Ashlyn Macnamara Read online

  At the idea, she stiffened.

  “Come into the house, and we’ll see if Biggles ever made us a pot of tea.” She pulled out of the embrace and attempted a smile—a hostess’s sort of smile, one that would have done her father proud, if she succeeded. She feared she’d managed no more than a grimace.

  George—heavens, she was referring to him by his given name in her head—gave her an odd look, somewhere between a question and approval. “A cup of tea would be just the thing.”

  HE hated tea, unless it was liberally laced with brandy, hated the stuff because it reminded him of social calls where his mother forced him to sit and make stilted conversation with retiring young misses fresh from the schoolroom. Come to think of it, he wasn’t much for scones, either, and those fussy little slices of toasted bread bedecked with cucumber and watercress turned his stomach.

  Thank God Isabelle’s kitchen contained none of those transgressions—only a stone-cold teapot and a flustered Biggles.

  “Ye didn’t find hide nor hair of him?” Her hands twisted a tattered bit of linen—no doubt it had been a handkerchief in its misspent youth. “Oh my poor, poor Jack, spirited from his bed. And what can we do? They’ll have all night to take him Lord knows where, and then we’ll be in a pickle. And what could anyone have wanted with a mere little scrap like that?”

  She sank to a bench by the fireplace. “What is the world coming to that strangers make off with children in the night?”

  Isabelle let out a choked sound and pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

  “That will do.” George looked hard at the older woman. “No sense in working yourself into a dither. We need to think about this.”

  “And while we’re thinking, that poor boy is getting farther and farther away,” Biggles muttered.

  “No, I don’t believe that’s the case.”

  Isabelle pulled her fist away from her mouth. “What makes you say so?”

  “There wasn’t a sign of a carriage in the road. No hoof prints if they went off on horseback. No sign at all. They have to be on foot, and if they are, how far can they get with a small boy who’s used to sleeping at this time of night? No, whoever did this is still nearby. They probably won’t move before sunrise.”

  Isabelle’s eyes glittered as they hardened into a glare. “Then why aren’t we out trying to find them before they discover a better hiding spot?”

  “How do you propose we do that in the dark? We’ve searched this property and the nearby lanes as well as we may. Are you prepared to rouse your neighbors with a search?”

  “No.” She heaved a telling sigh. Given her situation, her neighbors might not be so inclined to help, at least, not in the middle of the night.

  He laid a hand over hers. “As soon as it’s light we’ll try again, and then, if we’ve still found nothing, we’ll bring in the others.”

  THE butler’s glance landed on her, and his eyes narrowed. Isabelle drew her shawl more securely about her shoulders. She ought to have anticipated the reaction. Even in the country, the servants judged her. One look, and they knew, as if the words “scarlet woman” were embroidered across her forehead.

  Granted, it didn’t speak for her respectability that she turned up at the front door of the manor at sunrise, hair astraggle, still dressed in yesterday’s garments, trailing after Mr. Upperton. Yes, as long as she was at the manor, she must think of him in polite terms. Distant terms. Nothing so intimate as a given name must pass through her mind, much less cross her tongue.

  As it was, the women would put their heads together and whisper. No need to fuel their speculations by treating George—Mr. Upperton—as anything more than a helpful stranger.

  “Is Revelstoke about?”

  The butler snapped his attention to George and drew himself up until the top of his head nearly reached George’s chin. What he lacked in size he more than made up for in imperiousness. He sniffed, actually sniffed at George. Her father would have given their own butler a sharp reprimand for such an offense to a guest.

  “I shall have to inquire.” Frost edged his reply. The man turned and left them standing on the doorstep.

  “Can you imagine that?” George muttered. “The fellow suddenly thinks he’s in Grosvenor Square and not in the wilds of Kent.”

  Isabelle cleared her throat. “Perhaps I ought to leave. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what—”

  “Hush.” He turned to face her and curled his fingers about her shoulder. Warmth seeped through the layers of fabric separating his flesh from hers. Thank goodness. Direct contact would be as hot as a brand. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. You need company to distract you, and I can provide that while we look for Jack.”

