Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place)

by Claudia Harbaugh

  “I believe you are correct in your assessment, Miss Kennilworth. It will take more than mere words.” Lady Doncaster fell silent again, sensing the tentative connection between herself and Miss Kennilworth faltering. She chose her words carefully. “During your come-out season you proved to be quite resourceful in arranging matters to your own liking. In this way, Joanna is very like you, though instead of aspiring to a duke, she seems to be bent on spinsterhood. I am very much hoping, Miss Kennilworth, that you would be willing to undertake a little scheme to promote the match.” Lady Doncaster saw that Isobel was about to refuse and forestalled her.

  “I am not asking for you to deceive Joanna in any way. But if Lord Pelton happened to come and call on a few occasions while Joanna and Mary were visiting, perhaps she would see him in a different light. She would see that you esteem him. And you could judge for yourself if indeed he is right for Joanna.”

  “Again, Lady Doncaster, you give me too much credit. My past romantic endeavors have been sadly ill conceived. Surely you cannot think my opinion trustworthy, or my instincts reliable.”

  “And yet I do. You have been much abused by the gentlemen in your life. I believe that gives you greater insight and wisdom, not less. Joanna will not listen to me, for she believes me to be too tame and compliant. She sees much of herself in you and admires you because of it.”

  Isobel felt the unbidden tears stinging her eyes, but held them at bay. “My abuse, as you so generously refer to it, was in large part a result of my own machinations. I cannot claim any wisdom. If Lady Joanna has similar tendencies for scheming, I can hardly be held up to her as a paragon.”

  “You are too hard on yourself, Miss Kennilworth. We women are taught from birth how to catch a husband. Any education we receive is for that aim. It is our sole purpose in life. Your machinations, as you put it, were used toward that end. You were fulfilling the role that society has imposed upon you with your own brand of cunning. I find that admirable.” There was no sign of Lady Doncaster’s innate shyness as she spoke, but a hint of resentment tinged her words.

  Isobel sat quite still for a moment crumbling her uneaten scone with her delicate fingers. Lady Doncaster’s estimation of her was cheering and as far from Saybrooke’s condemnation of her actions as night is from day. But she could not be completely pleased, for she felt the truth of it lay somewhere in the middle. Before she could give any answer Lady Doncaster spoke again.

  “I fully understand that I have no right to ask this of you, Miss Kennilworth. I only do so in the belief that you are at heart a kind woman and have taken a liking to Joanna. I ask only that you consider my proposal.”

  Isobel almost laughed out loud. For weeks she sat alone with Aunt Maude as her only company, bemoaning her sedate existence, and within two days she had received the most outrageous and unexpected proposals imaginable. Isobel cringed inwardly, contemplating Charles’ wicked plot and felt ashamed in the presence of this generous woman and doting mother. She forced herself to meet Lady Doncaster’s eyes.

  “I will consider it,” said Isobel.

  “Shall I call again in a week’s time?” Lady Doncaster asked, trying not to be overly assertive.

  “No. I would not have you risk it. I will send a note within the week assessing you of my decision. And if my answer is no?” asked Isobel, hoping Lady Doncaster would understand her meaning. She did.

  “I shall not forbid her visits to you, Miss Kennilworth. I meant what I said.”

  Lady Stoughton gently placed her empty teacup on the mahogany table next to her chair and stood. Isobel followed suit and gave Lady Doncaster a polite curtsy. “It has been a pleasure, Lady Doncaster. Thank you for coming.”

  “The pleasure has been all mine, I assure you.” Lady Doncaster bestowed a pleasant smile on Isobel, bowed her head slightly, and took her leave.

  Isobel had only a few moments to catch her breath when Lord Saybrooke was announced. Isobel felt drained from her visit with Lady Doncaster and had just decided to refuse him, when he burst through the door behind Renfrew.

  Isobel fixed Saybrooke with a glare that belied her civil words that were laced with acid. “By all means, Renfrew, allow his lordship to enter.” Renfrew’s confused glance hovered between Isobel and Saybrooke.

  “I was afraid you would refuse me, so I took matters into my own hands.” Saybrooke had the grace to look abashed, all the while toying with his hat and walking stick.

