Surprise overspread the maid’s features and for once she met Isolde’s gaze. “Why, at the big house, sir, like always.”
“The big house? You mean in Cheshire?”
“Yes, sir. His lordship don’t keep nobbut a few of us here.”
“But do you and the other maid do everything?”
“Oh no, sir, for there’s Jarvis as is footman here. Only he’s off today.”
Which explained why the other maid was answering the bell and the door. Yet it was still odd, in comparison with what she had become accustomed to at Bawdsey Grange. Alicia’s worst enemy could not have accused her of keeping an ill-run house. Stranger still was the state of the place. Everywhere bar the saloon downstairs she’d seen a lack of any sort of style.
Aggy was still waiting at the door. There did not seem much point in holding her, since she evidently knew nothing of Lord Vansittart’s life in Cheshire.
The child left with alacrity upon being dismissed, and Isolde gave herself up to reflection. Inevitably, her thoughts turned to Richard.
Chapter Nineteen
Richard had not expected to find the trail so easily. Enquiries at two of the principal posting houses in Harwich yielded immediate results. Not only did the landlord of The Duke’s Head remember a slim red-headed youth, but Richard’s groom, baiting the horses, came seeking his master within minutes.
“The bay mare is stabled here, my lord.”
For a moment, Richard thought Isolde might still be in the town, but the landlord soon put paid to that notion.
“I remember the young gentlemen, sir, for he was wishful of consulting a peerage.”
“Was he indeed?” So she had decided to seek out Vansittart. “And did he find one?”
“Aye, sir. I sent him off to Mr Mallard for I know as he’s got a copy, for as I’ve asked him many a time who’s who when the nobs pass by here.”
“Did he get the information he wanted?”
“I believe so, sir, for he said as he’d leave the horse here and go by the stage. And off he went, sir, the very next day.”
Which meant Richard was likely no more than a day behind. And he was bound to make better time in the curricle, for Isolde may well have had to change direction, and her journey would be slow-going on the stage.
A measure of relief mitigated the anxiety that had been riding him ever since the discovery of his sister’s callous conduct towards the girl. He had spoken his mind to Alicia, to no avail. She appeared incapable of rational thought where Isolde was concerned. He would not lightly forget her words when she heard of his proposed journey.
“What, brother, are you mad? You mean to go after her?”
“Of course I am going after her.”
“When you are well rid of the wench? Why, I have done your business for you. You cannot have wished to have such a charge.”
Richard had stared at her, as at a stranger. She seemed to have no inkling of the enormity of her conduct. He had tried reason, to little effect.
“Whether or not I wished for the charge is irrelevant, Alicia. I am responsible for the child, and her welfare is wholly my concern.”
“When she is nothing to you? Nothing to our family? I do not understand you, Richard.”
He had snapped at that. “And I understand you even less, Alicia. Have you no compassion? No common feeling?”
She had snorted, wholly unabashed. “For that unnatural creature? None at all. I saw through the wench from the first. A schemer, if ever I saw one.”
Richard gave it up, biting his tongue on the obvious questions, for it was plain his sister was blind to reality. In what sense Isolde could be supposed to be scheming, he was unable to fathom and was obliged to dismiss the words as coming from a diseased mind.
He contented himself instead with instructing the maid Becky to pack a portmanteau with whatever Isolde might need to resume her female persona. It would not do to be travelling about the country together with Isolde in male guise. If they met anyone he knew, as a girl she would pass muster as his ward. But he could scarcely introduce her to society afterwards, if anyone was able to recognise her as the youth who’d been seen in his company at some inn or other.
In between imagining the straits into which Isolde might have got herself, Richard’s mind was exercised by the problem of what in the world he was to do about his sister. He had no other thought in mind than to bring Isolde back to Bawdsey Grange, but it was plain she would not survive proximity with Alicia. Besides, he could not reconcile it with his conscience to put the child in danger of further insult and injury.
Even more dismaying to him was the intrusive thought that Isolde might wish to remain with Vansittart, assuming the fellow could be induced to offer her house room. Which was frankly unlikely, if Richard was to judge by his visit to the earl. It was all too probable he would arrive at Greville Lodge to find Isolde had received as rude a welcome there as she’d had an exit from his own home.
The thought spurred him and he found it increasingly difficult to tolerate the necessarily slower speed he was obliged to maintain in order to accommodate the inclement weather. And if Reeve was to be believed, it was likely to come on to snow again in the next four and twenty hours.
Isolde woke to cold and a grey dawn creeping in through the gaps in the bed-curtains. She was clad in her shirt and smalls, for she’d forgotten in the upset of her hasty departure to provide herself with a nightgown.
She’d slept only fitfully, for the mattress was lumpy and evidently no one had aired the sheets for some time. A pervasive smell of must tickled her nostrils and she was unable to get properly warm, despite a couple of blankets and a threadbare quilt.
Struggling out from under the covers, Isolde pushed aside the curtain, wondering what the time was. Shivering, she got out of bed and opened the shutters at the window.
The world outside was shrouded in shadow. It must still be early. Any hope of hot water for washing was vain, since the servants were likely not yet astir.
