A fine moment to discover in herself a completely different ambition, and an impossible one at that.
Relief came in the person of the butler, proffering a silver dish upon which reposed a selection of sweetmeats. Isolde picked one at random and laid it down on her empty plate. In the periphery of her vision, she saw Richard wave the dish away, and immediately chided herself for using his name in her head. Lord Alderton he was and must stay. Especially since she could not possibly remain under his protection.
He had said no word of her future, nor did she know if he had written to her family. She had not asked and he had volunteered nothing. Not that it mattered. Isolde resolved to be long gone before any plans he had could be put into execution.
This morning, however, she found herself at a loose end, and she began to wonder if it was going to be bearable to wait long enough to acquire the knowledge necessary to be able to support herself somehow. Lady Alderton was having one of her bad days and had sent a message by her maid. Isolde was under orders to sit quietly reading the prescribed book detailing the conduct to be expected of a young lady.
Rebelling at last, she laid the book down and started out of the little parlour assigned to her use — the same in which she and Madge had been taken upon their arrival.
Isolde had expected to miss her, but instead she found herself enjoying a surprising feeling of release. Madge had been kind enough, at least when matters went her way, but she’d neither attempted to take the place of Isolde’s long-deceased mother, nor concealed her real reason for remaining at the camp after her husband died.
It had taken a few months for Isolde to realise what was going on, and she’d suffered torments of jealousy and rage before understanding at last that this was yet another of her father’s needs, previously unfulfilled. It was one Isolde could not supply, and she learned to accept Madge’s presence in their lives, if not with pleasure, at least with complaisance. But she could not forgive either of them for ousting her from her ruling place in Papa’s affections, and the bitter loneliness had festered, leaving her bleak, but fierce in her determination to rely on none but herself.
As she paced, unknowing where she was going, her thoughts centred on the things she must know before she could leave. There was little chance she could learn enough to do what a lady might. Besides, who would recommend her for a companion or governess? The best she could hope for was a maid or perhaps a housekeeper. Nothing Becky did was beyond her abilities, though she could never manage a house this size like Mrs Pennyfather. She’d pumped Becky for information, without giving away her reasons.
“It’s none so bad here, miss. Better nor a small place, for I’d be near on my own then.”
“What do you mean, Becky? How small a place?”
“Any house as ain’t grand, miss. Even a bachelor household needs a maid of all work. But she’s to clean and scrub, shop and cook too then, miss. It’s glad I am as I’ve a place here. It’s hard, but there’s plenty to share the load.”
Isolde’s mind was made up there and then. She could do all of those things, and she was used to hard labour. A maid of all work was the ideal solution. If necessary, she’d steal some of Lord Alderton’s monogrammed notepaper and write a reference for herself.
A shaft of light across the corridor caught her eye and Isolde stopped, glancing at the door, slightly ajar, from where it emanated. Creeping forward, she peeped into the room.
Panelled throughout, with shields, crossed swords and several antlered heads adorning the walls, and an open chequered floor, the room boasted little more than three or four straight chairs and a few cabinets. In one standing upright, Isolde saw a collection of long barrelled firearms.
The gun room? Her heartbeat quickened. This was more like! There did not appear to be anyone inside. She slid through the door with caution, her glance flicking about.
No, there was no one. Why then was the door open? An armoury was always kept locked. None knew that better than she. Which meant someone had been here, was possibly out for a brief space of time. Then she did not have long.
Heading straight for the gun rack, Isolde examined the weapons. Two muskets, a flintlock rifle and a blunderbuss. Moving to the glass-covered cabinet alongside, she peered in. Pistols! There were several, of different size and weight. Longing filled Isolde’s heart and she fumbled for the catch to open the cabinet. It was locked.
Turning, she studied the crossed swords and shields. One would not use those for practice. Where were the foils? She caught a glimpse of steel in another open cabinet and hurried across the room. Yes! And they were protected, the tips buttoned.
With care, but eager, Isolde took one out and tested the weight, flexing the blade. Perfect. Grasping up her skirts in her left hand, she moved into the free open space and fell into the fencer’s pose, making a pass.
How she’d missed this. All the frustration fell away, and Isolde’s heart lightened with the familiar spring of her feet. Advance, lunge, retire. Ignoring the hampering skirts she was holding out of the way, she went through the drill, quartering an imaginary opponent as she dived and thrust, retired and lunged to thrust again.
Exhilaration rose inside. This was the life she craved. This was action, joy and living. This was —
Her guard faltered and she froze mid-lunge, the foil outstretched even as her eye shot to where she’d caught the anomaly at the edge of her eye. Lord Alderton was standing in the open doorway, regarding her with a face of thunderous conjecture.
Isolde’s already leaping heart began to pound. She pulled her arm back, letting the point fall towards the ground as she wrenched her body into its normal posture.
His gaze dropped to her bared ankles, and Isolde let go her skirts in haste, smoothing them into place with one hand. For the life of her, she could not recover the air of docility she’d been wearing. Instead, she glared defiance, gripping the foil’s hilt.