  “That will be all, Renfrew. Please take his lordship’s hat and cane as you leave.” Renfrew reached for the offending articles, leaving Saybrooke no outlet for his anxiety. “Oh, and Renfrew…” Isobel began.

  “More tea, Miss?” Renfrew asked with a cheeky grin. Ah, so the impudent footman was back replacing the stodgy old retainer. At least it made life interesting.

  “Thank you, Renfrew. And do be careful,” She added as he juggled the tray, walking stick and hat.

  “Hello, Izzy,” Saybrooke said as the door closed on the many faceted Renfrew. The smile he gave her sent a flutter through her.

  “Lord Saybrooke,” said Isobel formally. She was not going to give in to these unwelcome reactions. “Please be seated.”

  Isobel gestured to the chair so recently vacated by Lady Doncaster as she sat back down on the gold velvet couch. Lord Saybrooke ignored the Chippendale chair and sat himself down next to Isobel. She cast another glare in his direction, knowing it would not hinder him in the least.

  “I have come to make amends, Izzy. I know you are angry with me and have every reason to be. But, it came to me yesterday as I was reading the scriptures. It fairly jumped out at me. Thus the note I sent you this morning. By the way did you like the flowers? Irises stand for inspiration.” Saybrooke knew he was babbling, but was powerless to stop it. He had to get this out now before he lost his nerve.

  “They are lovely. Thank you.” Isobel’s cold manner did nothing to hamper the determined Lord Saybrooke.

  Saybrooke stood and began to pace as he spoke. “I am ashamed of myself. Ashamed! I have taken great pains in our last few meetings to point out all your perceived failures while completely missing my own. Almost everything that I accused you of, I have done myself. I have been so anxious to please my mother and be worthy of the name Saybrooke, that I have completely lost sight of who I truly am – Andrew Stafford. I have been caught somewhere between a Viscount and a vicar, not knowing which I actually was. But in truth, I am neither. Those are just titles.” Lord Saybrooke’s entire frame fairly crackled with passion. This revelation had come to him on the previous evening as he stood in a crowded ballroom feeling lost. The Viscount in him wanted to do his duty and ask the awkward Miss Drummond to dance. The vicar in him wanted to flee to the nearest book room. And then the lightning bolt had struck! What did Andrew Stafford want? And he knew what to do. Poor Miss Drummond was left without a partner and Andrew Stafford, Viscount Saybrooke formerly the vicar of Axminster, Devonshire, left the ballroom.

  Isobel did not feel constrained to speak. She allowed Andrew to unburden himself. Suddenly he stopped pacing and took his place by her side. “Izzy, do you remember my favorite passage in the Bible?”

  “Of course,” said Isobel mildly. “You quoted it to me often enough. It was from the book of the Psalms, the one hundred and thirty ninth chapter.”

  Lord Saybrooke seemed inordinately pleased that she had remembered. “Yes! I will not quote it at you now, but the words came screaming into my head last night as I stood in Lord Chisholm’s overcrowded ballroom. God knows my every thought, my every desire because He created me. I am a unique creation, Andrew Stafford. I happened to have been a vicar and am now a Viscount, but despite my circumstances or my station in life I must be true to the inner man that God created. Once that became clear to me, I realized that there are two things that Andrew Stafford wants. The first is to spend my life making a difference in the world, taking part in my ‘hopeless causes’ as you call them. The second is to spend my aforementioned life with you by my s
ide.” Saybrooke, in one swift movement lowered himself onto the floor, perched on one knee and took Isobel’s hands in his. “Marry me, Izzy!”

  Isobel was caught off guard. She had listened to Saybrooke’s impassioned, if lengthy speech with interest and perhaps a bit of conviction. But she was used to Andrew’s inspirational ramblings and even appreciated his spiritual bent, for she had once shared it and knew it to be sincere. She was not however, prepared for his final sentence. Good Lord, thought Isobel, another proposal and this one more astounding than the other two.

  Isobel had no further time for reflection. Renfrew burst through the door with a liveried footman on his heels. “Miss, James, has come from Wren House.” As Renfrew paused to take a breath, the footman took up the tale. “It’s Lord Charles, your Grace…er, Miss. He was just brought to Wren House by the Watch.”