The thought of returning to the cold bed was uninviting. Isolde made do with the tepid water still in her basin from yesterday. The maidservant she’d first encountered had brought it, and Isolde recalled her uncle suggesting she might wish to wash away the travel stains.
No one had removed the bowl, nor had anyone come to take away the tray on which reposed the remains of last night’s dinner.
To her mingled chagrin and surprise, Isolde had not again seen Lord Vansittart, but a tray of food had been served to her in the bedchamber. It was plain fare, but plentiful and she tucked into the slices of beef and a portion of game pie with a good appetite, washing it down with ginger ale, which was all the liquid refreshment on offer.
Dressing with alacrity, Isolde walked about the room, rubbing her arms in a bid to warm up, and hoping the chambermaid would soon arrive to make up the fire.
Was it any use ringing the bell? Or would no one be up yet? It was worth a try at least. Assuming the bell worked. There was so much wear in the house, it would come as no surprise if it did nothing at all.
Crossing to the bell-pull, she tugged it hard. She listened, but could hear no echo of a ring in the distance, despite the silence of the house.
How long she waited Isolde did not know, but it seemed like forever. She began to be hungry and wished she had left one of the two rolls that accompanied last night’s meal. It might have hardened, but at least it would be something.
At length she decided she might as well go in search of the maid. Or of sustenance in the kitchen, if it came to it. At the least, she might find a room with a fire made up and get a little warmth. The breakfast parlour was the likeliest spot.
This decided, Isolde went to the door and grasped the handle. Turning it, she pulled, but the door resisted.
An exclamation of impatience escaped her. Was there nothing in the house that was not either worn or warped?
But the door continued to elude her efforts and bit by bit it dawned upon her that she was l
ocked in.
For an uncountable time, she stared at the door, unable to think beyond the bare fact of being incarcerated. The why of it paled beside the disquieting feeling of déjà vu. Although the last time she’d been locked out instead of in. She spent fruitless moments in a bid to decide which of the two fates was worse.
When reason began to return, Isolde leapt on the conviction that her uncle must have done this. Who else could it have been? No servant would dare to commit such an act without express orders from the master. And surely Lord Vansittart would not trust to one of the maids to do his dirty work.
Cold and hunger alike forgotten, Isolde began once more to pace, prey to the certainty that Lord Vansittart intended her no good by this.
Had all the amity been false? He could never have meant to offer her a home. Then what did he intend? He did not trust her, that was plain. Did he imagine she would raid the house in the night and make off with the silver or some such thing? Not that Isolde supposed there was anything of great value in the place. If she’d realised nothing else, she could hardly fail to notice the clear lack of funds. Else he would not have allowed his house to fall into such disrepair.
But it made no sense. She’d made it clear to him she had nowhere to go. He could not seriously suppose she might abscond. Then what did he mean by this?
She could find no satisfactory answer. His welcome must have been a lie. Yet if he did not want her, why should he make it impossible for her to leave?
There was only one sure conclusion to be drawn. Lord Vansittart was up to no good. Her instinct had led her to distrust him and she’d been right.
In a bang, she remembered Richard’s words. Vansittart was trying to ruin him!
Isolde felt as if the cold of the morning had entered her veins. He meant mischief all right, but not against her. He was plotting to use her in his battle with Richard.
Sudden dread speared the unacknowledged hope Isolde had not allowed herself to feel. Now, it was less a thing of hope than a certainty.
How could she have been so stupid? Of course Richard would follow her! The moment he knew how Alicia had treated her, he would come after her. After the last farewell before he went to London, Isolde could have no doubt he would not rest until he found her.
She had made it horribly easy. Wouldn’t he guess at once that she would try Vansittart first?
Her heartbeat quickened. Richard was walking straight into a trap.
Chapter Twenty
Richard woke to the conviction that something was wrong. He lay in the darkness of the curtained bed, blinking away sleep and trying to focus his mind. Was it a bad dream? He groped for a memory and found none.
Some alien sound must have woken him. Where was he? Oh yes, The Cock at Bishop’s Stortford. His late arrival had discomposed the hosts, causing a degree of chaos as a room was hastily prepared and a kitchen minion sent to rustle up some leftovers by way of a meal. Richard had made sure of his groom’s comfort as well as his own, and had dispensed largesse among the stable hands, for the horses were all but spent and in need of rubbing dry and warming before being bedded down for the night. The last few miles through gathering snow had been a severe trial on all of them, and Richard had very nearly abandoned his purpose to seek shelter at the nearest inn.
Now he was glad he’d pushed on to reach his objective, for he was situated but a mile or two from Vansittart’s house and the weather could not delay him. A sense of urgency crept over him, although he could not put a name to the apprehension that steadily increased as the moments ticked by.
Alert now, he flung off the covers, whisked the curtain back and sought under the pillow for his pocket watch.
Six and thirty? With an exasperated sigh, he dropped back onto the pillows. A ridiculous time to be awake. The inn must be stirring, but it was far too early to be up and about. He could be off within the hour, but it was futile to suppose Vansittart’s household would be all alive and ready to receive a visitor. Assuming Isolde was there, she would be still abed. As for the fellow himself, he was scarcely the type of man to rise with the lark.