Recovering from his stupefaction, Richard noted the quivering lips in the white face, the brightness of the eyes that dared him to criticise.
He shut the door and strolled into the room, keeping his gaze upon her, his voice neutral. “Any other hidden skills I ought to know about?”
A sharp indrawn breath and a tiny frown. “You are not angry?”
He raised his brows. “Should I be?”
Her shoulders shifted. “It’s not ladylike.”
He allowed himself a faint smile. “No.”
She said nothing, only surveying him with a lurking puzzlement he read with ease.
Richard did not move from where he stood. “Put the foil away. Or shall I take one myself and we’ll see what you can do?”
Her chin lifted. “I’m not dressed for it.”
His eyes travelled down the disarranged petticoats. Her words triggered a memory in his mind, but he let it go. He was sorely tempted to test her mettle. She was radiating defiance, but her eyes showed uncertainty. She had expected to be rebuked. On a sudden whim, Richard gave in to his baser self. “How would you dress for it?”
She eyed him, hesitant. He waited. Her head went up and her words rang. “In boy’s clothes.”
A laugh escaped him. “Indeed?”
“Of course. Skirts hamper movement, though I’ve fought in them before now. And one can’t ride astride in a gown either. It’s indecent.”
That was it. Riding astride. She’d mentioned it before. His lip curled involuntarily.
“Yes, I should imagine it might well be.”
The girl tossed her head. Had she misunderstood his amusement? Again? “I suppose you will say I must never wear breeches.”
He took the wind out of her eye. “On the contrary. I was just going to suggest that you don them one of these days.”
Astonishment mingled with suspicion in those expressive orbs. “Why, when you insist upon my learning how to be a lady?”
“I want to see how good you are with that weapon. It would give me an unfair advantage if I were to insist you engage in a bout hamp
ered by your petticoats, don’t you think? But not today.”
She appeared to have difficulty taking in his words. Richard hid a smile and held out his hand for the foil. She relinquished it, hilt first, as a seasoned fencer should.
“Thank you.”
He set it back in its place and crossed to the glass-covered cabinet. His desire to test her increased. Just how far from normality had this extraordinary life taken her?
He took the key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock, lifting the glass lid and setting the rod in place to hold it firm. “Come here,” he commanded, without looking at her. In a moment, he felt her at his side and turned, waving a hand across his pistols. “Which would you choose?”
The girl’s eyes met his, narrowing. “I prefer my own.”
His lips twitched. “I should have guessed. Where do you keep it?”
“In my trunk.” She grimaced, biting her lip. “At least, that’s where I packed it. I always used to keep it under my pillow.”
“Primed and loaded?”
“Of course. What is the use of an unloaded gun?”
He was hard put to it to keep his amusement in check. She had learned these lessons well, in any event, whatever she had not learned of feminine customs. He recalled what he’d witnessed when he entered the room. “Dare I suppose you have your own sword also?”
Regret entered her face. “I never had one of my own. I have Papa’s sword, and his foils.”
“Then I imagine they are now yours.”
Her sunbeam smile threw him into disorder.
“I had not thought of that.”
Richard was tempted to command her to give her weapons up into his keeping, but he was reasonably confident she would balk. Besides, he was loath to take more from the child than she had already lost.
The reminder of her youth gave him a jolt. Seventeen, and she had more knowledge of male pursuits than the feminine tricks she would need in her coming life. What was more, from items she’d let drop, and going by his housekeeper’s judgement which should never be ignored, he was strongly of the opinion that Isolde had been fully aware of an amorous liaison between her father and Mrs Quick, who’d brought her here. It had not taken a deal of thought for him to work out why the woman had no desire to remain as chaperon, since the tie that had kept her had presumably been buried with Captain Cavanagh.
But no genteel debutante should have the smallest familiarity with such affairs. Little though she was to blame, she was totally unfitted for society. What in the world was he to do with her?
Reminding himself that it might not fall to his lot to decide, he closed the cabinet and locked it again. When he turned, he found Isolde had moved away, her eyes running over the arms decorating the walls.
“They are medieval, no longer in use.”
She glanced back at him and then fixed her eyes on a shield above her on the wall. “Is that your coat of arms?”
Richard came to join her, letting his gaze wander over the quartered shield, with the bears, castle and gauntlet. “It’s the de Beaudresey arms, but we no longer use them.”
Her lips curved. “It’s a finer name than Alderton. My father said it’s very old.”
“Norman. My ancestors were the invaders.”
“Mine were fighters.” Her eyes sparkled. “The Cavanaghs have always been soldiers.” A sigh came. “I wish I’d been born a boy.”
He had to laugh. “Yes, I can see that would have suited you a deal better. Don’t repine, Isolde. You make a remarkable girl.”
She turned startled eyes upon him and pink crept into her cheeks. He observed it with interest, not unmixed with amusement. It was plain she had no experience of compliments, nor, he guessed, did she expect any hint of admiration. It was both refreshing and sobering. She was like an unbroken filly, wild and vulnerable. Was his sister capable of handling her without destroying the gauche innocence that formed the chief of her charms?
Chapter Nine
“Have you taken leave of your senses, brother?”
