“The baron demands attention,” Isaac countered. “See how he threatens us with his fists if we do not heed him?”
The baby cooed and kicked his feet with enough force to remove the blanket covering his legs. At only two months old, the baby boy had completely won Isaac’s heart and devotion. The fact that the child had been named for him only intensified the bond he felt for the little imp.
Esther put her paintbrush down. “The two of you are a pair. However am I to finish this portrait when you are both so difficult?” She came to the couch to sit on the opposite side of the baby, fixing his blanket. The moment the child caught sight of his mother he unloosed a gurgle that had both adults laughing along with him. Esther lifted her son into her lap.
Motherhood became his younger sister, which had surprised Isaac. He never pictured her in the role before discovering her marriage to his lifelong friend, the Earl of Inglewood.
His sister had painted Isaac and Silas a half dozen times each over the years. Isaac was of a height with Silas, though narrower in build. Growing up, they had measured themselves with regularity, a wager between them as to who would reach greater heights. The end result had pleased them both. And apparently pleased Esther’s artistic sense, as she was forever speaking of them as fine models.
Isaac stretched his arm over the back of the furniture again, tapping his fingers on the stiff fabric. He let his eyes wander the room, noting that his sister had added new paintings to the walls while others no longer remained displayed. What had once been a proper sitting room she had turned into an artist’s study. Canvas, paints, and shelves of supplies lined the walls. Her favorite subjects tended to be brightly colored, which meant the room itself had a cheerful spirit.
“Why am I dressed like a farmer?” Isaac stared at a portrait she had done of their friend, Jacob, in his vicar’s smock. “Why not put me in uniform? I am quite dashing in uniform.” When Esther had applied to him to come and model for a painting, she had specified he was to wear drab, old clothing.
“I have painted you in uniform once already.” She helped her son find his little fist, which he promptly shoved in his mouth and sucked loudly. Esther settled more comfortably into the couch, the baby leaning his head against her chest. “I have never seen you look more dashing, but also never so uncomfortable. You scowled at me all the hours I spent at work.” She shuddered. “Most unnerving.”
The end result of that particular project hadn’t been especially pleasing, either. Though Isaac could say nothing against his sister’s talent, his likeness had appeared rather angry. The fact that one of his sleeves had been pinned up to emphasize the loss of his arm hadn’t softened the fierceness of the pose either.
“So I am to be what? A tired field hand?”
“No.” Esther leaned closer and tweaked the brown cap he wore to complete his strange ensemble. “You are a weary, common man, resting at last after a long day of work. Perhaps a gamekeeper, with those boots.” She nodded to his rough footwear.
He made a show of studying the tips of his boots, where they were dull and in need of attention. “What is wrong with my boots?”
“Nothing. You are as I requested. Thoroughly brown, drab, and worn.” She eyed the loose blue neckerchief tied in place of a cravat. “I am pleased you still have those old things. Have you used them much?”
Isaac stretched, then removed the cap to scratch at the top of his head, mussing his dark brown hair enough to give his valet fits. “I have not. It is difficult to climb mountains when one has an estate to manage.”
His sister shifted, a small line appearing between her drawn down eyebrows. “Silas wished me to remind you of our dinner party Thursday next.” Her abrupt change in topic made him groan.
“Dinner party? Another one? Are you two planning to host every family in the county at your table?”
“Silas is an important member of Parliament,” Esther reminded, lifting her chin in pride. “People wish to speak to him, to know what his thoughts are on the war, trade, and everything else that goes on in the kingdom. He wants to hear their concerns, too.”
“You needn’t lecture me on your husband’s political ambitions.” Replacing the cap, Isaac tilted it low over his eyes. He affected the accent of their local fishermen. “Aye, everyone about here knows Lord Inglewood cares for we, the common people.”
His sister laughed, as he had intended. “Isaac. Are you coming to dinner this evening?”
A heaviness settled upon his chest, familiar to him now. Every time his sister asked him to be in company, every time he forced himself to have neighbors enter his home, the weight returned. At times it remained light, a gentle pressure reminding him of his brokenness. But there had been instances when the invisible weight crushed his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath.
“Need me to round out the numbers, do you?” If he deflected her long enough, avoided answering, he need not attend at all. Silas did not need him. Isaac held no political clout, no place of importance in their society; his family only invited him because they thought he needed to move about more in society.
They pitied him.
“I should like to have my brother, who also happens to be my husband’s most trusted friend, join us for dinner,” Esther stated firmly, her dark brown eyes challenging him. She appeared rather like their mother when she fixed him with that look, all firm and affectionate disapproval. At least her pity was born of love.
“Fine.” The weight pressed against him more insistently. He needed to get out of doors. “I will come. But I might wear these clothes.” He pushed himself up from the couch, then pushed the front toggle of the coat through its proper hole with ease. Dressing himself with one arm had been the first thing he had taught himself to do. “I find them most comfortable.”
Esther came to her feet, a sparkle back in her eyes. “If you dare, I will let our little Baron Marham here mete out punishment.” She cradled her son close and kissed the top of his head where blond wisps of hair covered his soft skin.