Yet the feeling of wrongness persisted. Richard was beset with a reckless desire to throw caution to the winds and follow his instinct. He forced himself to think it through.
What possible danger could there be? He knew Vansittart for a schemer, but he did not take him for an out and out villain. He might repudiate his niece. He would not harm her.
It struck him then and Richard smote his own forehead. How could he be so dull-witted?
Vansittart had always an eye to the main chance. The man would think first and foremost about how Isolde could be useful to him. A bargaining chip.
Richard cursed. Had he not thought just the same himself?
The notion was scarcely formed before he was out of bed and reaching for the bell, a chaos of discomforting images flying through his head. Unformed, vague and incoherent, they took a common theme. Isolde in trouble.
It was a full minute before Isolde remembered her cloak and the pistol reposing in the pocket.
Cursing herself, she hunted about for where she’d put the thing. She could have been warmer all this time. Had she thrown it down somewhere? Her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, but still she could not see it. Or was it growing lighter?
Crossing to the window, she found the world outside was glimmering, a sheen of white everywhere. Disoriented, Isolde stared harder. The oddness found shape. It had snowed in the night. No wonder the atmosphere was so still and cold.
Leaning into the glass, she squinted down. Difficult to see what lay below the window. Grasping the handles, she flung up the lower half of the sash window, gasping at the rush of icy air that burned her cheeks and caught in her throat. Leaning out, she looked down.
Dark shapes lurked dimly in the shadows beneath. Isolde could not judge the distance to the ground, and no convenient tree or climbing plant offered succour for a fugitive bent upon removing from this room. No escape by way of the window then.
She pulled back in and slammed it shut, not without a feeling of relief. The thought of scrabbling down the wall in the gloom was not a welcome one.
The blast of cold had left the chamber even icier than before. Shivering, Isolde turned from the window and something between the open bed-curtains caught her eye. A vague memory formed. Half asleep in one of her waking times she’d dragged the cloak over the bedclothes for extra warmth.
With a cry of triumph, she rushed to retrieve it, fumbling for the heavy weight in the pocket with trembling fingers.
The cold steel of the pistol in her hands, her heart began to thump with a mixture of excitement and dread. She dared not check the pan, for fear of losing the ball. She could only hope the powder had not become damp in the cold.
Setting the pistol down with care, she donned the cloak. The thick wool had an instant effect and her taut breath calmed a little. Grasping the weapon, she approached the door and aimed the muzzle at her target, standing well back.
Cocking the gun, Isolde drew a breath, and fired.
The explosion shattered the silence and the door jumped free as the lock splintered.
Isolde staggered a little from the recoil but she wasted no time. The household would be about her in a trice.
She was through the door in a twinkling, speeding down the corridor. There was no point in keeping quiet now, and her footsteps pounded as she hit the stairs. Grabbing the rail for support, she ran down and made for the front door.
Shouts echoed around the house as she struggled to reach a fat bolt at the top of the door. Footsteps were approaching. In her frantic ears, they sounded as if they were coming from every direction.
“Hold! You there, stop!”
Isolde turned her head. A burly fellow in livery was behind her. She raised the pistol.
“Stand off from me or I will shoot you down!”
The footman backed away in a hurry. Isolde held the gun on him, her mind working. Could she manage the bolts
and keep him covered? Even if she got out, she still had to find her way to the stables and saddle the horse. Escape seemed impossible, but she had to try.
She shifted back from the door and waved her free hand at the footman.
“Open it!”
He moved with alacrity, one eye on the pistol in her hand. As he tugged on the bolt that had defeated Isolde, an irate voice spoke from the gallery above.
“Leave it, you fool! She’s fired the gun. It’s no longer loaded.”
Isolde wheeled about. Her uncle, clad in a nightshirt with a gown flung haphazardly over it, was leaning across the bannister on the landing. Her temper broke.
“You fiend! How dared you lock me in? What did you intend?”
He ignored her, instead gesturing to the footman. “Lay hold on her, Jarvis!”
Even as the fellow seized her, he looked with puzzled gaze from Isolde to his master. “Her, my lord? But —”
“It’s a female in disguise. Use your eyes, for God’s sake!”
Furious, Isolde struggled to free herself. “Take your hands off me!”
“Get the pistol from her.”
The command was uttered with calm, but Isolde was not similarly quiet. She fought to keep hold of the gun, but she was no match for the footman who wrested it from her.
Chagrined, she turned back to confront her uncle and discovered he was now flanked by the maid she’d met yesterday. The girl was still in her nightgown and Isolde drew an instant conclusion. Schooled by her father’s association with Mrs Quick, she guessed the maid was keeping her uncle’s bed warm.
“Aggy, take this,” the footman called out before Isolde could speak.
Looking round she saw the young chambermaid come forward from where she stood before the servants’ door. She took the pistol gingerly, holding it between thumb and forefinger away from her body, as if it had the power to attack her.
A riffle of relief went through Isolde. She had a much better chance of getting the pistol away from the maid than from the footman.
In Honour Bound (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 1) Page 14
