,” said Isobel demurely. “In fact, I was hoping…oh, perhaps it is not a good idea.”
Westcott tenderly took her hands in his. “What is it, love? Tell me.”
“My Aunt Maude will be going to the opera with some friends tomorrow night. I wondered if perhaps you would care to dine with me. Mrs. Kitchen is an excellent cook.”
Westcott’s face shone with pleasure. “I would be delighted, my dear. I would dine on bread and water if I could only be with you.”
“Shall we say eight o’clock then?” said Isobel with a warm smile.
“Eight o’clock,” assured Lord Westcott.
Isobel looked at the clock on the mantel and gasped. “Oh, my. Look how late it is. My Aunt will be coming any minute, and I confess she would not be pleased to see you. She is quite angry with you.”
“I understand.” He stood and kissed her hand. “Until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Isobel repeated with a smile of promise.
*****
Lord Saybrooke was in his bookroom sipping coffee and reading the Bible, when Finch was shown in. The two exchanged greetings and Saybrooke offered his friend a seat.
Once the footman closed the door, Finch spoke up. “It’s all arranged. Tomorrow at dawn, Hampstead Heath. Westcott will bring the pistols. I have engaged Dr. Strong to attend.” Saybrooke said nothing, but walked to the window. His friend went on. “I confess that this is exceedingly strange behavior for you, my friend. How many times have you lectured me on the evils of dueling?”
“Countless, I imagine, since you are such a hot head.” Saybrooke spoke quietly, still gazing out of the window.
“All this over a slight to Miss Kennilworth, who refused you half a dozen years ago?”
Saybrooke turned to his friend and spoke. “I would like to explain it to you, Finch, if I could. But I do not understand it myself. I have always considered dueling a barbaric custom. I still consider it so. Westcott goaded me and I succumbed to his taunts. I broke the man’s nose, but it was not enough. I agreed to the duel. Even now, I still cannot believe it.”
“It is not too late for an apology,” reasoned Finch.
“He does not deserve an apology. He was wrong. He has contributed to Isobel’s ruin.” Saybrooke said with sorrow.
“So you are judge and jury, then?” asked Finch provocatively.
Saybrooke sat down and fingered his coffee cup. “I do not know what I am anymore. It was all so much simpler when I was simply Andrew Stafford, vicar.”
“But you are going through with it?”
“I keep hearing my father’s voice in my head to get my arse out of the bookroom and live. Run, jump, fish, hunt - kill something. He would always say that he was glad that Lionel was the heir, for he knew what it meant to be a Lord. I was useless to him. But I did not care; for I had my books and my Izzy. But now, belatedly, I want to make him proud, to be Viscount Saybrooke, and I have no idea how to do it.”
“You are this maudlin already and the only thing you have had to drink is coffee? Let us remedy that. Where is your brandy?”
*****
Manning was just putting the finishing touches on Isobel’s hair, tucking up the last curl, when Renfrew announced Lord Westcott.
“Tell him I will be right down.” Isobel stood and looked at her reflection in the cheval glass. Her periwinkle silk dress clung to her body in all the right places. It was not overtly daring, but sweetly seductive.
Manning looked at her mistress with concern. “Are you sure about this, Miss? I could tell him you are not well.”
“No, Manning. I will be fine. I am just a tiny bit nervous is all.” She gave Manning a shaky smile and descended the stairs.
Lord Westcott jumped from his chair when Isobel entered the room. His eyes scanned her appraisingly and liked what they saw. “You look beautiful, Isobel. Good enough to eat,” he said huskily.
“Remember, my lord, I am not on the menu tonight.” She gave a coy little laugh to take away any harshness the words may have evinced.