The voice was shrill, rampant with fury. Isolde shrank into the lee of the staircase, unsure from which of the front rooms it was coming.
“My dear Alicia, you know full well it is not I whose wits have gone begging. You don’t suppose I voluntarily assumed this guardianship, do you? This is our father’s doing, not mine.”
Lord Alderton’s measured tones poured cold into Isolde’s chest. Hadn’t she known he didn’t want her? After the interlude in the gun room yesterday, her desire to be gone from this house had felt a trifle eroded. She had been foolish to imagine Lord Alderton was beginning to like her. Remarkable, he’d said. She had hugged the word to herself, its effects warming the icy places. Only now did she see that it was not necessarily remarkable in a good way.
“Yet you insist upon dragging me into the business,” came from the woman. “As if I did not have enough to worry about.”
“It’s only temporary, Alicia. Come, what would you have me do? The child is alone and friendless. I could scarcely turn her out.”
“Child? She’s seventeen, you said.”
“But distressingly naïve. She had as well be fifteen for all she knows of how she should behave.”
Isolde flushed where she hid in the shadows. She longed for the courage to make her presence known, or to run away so as not to hear more. But her feet refused to move from the spot.
“What, is she a savage?”
The woman’s tone bore vicious scorn, and Isolde could only be glad of Lord Alderton’s snapped response.
“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s been following the drum and no one has taught her the rudiments of ladylike conduct, that’s all.”
A high-pitched laugh pierced the air, false and filled with contempt.
“I thank you, brother. A fine task you have set me.”
“I trust it will not prove beyond your capabilities.” His tone was dry and Isolde recognised a timbre within it that told her there was little love lost between the two. “Mama has begun the work. You have only to add what her condition will not allow her to accomplish.”
“Ha! You know nothing of the matter. If this creature is as ignorant as you claim, I will have my hands full. Not that I have as yet agreed to stir in the matter.”
“If you won’t help her in that respect, will you at least serve as chaperon while she is in this house?”
“I can scarcely do other, since my presence affords her as much. Whether I do more is yet to be decided.”
Footsteps sounded, and Isolde slipped to the back of the staircase, close to the green baize servant door, her mouth dry, her limbs trembling. She heard the footsteps ascend the stairs and leaned against the back panel, closing her eyes against despair.
She’d heard the carriage while she was with the invalid. She wished she had not called Lady Alderton’s attention to it. She would not then have been sent down to discover whether this betokened the return of the daughter of the house.
“Isolde!”
She jumped, eyes flying open as she turned in shock. She had not heard Lord Alderton’s step. His frown was heavy and her breath caught.
“How much did you hear?”
Isolde swallowed her fright. “All of it.”
“Damnation!” The breath sighed out of him. “She’ll come around.”
Isolde did not say she hoped the woman would not. The thought of exchanging Lady Alderton’s offices for those of the unknown Alicia filled her with dismay and apprehension.
She cast about in her mind for relief and found the only possible option. “Have you written to my relatives?”
His features grew taut, and Isolde hesitated to mention the name that had evoked so much ire.
“Not about you, not yet.”
She regarded him with growing dismay. “What will you tell them?”
“No need to trouble your head about it, child. Nor is there any rush.”
“But you said Vansittart is trying to ruin you.”
A smoulder grew in his eyes. “That matter need not concern you. It’s a separate issue. However, now that Alicia is here and I will not be leaving you unprotected, I will be able to pursue that and other business awaiting my attention.”
A hole opened up inside Isolde. She knew he didn’t want her, and she was determined to go away, but the notion of him leaving her here unaccountably sank her spirits. “You are going away? Will you be gone long?”
“I hardly know. Unlikely, I think.”
Isolde spoke without thinking. “I believe my relatives are in Cheshire. Should not you contact my grandparents?”
Lord Alderton’s tight-lipped look softened a little and she saw compassion in his eyes.
“I am afraid they are both dead. I’m sorry, Isolde. Vere Greville, or Lord Vansittart I should say, is your nearest relative.”
Shock hit. “Lord Vansittart? He is titled?”
“Your grandfather was an earl.”
Her mind spun. “Then Mama was…”
“Lady Mary Greville. That is your family name.”
She could not take it in. “But Papa … he never said… He said Vansittart. I thought it was her family name. He never told me it was a title, or that she was of such high birth.”
“You don’t remember her?”
“Yes, but she never spoke of her family. I didn’t understand then that they had eloped.” A chill ran through her. “That’s why they cast her off. An earl’s daughter. They will never acknowledge me. I can’t go to them, Richard. I can’t!”
She scarcely realised she had used his name. She only knew the last hope was gone. In the back of her mind it had been there, a last resort. But now, that disappeared with the rest.
She became aware that her hand was being held in a warm clasp. Richard’s features were close, his dark eyes capturing her attention.
“You need not. Your father named mine guardian. He did not intend for you to go to them. I will honour his request, Isolde. You have a home here.”
She could not speak. Her vision splintered and she heard the groan as he pulled her into the safety of his arms.
In Honour Bound (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 1) Page 5