  She shrugged, but his grip merely tightened. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

  “What makes you say such a thing?”

  “Be honest. You’re friends with the man’s employer, are you not?”

  “Yes, of course. Revelstoke and I have known each other since our school days.”

  “And has he ever left you cooling your heels outside before? He does know who you are.”

  George’s brows lowered. “Certainly he knows who I am. He’s been with the family for years. I might have walked right in just now, but for—”

  “But for me, which explains why we haven’t at least been shown into the foyer.”

  He dropped his hand and focused on some object over her shoulder—a tree or perhaps the gamesman’s house they’d passed on the way up the sweeping drive.

  “You can’t come up with a good answer to that, can you?” she pressed. “Or you won’t because you don’t wish to insult me. They know. Even the servants take one look at me and they know. What are the ladies here going to make of me?”

  “Revelstoke’s wife isn’t like that.” Isabelle shook her head, but George continued, “Give her a chance, will you? Once she hears what has happened, she’ll be all sympathy.”

  “Once she hears what has happened, she may well consider I only got what I deserved. Oh, she’ll be too polite to say so, but she’ll think it. They all will.”

  “You are insulting a dear friend of mine by even implying such a thing, and sight unseen, no less.”

  “Is she such a paragon she’d overlook a fallen woman with a bastard son?”

  “Has it ever occurred to you to lie about your circumstances? Say you’re a widow. Who would be the wiser?”

  Heaven only knew she’d thought of such a ruse on her arrival in the village, and she’d tried to hide her relationship to Jack through appearances. Only her ingrained pride had kept her from lying outright.

  Rather than admit to that, she diverted the subject. “Why are you doing this?”

  He shook his head slightly. “Doing what?”

  “Helping me? Last night was one thing, but this …”

  “What a thing to ask,” he practically spluttered. “What sort of gentleman would I be if I left a lady in distress?”

  What sort indeed? The sort that expected something in return. She opened her mouth to retort, but the butler’s reappearance stopped the words cold.

  “Lord Benedict is out at the stables at this hour. I’ve sent the hall boy to fetch him. I daresay you might await him in his study. As for your companion—”

  At the hesitation, Isabelle’s cheeks burned.

  “This is Mrs. Mears,” George broke in. “She lives in the village.”

  “I believe most are aware of Miss Mears’s situation.”

  A hollowing in George’s cheek belied sudden tension in his jaw. “It’s a disgrace to your profession to pay such heed to gossip. Mrs. Mears is here on a matter of utmost urgency. Now, you will let her pass, or I shall not be responsible for my actions.”

  The butler stepped aside, but his eyes glinted. Clearly, he did not approve, but he’d already trod too close to the line of insolence. “She might await you in the foyer.”

  “She will accompany me to Revelstoke’s study. What I need to discuss with him c
oncerns her. And I might recommend it does not concern you in the least.” George stalked past the butler, his Hessians thumping loudly across the parquet.

  The cavernous hall stretched toward the back of the manor, the ceiling soaring to twelve feet and yet, to Isabelle, the space felt confined and comfortless. The stone of the outer walls imprisoned the chill air from the Channel. Dankness crept into her bones.

  What sort of people would tolerate life in such a dreary pile of stone high on a cliff, exposed to the ravages of the sea wind? A shiver passed down her spine. The man might well be a friend of George’s, but once he realized who she was, he’d cast the sort of speculative eye any other man did, a leisurely perusal that began and ended with her breasts and made her all too conscious of her shame.

  And his paragon of a wife would take note—they always did—and cast her own sort of speculative eye on Isabelle. A supposition, a judgment, and a warning. You succumbed to temptation once; you’d best not tempt my husband to stray. The shopkeepers’ and artisans’ wives in the village were bad enough. How much worse would a daughter of the ton treat her?

  “Good God, where have you been all night?”