  Isobel panicked. Charles has been found out, his dastardly deed uncovered! The footman’s next words eased those fears, but brought new ones. “They found him in the Rookery. He’s been beat up real bad, Miss. Her Grace has sent me to fetch you, for he keeps crying out for you.”

  Isobel rallied. “Of course, I shall come straight away. Renfrew, my carriage.”

  “We can take mine,” offered Lord Saybrooke, including himself without being invited.

  “Her Grace’s carriage is waiting to take you, Miss, and the gentleman, if you like,” James assured them.

  Isobel turned to Saybrooke. “You need not come, Drew…”

  “I am coming,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  Though she did not want him to come, Isobel did not want to waste the time it would take to talk Saybrooke around. She gave instructions to Renfrew to inform her aunt of what had occurred and she left the house on Woburn Street and headed to her former home.

  In the carriage, an awkward silence reigned. Saybrooke’s proposal hung unanswered between them, but both knew it was not the time to discuss it. Saybrooke knew he had failed Isobel in the past, but he would be here for her now. She did not need patronizing words or lofty speeches. She simply needed to be comforted. Saybrooke said nothing, but took her hand in his, pulling out his handkerchief with his other hand to dry her tears.

  When Isobel and Saybrooke arrived at Wren House, they were quickly hustled up to Charles’ room. He lay with his head on the pillow, his swollen eyes closed. One of the maids was sponging his badly beaten face. His valet, Griffin hovered nearby. There was no sign of the Duchess.

  “Charles,” Isobel whispered, tears pricking her eyes. “Charles.”

  “He’s been in and out, Miss,” explained Griffin. “Doctor says he’s concussed. He has a broken hand and leg, too. And a few ribs.”

  “Is he in any danger?” Saybrooke asked.

  “Doctor Blanchard seems to think he’ll pull through, My Lord.”

  Isobel sat on the bed, careful not to cause any harm to Lord Charles. She gently grasped Charles’ unbandaged hand and let the tears freely flow. “You bacon brained ninnyhammer!” she whispered through her tears.

  “Who’s a ninnyhammer?” uttered a hoarse voice from the general direction of the pillow. “I am not the one carrying on. Stop the waterworks Izzy; I haven’t cocked up my toes yet.” Charles tried for a smile, but on his battered face it looked like a grimace.

  “No thanks to you!” Isobel burst out.

  Saybrooke wondered at Isobel’s reaction. She blamed Aiken for his own beating? Something was definitely havey-cavey here. He continued to stand in the shadows, just beyond Lord Charles’ view.

  Charles’ rasping voice came again. “I am sorry Isobel. I could not do it...”

  “Hush, now. Do not talk,” shushed Isobel hoping Saybrooke did not follow the young Lord’s ravings.

  “No, I must say it. By the time I got to the Rookery, I had changed my mind. I decided I couldn’t go through with it. I’m not cut out for skullduggery, Isobel. I am sorry. I am afraid I will not be duke and you will not be my duchess.”

  “Charles, truly you must not speak!” Her eyes flew to Saybrooke whose face had turned to stone. What was he thinking? she wondered frantically.

  “Don’t fret Isobel. I’ll go to the continent,” Lord Charles croaked.

  “No, Charles. We’ll think of something else.” Isobel whispered.

  Lord Charles fluttered his eyes and the slur in his speech became more pronounced. “We shall see. But, now I think I will go to sleep.” And without further ado, he did.

  Isobel continued to hold his hand, hoping to put off the inevitable confrontation with Saybrooke. He was not a fool. Her brain worked furiously to invent a likely explanation. None came.

  “Izzy, he is asleep. Perhaps we can find a place to have a conversation.” Saybrooke’s voice was deceptively calm. Isobel would rather he scream. She patted Charles’ hand and placed it gently on the bed. Before she could answer another voice broke in.

  “Yes, I believe we should all have a conversation. Miss Kennilworth.” Lady Warwick stood in the doorway, her beautiful features marred by a frown. She cast an enquiring look at Lord Saybrooke.

  “Lady Warwick,” Isobel managed in her distress, “may I introduce Viscount Saybrooke.”

  Saybrooke sketched a bow, and expressed his pleasure. Lady Warwick inclined her head and said, “Please follow me; we can have tea in the family sitting room.”