Instead of the dining room, dinner had been laid upstairs in the salon. “Much cozier,” explained Isobel and Westcott agreed. Dinner was superb, beginning with turtle soup and ending with a raspberry trifle with numerous courses in between. They conversed freely, sharing ideas, laughing spontaneously. The time seemed to fly by. It was shortly before ten o’clock when all the dishes had been removed, all the servants (meaning Renfrew and the maid, Anna) had gone below to their own dinner, and Westcott and Isobel sat alone in the neat little salon sipping brandy. Westcott was in alt and could not suppress a grin. She was to be his, after all. Inexplicably the brandy seemed to be going to his head for he was trying to put his arm around Isobel, but he could not seem to manage it. His head was becoming excessively heavy as well. He shook it to clear the fog in his brain. He saw Isobel sitting next to him, watching him. He could not resist her and tried for a kiss, but Isobel moved at the last minute and he fell head first onto the floor and knew no more.
“That will not help his nose heal,” chuckled Aunt Maude.
“No, it should be quite painful,” agreed Isobel. “It really is a pity, for he can be such a charming man.”
“Charm is overestimated,“ contributed Mrs. Riggs. “I much prefer an honest man.”
A picture of Lord Saybrooke entered Isobel’s mind, unbidden. She shook it off.
“Renfrew, are you sure you and William can manage getting him to the third floor?”
“Yes, Miss. Young Jem will help us, too.” They proceeded to half carry, half drag the unconscious Lord Westcott down the hall. Then came the whump, thump, whump thump of his body hitting each step as he was dragged up the narrow flight of stairs.
“Manning, you are sure that I gave him enough to last the night?”
Manning held up his empty glass of brandy. “He drank it all, Miss. If he is up before midday I will be very surprised.” She could not stifle a giggle.
“Well, Saybrooke shall go to Hampstead Heath in vain tomorrow. Westcott will look the fool for reneging and Saybrooke will live to pontificate another day.” Lady Whitcomb put her arm lightly around her niece. “Well, done, my dear.”
“As you say, Aunt Maude, I seem to have a knack for this kind of skullduggery,” Isobel said with a sigh.
*****
The gray mist slowly began to dissipate as dawn broke over Hampstead Heath. Lord Saybrooke and Jasper Finch heard the approaching horseman before they saw him. A spectral figure approached, gradually mutating into human and equine form. It was Perkins. Alone. Saybrooke, taut with anxiety, spoke with more pique than he intended. “Where is Westcott?”
“He will be along shortly,” assured Perkins as he dismounted. “We planned to meet here.”
“And the doctor?” asked Finch.
“Westcott will be stopping by for the doctor on his way. He is bringing his coach in case it is necessary to transport an injured man.”
“Ah, I see Westcott has thought of everything,” Saybrooke said with disdain.
The three men stood silently for some time, waiting. At last Perkins suggested to Finch that they mark out the paces in order to be in complete readiness when Westcott arrived. This was done and still Lord Westcott had not appeared. Saybrooke sat in the damp grass, praying.
Ten more minutes passed and then twenty. Saybrooke and the seconds did not speak; the only sounds were the horses’ snuffles and an occasional jackdaw’s cry. At last Perk
ins spoke. “I cannot understand what can be keeping him. Perhaps he overslept.”
“Perhaps,” said Saybrooke skeptically.
“We will give him another quarter of an hour,” decreed Finch, looking at his pocket watch.
The hands of Finch’s watch moved painstakingly slowly. But, at last fifteen minutes had passed and Westcott was not in evidence.
“He has forfeited,” declared Finch.
Perkins blanched as he thought what this meant for his friend’s reputation. Attempting to procure a mistress at a respectable house party in full view of his future bride could be forgiven by the ever mercurial ton; reneging on a duel of honor could not.
Seeing Perkins face, Saybrooke came to a decision. “It is a lovely day to walk the wilds of Hampstead Heath, is it not Finch. I am quite glad you proposed the outing. Fresh air, open spaces; it is good for the body and soul.”
Finch looked at Saybrooke as if he had lost his mind. “What are you saying, Saybrooke.”
“Come now, Finch, must I spell it out?” Looking at the perplexed faces of the seconds, he realized he must. “There was no duel. If anyone saw us, which is highly doubtful, we arranged to meet here to do a bit of bird watching. If anyone is curious as to what became of the duel, which is highly likely, we will explain that it was settled amicably by you, the seconds. Anyone who tries to ferret out the details will receive an enigmatic smile. Are we agreed?”
