Barby,” said Isabella as they went down the stairs. “It will be quite all right.”
“And your aunt and cousin?” she said fretfully. “You’ve seen to them, ma’am?”
“Oh, yes! I wrote Lady Meredith yesterday,” Isabella said over her shoulder, “and refused her invitation to Thornhill. Indeed, I told her as much in the train station eons ago. I begin to wonder if Everett is desperate? Now, do let Lady Petershaw know if I’m needed, and she will send for me straightaway.”
“ Hmph, ” said the old woman, jerking her head toward the parlor door. “Well, I’ve put her in there, miss. Now hug my old neck before you go tearing off again. Natural philosophy, indeed!”
Isabella did, then kissed the old woman’s cheek. “What a dear thing you are,” she said. “And what would have become of those poor children without you, I shudder to think.”
“And I never thought I’d see the day you’d be so burdened,” the old woman returned, starting down the kitchen stairs. “That Sir Charlton is Old Scratch himself, and your cousin Everett and his mother are worse. They could have spared you this.”
But Isabella had long ago learnt there was no point in grieving over right and wrong. Sir Charlton had refused to support his sister’s children, or even to bring them up—not that Isabella could have borne surrendering them.
Returning her attention to Lady Petershaw’s plan, she turned, gathered her courage, then pushed open the parlor door, trying to look willing and properly grateful.
But the marchioness did not herself look willing. She turned from the windows that overlooked the lane, her beautiful face a mask of pique.
“Well, my dear, I am come as promised.” She crossed the small room to hand Isabella a folded paper. “Here is the direction and Mrs. Litner’s letter of introduction. But I shall tell you straight out, this leaves me a trifle uneasy.”
“Does it? Why?” Isabella glanced down at the address, scarcely a three-hour drive away.
The marchioness’s brow furrowed. “I cannot recall a Mr. William Mowbrey, and I know nearly everyone. I also didn’t like the look I saw in Mrs. Litner’s eyes yesterday.” She made an airy, uncertain gesture, lace swinging from her cuff. “Oh, I cannot call it fear—no, it was not that—but it came an inch too near desperation for my comfort.”
“What did she say about Mr. Mowbrey?”
Lady Petershaw snorted. “That he is thirty-something, handsome, widowed, and wildly rich, if that comforts you,” she answered.
The vision of Lord Hepplewood’s mouth hovering over hers went skittering through Isabella’s mind. What would it be like, she wondered, to go to his bed? Would the mysterious Mr. Mowbrey be as handsome?
He could not possibly be as arrogant—or as dangerous.
“I suppose handsome and widowed is better than ugly and married,” she said with a shrug.
“Very true.” The marchioness smiled. “But she admits, too, that so far as she’s seen, Mr. Mowbrey cannot be pleased; that you are the fourth or fifth young lady of grace and beauty to whom she has ‘introduced’ the gentleman—and if you will not do, she means to give up.”
“So I’m her last-ditch effort?” Isabella lifted her gaze from the paper. “Is that why she didn’t bother to meet me?”
“Count yourself fortunate,” said Lady Petershaw with a sniff. “Louisa Litner is decidedly common.”
“Then I wonder any gentleman acknowledges her?”
Lady Petershaw had paced back to the window to glance down at the waiting carriages. “I wonder a little, too,” she said pensively, “so I’ve decided on an insurance plan.”
“An insurance plan?” echoed Isabella.
“I’m sending you in my unmarked carriage,” Lady Petershaw said, pointing at the plainer of two carriages parked on the grassy verge. “My under-coachman will drive you. Dillon’s a clever lad. I’ve instructed him to remain nearby for a fortnight.”
“Yes? To what
“And your aunt and cousin?” she said fretfully. “You’ve seen to them, ma’am?”
“Oh, yes! I wrote Lady Meredith yesterday,” Isabella said over her shoulder, “and refused her invitation to Thornhill. Indeed, I told her as much in the train station eons ago. I begin to wonder if Everett is desperate? Now, do let Lady Petershaw know if I’m needed, and she will send for me straightaway.”
“ Hmph, ” said the old woman, jerking her head toward the parlor door. “Well, I’ve put her in there, miss. Now hug my old neck before you go tearing off again. Natural philosophy, indeed!”
Isabella did, then kissed the old woman’s cheek. “What a dear thing you are,” she said. “And what would have become of those poor children without you, I shudder to think.”
“And I never thought I’d see the day you’d be so burdened,” the old woman returned, starting down the kitchen stairs. “That Sir Charlton is Old Scratch himself, and your cousin Everett and his mother are worse. They could have spared you this.”
But Isabella had long ago learnt there was no point in grieving over right and wrong. Sir Charlton had refused to support his sister’s children, or even to bring them up—not that Isabella could have borne surrendering them.
Returning her attention to Lady Petershaw’s plan, she turned, gathered her courage, then pushed open the parlor door, trying to look willing and properly grateful.
But the marchioness did not herself look willing. She turned from the windows that overlooked the lane, her beautiful face a mask of pique.
“Well, my dear, I am come as promised.” She crossed the small room to hand Isabella a folded paper. “Here is the direction and Mrs. Litner’s letter of introduction. But I shall tell you straight out, this leaves me a trifle uneasy.”
“Does it? Why?” Isabella glanced down at the address, scarcely a three-hour drive away.
The marchioness’s brow furrowed. “I cannot recall a Mr. William Mowbrey, and I know nearly everyone. I also didn’t like the look I saw in Mrs. Litner’s eyes yesterday.” She made an airy, uncertain gesture, lace swinging from her cuff. “Oh, I cannot call it fear—no, it was not that—but it came an inch too near desperation for my comfort.”
“What did she say about Mr. Mowbrey?”
Lady Petershaw snorted. “That he is thirty-something, handsome, widowed, and wildly rich, if that comforts you,” she answered.
The vision of Lord Hepplewood’s mouth hovering over hers went skittering through Isabella’s mind. What would it be like, she wondered, to go to his bed? Would the mysterious Mr. Mowbrey be as handsome?
He could not possibly be as arrogant—or as dangerous.
“I suppose handsome and widowed is better than ugly and married,” she said with a shrug.
“Very true.” The marchioness smiled. “But she admits, too, that so far as she’s seen, Mr. Mowbrey cannot be pleased; that you are the fourth or fifth young lady of grace and beauty to whom she has ‘introduced’ the gentleman—and if you will not do, she means to give up.”
“So I’m her last-ditch effort?” Isabella lifted her gaze from the paper. “Is that why she didn’t bother to meet me?”
“Count yourself fortunate,” said Lady Petershaw with a sniff. “Louisa Litner is decidedly common.”
“Then I wonder any gentleman acknowledges her?”
Lady Petershaw had paced back to the window to glance down at the waiting carriages. “I wonder a little, too,” she said pensively, “so I’ve decided on an insurance plan.”
“An insurance plan?” echoed Isabella.
“I’m sending you in my unmarked carriage,” Lady Petershaw said, pointing at the plainer of two carriages parked on the grassy verge. “My under-coachman will drive you. Dillon’s a clever lad. I’ve instructed him to remain nearby for a fortnight.”
“Yes? To what
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