  A broad-shouldered man clad in tight breeches and boots strode down the hall to meet them. Black hair flopped roguishly over his brow. Then he noticed her. His perusal swept over her from head to foot and back, coming to rest on her face. No doubt her countenance was haggard enough to draw his attention from her other attributes.

  His eyes flitted from her to George and back again, while one dark eyebrow eased heavenward. “And who might this be?”

  His tone was as cool as his glance, the speculative note nearly lost behind the casual façade. Nearly, but not quite. By all appearances, she’d just passed the night with this man’s friend.

  “This is Isabelle Mears. Mrs. Mears, Lord Benedict.”

  At the blatant lie, she nearly forgot to incline her head. She hadn’t asked it of him. It was one thing to alter the truth for the butler; his friend was another matter. Indeed, the lie made her look just as bad as the truth, since it implied she’d just passed the night committing adultery.

  “And haven’t I seen you somewhere?” Revelstoke asked. “You look familiar.”

  “I live in the village, my lord. Perhaps ye’ve seen me selling my sachets and posies. Believe I’ve sold a few to yer lady wife.” She did her best to imitate Biggles and the other locals, but she didn’t know if she could carry off the sham for an extended period of time. Her cultured, tonish accent was too deeply engrained.

  Upperton narrowed his eyes at her, but she ignored him. If he could lie without warning, then she could dashed well carry herself off as a servant. In any case, servants stood a greater chance at passing unnoticed, and that was what she wished now in the presence of these titled people. To escape their scrutiny. To escape their judgment.

  Upperton cleared his throat. “Mrs. Mears’s son has gone missing. I thought to enlist your help as someone of influence in the community, and if not, at least you’ve another pair of eyes.”

  “I’ll do you better than that. You can have my brother and brother-in-law as well. And any other guest you might name.” He turned to Isabelle. “Do not worry, madam. We’ll find your boy safe and sound.”

  She curtsied. “I thank ye, my lord.”

  “Allow me to show you into the morning room. My wife and her sister will keep you company.”

  “Oh no, my lord. I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”

  “I insist. A little company will help you pass the time.”

  She caught her lip between her teeth and inclined her head once more to hide the reaction. She could only let him see gratitude, not consternation. What had given her away and so quickly? If she’d really been a servant or villager, a woman reduced to selling what she could grow in her garden for a few pence, he would never have addressed her as madam and proposed she keep company with his wife. He ought to have sent her to the kitchen with others of her station.

  But no, he insisted, and with one hand, he gestured to the corridor that led to the back of the house. She had no choice but to let him usher her into an airy room. Beams held up a high vaulted ceiling, and the morning sunlight fractured into a multitude of rays as it shone through two large diamond-paned windows. A fire crackled on the hearth. The air here was fresh with the scent of summer flowers—honeysuckle, lavender, and rose. Fresh-cut bouquets adorned several tables scattered about the room.

  Near the windows, in twin armchairs, sat two women, close enough to Isabelle’s age. One was blond-haired and blue-eyed with flawless skin, a true diamond of the first water, fit to grace any ton ballroom.

  “Julia, my dear.” Surprisingly, Lord Benedict addressed the second lady—no less lovely, but her darker hair and eyes made her looks pale in comparison to her sister. “This is Mrs. Mears from the village, and she has lost her young son.”

  “Oh dear.” His wife rose from her seat with difficulty, hampered by her swollen belly. “How awful for you. We must do everything within our power to get him back.”

  “I’m about to organize a search party with the other men,” Lord Benedict informed her. “Would you mind terribly if Mrs. Mears joined you and the other ladies?”

  “Yes, you must join us.” This from the as-yet-nameless sister.

  Other ladies? But of course there were more of them. The pair in front of her seemed friendly enough, but Isabelle didn’t actually remember them from her former life. Odd, that. At least one of them must have been out during her short-lived season. If neither one of them recognized her, she might stand a chance—at least until the others joined them.

  “Do sit.” Lady Benedict indicated a settee opposite her chair.

  Isabelle perched on the very edge of the seat.