Perkins hesitated and then spoke with heartfelt gratitude. “That is very generous of you, Saybrooke.”
“Before you fall to your knees and kiss my feet, let me make it perfectly clear that I am not doing this for Westcott, but for Miss Kennilworth. She has been through enough humiliation. She does not need another scandal added to her column of sins. A duel fought for her honor would be bad enough, but one where her would-be lover fails to appear would make her a laughingstock.”
A silent agreement was reached. “Now, gentlemen, I am suddenly famished. I shall stand you breakfast, if you will join me at the Pig and Whistle,” Lord Saybrooke offered, suddenly much lighter in spirit.
*****
Isobel and Lady Whitcomb were enjoying a cold collation just after one o’clock when they heard a commotion on the stairs. Westcott’s voice was raised in anger and confusion and Renfrew could be heard trying to calm him.
Isobel emerged from the dining room just as Westcott’s highly polished boot touched the final step of the stair case. Without his valet, Westcott’s appearance suffered. The indignities his body had suffered from being drugged and dragged did not help his overall look.
“Isobel, what is going on here? What has happened? I have missed an important appointment. Why did no one wake me?” Westcott’s voice was slightly slurred and he seemed a bit disoriented.
“You fell asleep after dinner, Jeremy. Renfrew, William and Jem were kind enough to help you to a bedchamber.”
“Helped me to a bedchamber? I feel as if I have been dragged up a flight of stairs.” He touched his aching arms.
“Well, Jeremy, you are quite large,” said Isobel with a deceptively innocent expression on her face.
“But why did you allow me to sleep so late?” asked Westcott still befuddled.
“You did not tell me you had an appointment. I felt that if you were so tired that you fell asleep while we had our after dinner drinks, that you must need your sleep.”
“What bag of moonshine is this? I do not fall asleep in the company of a charming lady. Are you hoaxing me Isobel?”
“I know only what I saw, my lord. I did my best to make you comfortable. I am sorry that you missed your appointment, but I did what I thought was best.”
Westcott was not convinced and was growing angrier by the minute.
“I am sorry you are angry with me, Jeremy. Perhaps you should go home and freshen up. And make sure your valet sees to your poor nose. It looks terribly swollen.”
“Perhaps I will. I shall call on you later, my dear.” Westcott did his best to swallow his anger and behave like a gentleman. He bowed awkwardly and walked to the door.
He had just reached the door, Renfrew obligingly opening it for him, when Isobel spoke again. “As to that, Jeremy, I have decided that I will not take you up on your kind offer. I have no desire to be anyone’s mistress but my own. I would prefer it if you would not call again.”
Westcott’s expression darkened and he began to loudly protest. Renfrew closed the door in his face. His poor, poor nose, Isobel thought, and returned to finish her nuncheon.
Chapter 9
Isobel’s prediction of a quiet life of spinsterhood proved to be coming true, though she did not attempt needlework. Lady Whitcomb pursued her writing, though further publication eluded her. Isobel read, played the pianoforte indifferently, maintained correspondence with Lady Mercer and her former nanny, Mrs. Budge and generally felt sorry for herself. There were no visitors, save Lord Saybrooke. He had arrived early every afternoon, only to be refused entry. After ten days, he had stopped coming.
One morning at breakfast Lady Whitcomb was reading the gossip column when her face suddenly blanched and she looked guiltily at Isobel. Isobel, noticing the not so furtive look, assumed her aunt had read a tidbit about her, though what they could find of late to talk about baffled her. Lady Whitcomb continued her attempt at surreptitious glances.
“Aunt Maude, if there is some scurrilous piece of blather about me, I do not care to hear it.” Isobel sipped her coffee and studiously ignored her aunt.
“Not precisely about you,” answered Lady Whitcomb. “Westcott has married Lady Cynthia.”