It was a shame Isaac did not have her talent with a brush. He would rather have a portrait of his sister and nephew than one of himself in his dull clothing.
“I will take my leave of you both before I trouble you any further, Countess. Baron.” He bowed, throwing his hand up in a flourish that made his sister laugh. She walked him as far as the landing, then she waved Little Isaac’s hand in a semblance of farewell. He tipped his cap jauntily at them and stepped out of the house, the butler closing the door behind him.
The moment his boots hit the gravel path, his smile faded away. After a few deep breaths, the pressure upon his chest eased. He took up his walk again, compensating for his lack of one arm in the way he held the other. It had never occurred to him, before the amputation, how much he depended upon both arms to keep balanced.
Stubbornness had kept him working at so simple a task as walking after his surgery. Dressing himself. Mounting a horse on his own. He still needed to come up with a way to play billiards, but most card games he had successfully mastered.
Dancing had proved awkward the first time he had attempted it. Not only had he been perilously close to losing his balance, but there were many forms requiring both arms to move through them seamlessly. If only Lord Nelson had thought to write more about living with one arm gone. But in the years since his death, before Isaac had joined the army, the man had turned into an almost mythological being of strength. If he had ever struggled a day in his life without his limb, no stories about such a thing existed.
Making his way northwest, Isaac remained in sight of the beach though his path cut somewhat further inland. His home was only two miles from Silas’s door. A short walk, and an even faster run when they had visited each other as boys.
Isaac cut through a farmer’s fields, then a bit of wooded area, before finally entering the rear of his property. He skirted ditches, caught his balance once on a tree, then went on. He came to the place where the well-maintained grove of cedar trees separated
the wilder woods from his gardens, their familiar aroma strong in the warm summer air.
A horse nickered nearby, causing Isaac to stop short. He listened for the sound again, his eyes sweeping through the trees and land beyond for a sight of the beast. Some habits persisted, even after military life. Staying alert had kept him alive, and his lack of awareness had cost him almost everything.
Movement from behind a larger tree caught his eye, and he saw the horse’s head bend downward as though to taste the grass. The animal was dozens of yards away.
With care, Isaac stepped back, keeping trees between himself and the animal as he tried to find an angle that would reveal the rider. Slowly he went closer, but the trees were planted in a staggering formation that kept whoever was atop the horse out of view. Isaac had to come nearly behind the animal before he at last saw the back of the rider.
The shapely curve of a woman’s shoulders, and the deep green gown falling down the horse’s side, made him halt his stalking movements.
He did not recognize the rider immediately, but then how many people did he know well enough to recognize from naught but a view of their back? About all he could tell from his vantage point was that she had an excellent seat—her posture was near perfect.
Tipping his cap back, Isaac decided that his sneaking up on a lone woman would not be a story he wished his neighbors to recount. He set up a whistle, a light-hearted tune, and saw woman and beast both twitch at the sound.
The woman turned, one hand at the back of the saddle to support herself. Beneath the shade of the trees as she was, it was difficult for him to ascertain much until he approached. But of one thing he was soon certain. He had never seen her before.
She wore a beaver-style riding hat, and her long riding habit bore military epaulets and bright colored buttons. From beneath the hat, he glimpsed hair the color of a fox’s coat.
“You there,” the woman called, her voice echoing somewhat against the trees. “Is this the land of Sir Isaac Fox?”
Having never had a lady address him in such a superior tone, Isaac stopped in surprise. Why did a stranger think she could wander onto his grounds and then start demanding answers?
Then he recalled his clothing. He had dressed as a laborer for Esther’s painting. The woman, a stranger to him, did not know she spoke to the baronet. She mistook him for a servant or grounds man.
“This is Sir Isaac’s land,” he admitted, coming closer. She had a slightly upturned nose, fair skin, and darker eyes than he had expected, given the hue of her curls. He bowed differentially when only a few feet remained between him and her horse. “Who might you be, miss?”
Her chin came up at the impertinence of his question, and he nearly grinned. “That is none of your concern. I am a guest of the marquess and his family.”
That explained the haughtiness in her expression. Lady Olivia Duncan, the marquess’s daughter, was an unpleasant person. It made sense that her companions would be cut from a similarly arrogant cloth.
Reminding himself to play the part of a servant, Isaac bowed again. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss. It is my job, so to speak, to guard Sir Isaac’s lands. Didn’t mean any harm by it.” Had he made his accent too thick?
She turned away to stare across the grounds again, at the house in the distance. His great-grandfather had overseen the building of Woodsbridge House, during the middle of the previous century. It was a gray-bricked, white-columned building that had been made to mirror estates far greater than a mere baronet should boast.
“I understand your concern,” she said without looking at him, her voice softer. That surprised him. Why not continue to order him about? “I promise I mean no harm. As I said, I am a visitor here. I have heard about him—Sir Isaac. I am curious.”
Curious? About him? And who had been talking about him? The weight pressed into his chest again, lightly, reminding him of its presence. “Not much people could say about him. He keeps to himself.” He studied the woman, noting the intensity of her stare, as though she tried to peer through the brick of the house in the distance.
“Does he?” she asked, her eyes narrowed. “I understand that he is young. Handsome, even. A war hero. Is he shy as well?”