  “You poor dear,” said the blonde. “You must be worried sick. How did you come to lose your son?”

  “I cannot say. I went into his chamber, just to look on him, and he was gone.”

  “Gracious!” She placed a hand over her heart. “Stolen straight from his bed.”

  Lady Benedict sat beside Isabelle and took her hand. My yes, the woman was a paragon. “And you didn’t hear a thing?”

  “No, my lady. I’m afraid not.” Isabelle gritted her teeth and willed Lady Benedict to probe no further. She could hardly admit the real reason she’d heard nothing.

  “Call me Julia.”

  “Yes, and you must call me Sophia,” added the blonde. “We can hardly stand on ceremony under the circumstances.”

  Isabelle would not cry. She would not. She’d no reason at all to let herself get worked up over the sympathy these women showed her, when, once they learned the truth, their manner would change.

  “And what shall we call you?” Julia asked.

  “Isabelle.” She folded her hands in her lap to stop their trembling and waited for the reaction. Not so common a name, hers, and they might have heard the gossip. Even if she didn’t remember them, they may have heard of her and for all the wrong reasons.

  Neither sister’s concerned expression wavered in the slightest. Sophia took up an embroidery frame and stabbed a needle into it. Julia picked up a small bell, and its tinkle echoed through the room. “We shall have tea in no time, and perhaps the others will join us presently. They’re not so used to country hours.”

  God willing, they’d sleep the day away so she wouldn’t have to face any of them.

  The teacart arrived, and Julia pressed a cup on her, along with fresh scones, jam, and clotted cream—luxuries she’d foregone for six years, along with proper tea from Ceylon. She couldn’t possibly stomach the richness. Not when her mind kept turning to Jack. Raised on Biggles’s good bread and solid country fare, the boy yearned for iced cakes from the baker’s. Isabelle could never afford such. She broke off a corner of her scone and crumbled it between her fingers.

  Julia stayed her stream of small talk and leaned forward. “How I go on. Your mind is on your son, of course.”

  �
�I’m only thinking how Jack would love a bit of scone. And chocolate. He’s never had hot chocolate.” She pushed her plate away. “I’m sorry. I’m sure they’re lovely, but I fear I have no appetite.”

  “I should say not,” Sophia said. “If I lost my Frederick, I’m sure I don’t know what I’d do. Bad enough I’ve left him with his nurse. I’ve never left him alone for so long since he was born.”

  “How old is he?” Isabelle asked.

  “Three this November, and such a clever boy.” A prideful smile tugged at her lips for a brief moment. “Highgate’s taught him his letters already and means him to write his name before his next birthday.”

  “Highgate?” Isabelle clamped her mouth shut before she could blurt out anything more.

  “Why yes, he’s my husband.” Sophia’s smile stretched her cheeks even wider. “Do you know him?”

  Only by reputation, but doubtless the rumors were exaggerated. But if the talk of him killing his first wife and becoming a recluse as a result had been bandied about enough to reach her ears, what sort of gossip had circulated about her? What sort was still whispered behind lacy fans and gloved hands in scandalized undertones?

  So brazen, that Isabelle. She never went to the continent, you know. She’s disappeared into the country to raise her natural son. The father wouldn’t even offer for her. No one will have her now, not even her own family. Such prospects she had. An heir to a dukedom going to offer any day, and she threw it all away.

  All of it true. She had thrown it all away, but at the time, she couldn’t imagine facing a future tied to that man. Tied to that life.

  “We’ve never been introduced, my lady.” Isabelle pretended to sip at her tea. Of course they wouldn’t have been introduced. Not if she was moldering in the country.

  Sophia—Lady Highgate—leaned over to lay a steady hand on her arm. “Now, none of that. You must consider yourself among friends here.”

  Isabelle had no chance to reply, for at that moment, several other ladies entered the morning room. House guests. Members of the ton. Isabelle studied her teacup, while Julia and Sophia greeted the new arrivals. Carefully, she cast glances at each one, but none of the faces seemed familiar.