“Well, that was hardly unexpected, Aunt. Tell me, what are your predictions for the match?” asked Isobel with a sardonic smirk.
“They shall live happily ever after,” retorted Lady Whitcomb, much to Isobel’s surprise. “Lady Westcott, soon to be Viscountess of Bourne, will be happy to be her own mistress of Westcott’s many holdings, which her dowry will bring up to snuff. She will enjoy her position and prestige immensely and will bask in the glow of her circle of male admirers. Westcott will be happy to end his father’s harangues about his duty and will obediently do his best to produce an heir. He will frequent his clubs, sporting events and ton happenings. Not to mention his mistresses of which there is sure to be a steady procession. He will not be frequently in the company of his Viscountess, which will make them both exceedingly happy.”
Isobel made an effort to laugh at her aunt’s attempt at cheering her, but it only proved to sink her deeper into melancholy. She supposed she was well rid of Westcott. That thought did little to cheer her. And yet, she did not really regret the loss of Westcott. Another gentleman occupied her thoughts and haunted her dreams.
A few days after the “duel escapade” as Lady Whitcomb called it, Isobel was curled up on the couch in the salon trying to read, when Renfrew appeared with a note and a wide grin. Though he had not read the contents of the missive, Renfrew knew what it said, and he was bursting with excitement. The servants of 65 Woburn Place had accepted their lot when their beloved family moved out and Isobel moved in. They had been polite and efficient, but felt neither dislike nor affection for their new mistress. Until the “duel escapade”. Isobel’s cunning and bravery impressed them, not to mention being quite a lark for the caretakers of such a quiet establishment. Isobel had won them over without knowing she had done so. Her manner had thawed as well and a rapport had begun to grow. But, now that they held her in esteem, they fretted about her state of mind.
“Blue deviled,” declared Renfrew.
“The poor miss is in a sorry state,” intoned Mrs. Riggs.
“I will show her my new toad!” declared Jem. “That should cheer Miss up.”
“You’ll be doing nothing of the kind, young pup. We want to pull her out of her doldrums, not scare her half to death,” retorted Mrs. Kitchen. “And that vile thing better not be in my kitchen!”
Jem just shrugged and wondered at the notions of adults. Toads were much more
interesting than those books that Miss stuck her nose in. Reading all that nonsense in books didn’t seem to help her mood. Why not try a toad? But he knew there’d be no supper if he pulled such a stunt, so he stuck the toad back into his pocket.
And so with missive in hand, Renfrew offered the glad tidings to Isobel along with his cheeky smile. She looked at him; eyebrows raised and took the letter.
“You look exceedingly pleased with yourself, Renfrew. Have you come into an inheritance?”
“No, Miss,” he replied, with a hint of impatience. Renfrew did not want to chat; he wanted Miss Kennilworth to open the letter!
Her eyebrows still arched, Isobel looked from the fidgeting butler-footman to the note in her hand. She did not recognize the writing.
“That will be all, Renfrew.”
Renfrew face fell. So disappointed was he, that he almost protested, but he did not. “Yes, Miss,” he said sullenly and walked at a snail’s pace out of the room. Just as he was about to step out of the room, a choked cry came from Isobel and Renfrew turned to see her face red with embarrassment, her eyes angry, but brimming with tears. This was not the reaction that he had expected.
“Are you all right, Miss?” he asked tentatively.
“No, Renfrew, I am not. The Duchess of Warwick, it seems, has mistakenly sent my former mount, Bella here to Woburn Place.” Isobel words were tinged with ice.
“Oh, but it weren’t no mistake, Miss,” Renfrew hastened to explain. “Mrs. Aiken, that is the duchess, is just returning her to you.”
“She is not mine,” said Isobel with sadness and anger. “Instruct William to return Bella to Wren House.”
“But, Miss…”Renfrew began.
But it seemed that the fledgling rapport and camaraderie that had begun so recently was dissipating. Isobel did not speak, but the look that she gave Renfrew brooked no argument.
Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) Page 11