  Isobel looked to Saybrooke, her eyes pleading. He spared her a mere glance laced with mistrust and spoke to the Duchess. “Thank you, Your Grace, that is very kind of you.” The three of them left the sleeping Lord Charles in Griffin’s competent care. Isobel’s legs were unsteady as she walked out of the room feeling as if she were headed to her own execution.

  The once familiar sitting room reminded Isobel of the small salon at Woburn Place, though on a much grander scale. The Duchess of Warwick had been busy redecorating. Once they had been seated Lady Warwick began. “Charles was found in the Rookery. He had been beaten and robbed. Though the thieves took most of his belongings, they left his calling card, which was how the Watch knew to bring him here. They also found these.” She pulled out two very familiar pieces of paper and handed them to Saybrooke. Isobel flinched.

  After examining the papers, Saybrooke regarded Isobel, hurt and anger warring in his eyes. “What is this, Isobel?”

  “It is Reginald’s and Lady Warwick’s marriage lines,” blurted out Isobel, longing to run away.

  “I can see that for myself, as well as a torn sheet from the registry where they were wed. What I am asking is what does all this mean?”

  Isobel let out an aching sigh and mentally prepared herself to confess all. The Duchess and Saybrooke said nothing more, but their eyes never left her face as they waited for what she had to say.

  “Charles came to me yesterday.” Was it only yesterday? “He is in dun territory and in his desperation he hatched this ridiculous scheme.”

  “What scheme, Isobel?” asked Saybrooke with his deadly mild voice.

  The story was soon told and did little to shed a very positive light on Lord Charles or Isobel. Lady Warwick was painfully silent. Saybrooke looked as if he would be sick.

  “And you agreed to this ill-conceived plot?” inquired Saybrooke.

  “No!” cried Isobel.

  “So you tried to stop him?” Saybrooke probed further.

  “No,” said Isobel in a beaten whisper.

  “Did you agree to marry him, Izzy?” Saybrooke’s wounded expression brought tears to Isobel’s eyes.

  “No,” Isobel said hesitantly.

  “But you did not turn him down.” It was a statement.

  “No.” Isobel could not have felt more ashamed.

  “I see.”

  “Drew, you heard Charles, he had given up the idea and I would not have gone through with it, either. I was unable to sleep last night for tossing and turning. It was a despicable scheme and I am sorry for it.” She looked entreatingly at Saybrooke and then Lady Warwick.

  “I am sorry, too, Izzy. Mor
e sorry than I can say.” Lord Saybrooke’s expression fit his words. Isobel wanted to rush to him. To hold him. But she knew she could not. She would give anything to be able to wipe away that look of disappointment and sadness, but she was powerless to do so. For she had put it there.

  Saybrooke spoke again. “I must take my leave. I apologize for deserting you Lady Warwick, but I have promised my mother that I would escort her to a rout tonight, I cannot remember where. It matters not. They are all the same.”

  “I will walk you out,” offered the Duchess of Warwick and he offered her his arm. Isobel watched his rigid back for a brief second. “Drew!” she cried out to stop him, not knowing what to say to make him stay.

  Lord Saybrooke turned his head and with a forced smile he said, “Goodbye, Miss Kennilworth. I wish you well.” He strode out of the room.

  Chapter 13

  Lady Warwick stayed behind and spoke to Isobel. “I will be back in a little while. I would give you some time to…rest. I wish to speak with you further, if that is acceptable.” Isobel willed herself to nod and as soon as Lady Warwick had gone, Isobel gave in to a fit of stormy tears. She was angry and embarrassed and appalled at her own behavior. She felt deserted and hopeless and utterly devastated. She wandered about the room and screamed and cried and struck out at pillows and chairs and other defenseless objects. At last, her energy spent, her cries softened and she lay down on one of the couches. Within moments she had fallen fast asleep. She awoke to a gentle touch and a soft voice calling her name.

  “Miss Kennilworth?” Lady Warwick’s face was inches from her own. She rubbed at her eyes and abruptly sat up. “I must look a sight,” Isobel said self-consciously smoothing her hair.

  “Nonsense, as always you look lovely. And I have brought the English restorative, tea. Unless you care for something stronger.” Lady Warwick was making an effort to be kind, purposely keeping her tone light.