Isaac had been accused of being many things in his life, but shy? As though he were a nursery child hiding behind his governess’s skirts? “Wouldn’t call him shy,” he grumbled, scratching at the back of his neck for good measure when she turned to look down at him again. “Private isn’t the same as shy, is’t?”
Her lips pursed. “I suppose not. Though it does complicate things.” She studied him a moment, and he stared back, refusing to lower his gaze. That seemed to amuse her, as one corner of her mouth twitched to the side. “Do you know the family well? I understand his sister is lately married to Lord Inglewood.”
“Known the family my whole life,” he admitted, lifting both shoulders in a shrug. That simple movement drew her eyes to his empty sleeve, tucked and pinned as it was against his side to keep it from flapping about as he walked. Isaac did not wince, or withdraw, as he had often wished to since the loss of his arm. Instead, he pasted on a roguish grin, daring her to make a comment. He roughened his voice and thickened his accent. “I’d say the baronet ain’t any more handsome than I am, though, if that’s what ye’ve come to see.”
* * *
Millie had never before encountered a servant with such a conceited way of speaking. Nor did she entirely know what to make of him, with his charming smile. His hair was dark as the earth, so brown it verged on black, curls of it sticking out from beneath his cap. His eyes flashed, almost contemptuous. Yet for all his impertinence, the man did have a fine-looking face. Strong, stubborn jaw, a fair height, and a confidence that finally pulled an answering smile from her.
“If he is half so handsome as you, my good fellow, then it is no wonder he is reclusive. Every miss in the county would set her cap at him.” She did not speak flirtatiously. Not precisely. The man was beneath her in every possible way. Goading him on, however, produced the desired result. He stared at her as though she had said something truly shocking, and the hostile gleam left his eyes.
“Mayhap you’re right,” he said, his strange accent slipping about again, not quite settling correctly.
She bit her lip to keep from continuing the banter. If Mother ever found out she had spent more than a moment in pleasant conversation with a servant, the woman would never forgive Millie. At least Mother hadn’t come with her to the marquess’s country estate. Millie had enough to worry about without being under her mother’s critical eye.
“What else is he like?” If she had caught the man off-balance enough, he may yet give her more helpful information. “Does he ride at any particular time? Does he go about into places I might chance upon him?”
“He comes and goes, as any free man does,” the man muttered, almost crossly. She saw from the corner of her eye that he’d turned toward the house, too. And the accent had slipped away again.
Getting anywhere with this strange man kept proving difficult. Yet she could be as stubborn as he. “Sir Isaac is lucky that you protect his privacy as fiercely as he does.” She purposefully tipped her nose into the air. If the man was loyal to Sir Isaac, there was another tact to try. “I have heard that his personality is not so attractive as his features. Indeed, some say he is quite rude and far too quick to laugh at the misfortunes of others.”
The man’s hand curled into a fist and his jaw tightened. “You hear that, do you? Anyone might guess where, too.” He cut her a dark look. “Would ye like to know a secret, miss?” The accent was back again, but she smiled pleasantly rather than puzzle over that oddity. “Sir Isaac is somewhat touched.” He lifted his one hand and tapped it against his skull. “Not all the time, mind. But on occasion he gets it into his head that he’s still defending England against the French. In fact, he patrols the grounds at times, carrying a pistol and sword. If he chances upon someone he does not know, he asks for the password. If they cannot
give it—” The man drew up his hand and held it as though looking down the sights of a barrel. “—Sir Isaac fires upon the enemy.” He mimicked the sound of a gun firing.
Millie swallowed and looked toward the house peeking up over the trees and shrubberies, hardly separated from the grove by more than a meadow. “I hadn’t heard that.” Surely the man was lying, trying to be rid of her.
“We don’t like to let it slip,” the man told her, sighing deeply. “But as you’re wanderin’ about on Sir Isaac’s property, I thought it best to warn you.” He tipped his hat to her. “Good day, miss.” Then he started whistling and walked directly into the open air of the field.
Watching him go, Millie adjusted the reins in her grip and peered beneath the trees. If Sir Isaac was as crazed as the man claimed, surely Lady Olivia would have warned her.
Not that Lady Olivia seemed concerned for the well-being of others, but one would think the marquess’s daughter would share pertinent details such as madness if she wanted her revenge.
A crack in the brush on her left made her startle enough that the horse shifted, then shook its head at her with some irritation. Millie offered the beast a reassuring pat along its neck.
“Quite right, Frances,” she murmured to the sweet gelding. “Best we return now, especially since our most unhelpful friend did not share the password.” She looked once more to the man walking across the field, his head held high and his whistle drifting back to her.
“What a strange man.” Millie turned her horse about and made for the path that had brought her to Woodsbridge Estate.
She hadn’t brought a groom with her, as keeping secrets with an audience of any sort would prove impossible. Besides, no one paid much attention to her, no matter where she went. Lady Olivia had been right about that. As someone invisible to the important members of Society, and above the station of everyone else who was not, she moved about with more autonomy than most unwed women enjoyed.
Engaging Sir Isaac: An Inglewood Romance Page 2
