A Heart Devoted (The Penn-Leiths of Thistle Muir #5)

FOURTEEN

14

L ady Lavinia was either a rabble-rouser or a madwoman fit for Bedlam.

Isolde formed this theory over the following days in an attempt to explain the woman’s vindictive behavior. Or perhaps Lady Lavinia truly was part ferret and reveled in chaos.

Regardless, Isolde couldn’t find a single logical reason for Lady Lavinia’s continued unprovoked attacks. What did the woman hope to gain?

Isolde was already married to Tristan. No amount of outside torment or chicanery could change that fact. Furthermore, Isolde had already been branded as eccentric and scandalous by the ton . What further damage did Lady Lavinia hope to accomplish? Or was it as Isolde suspected—Lady Lavinia simply relished cruelty?

Evidence of the lady’s malice grew daily.

For example, Isolde’s beloved, dog-eared copy of Jane Austen’s Persuasion was found waterlogged on the terrace in the back garden.

The pin of her favorite brooch was bent in half where it lay on her dressing table.

Her calling card case was emptied of its contents, resulting in Isolde appearing an idiot when she went to leave a card for Lady Grosvenor and had to stammer a reason as to why she had no card to give.

An itching powder found its way into Isolde’s favorite pair of gloves. But when Tristan asked Isolde why her hands had become red and swollen with hives, she told him a half-truth about spilling the powder herself.

What was she to do? Isolde was at war with a hostile force. She knew she could easily call in Tristan’s heavy artillery to win the battle for her. But if Isolde was to be a successful duchess, she needed to fight her own battles.

Of a surety, she had dealt with jealous and vengeful female rivals in the past. Her first year at Broadhurst College had been particularly fraught. As the only member of the British aristocracy at the school, Isolde found herself ostracized, teased, and bullied at times for her differences. For example, she spent her entire freshman year being called Ginger Biscuit because fellow students found the quirkiness of her vocabulary amusing, particularly when it came to gingersnaps. One particularly unpleasant student had even crushed a handful of the cookies , as Americans called them, atop her sheets.

The problem now, of course, was that the enemy lived under Isolde’s own roof and was considered a member of the family.

Regardless, Isolde took countermeasures.

She ensured that all her staff knew to monitor Lady Lavinia’s whereabouts and actions every time the woman left her room. Furthermore, all occupied bed chambers were locked, and the keys were kept in the bedroom owners’ pockets and Mrs. Wilson’s chatelaine.

Most helpfully, Isolde had an important ally in her sister-in-law. Isolde wouldn’t enlist Tristan’s help, but his twin was another matter.

From her bedroom two stories up, Allie had witnessed Lady Lavinia deliberately drop Persuasion into a puddle on the terrace flagstones and had raced to tell Isolde about it.

“Lady Lavinia is horrid,” Allie declared, looping her arm through Isolde’s. “She will rue the day she declared war on us. Rue! I declare. She hasn’t the slightest understanding of her enemy. We Gilberts do not take a brazen attack lightly.”

Isolde had hugged Allie, grateful to have a capable comrade-in-arms beside her in battle.

Allie had spent years as a revolutionary in Italy—performing clandestine operations, robbing wealthy nobles, and gathering intelligence through underhanded means. To say Tristan’s twin was cunning would be a gross understatement. She was a mistress of chaos—harboring nerves of steel, a penchant for mayhem, and a rather loose relationship with legality.

Consequently, not one but three frogs found their way into the pockets of Lady Lavinia’s favorite gowns. One made an appearance while Lady Lavinia was riding to visit her modiste. The coachman reported that her screeches could be heard for blocks, and a wee crowd gathered in alarm only to break into laughter when a warty toad leaped from Lady Lavinia’s pocket in a desperate bid for freedom.

Somehow, Allie ensured a tiny amount of tartar emetic was deposited in Lady Lavinia’s wine glass during a dinner with Lord and Lady Lockheade and Lord and Lady Hadley. In the middle of the dessert course, Lady Lavinia lurched from her seat and raced from the room, only for the entire party to hear the terrible sound of retching echoing beyond the dining room.

One day, as Cousin Aubrey and Lady Lavinia strolled the shops along Oxford Circus, a street performer followed them around for nearly an hour, making flatulent noises and gagging sounds, much to the delight of onlookers.

But Lady Lavinia proved a formidable opponent.

Slanderous rumors began to spread through the ton , enlarging on the scant details of Jarvis and Isolde’s romance and even hinting that Isolde had borne an out-of-wedlock child. All false, of course, but Isolde had to tolerate hissing whispers during visiting hours and the occasional dinner party.

Allie had been so incensed on Isolde’s behalf that Lady Lavinia had found her favorite perfume bottle full of cat urine when next she applied the scent.

Isolde wasn’t sure she could bear more escalation in this wee war. The strain of constantly looking over her shoulder wore on her soul. Her stomach churned, and exhaustion rested heavily on her shoulders. Just the thought of having to attend the same event as Lady Lavinia left Isolde nervous and swallowing back tears.

“Stiff upper lip,” Allie said repeatedly. “Lady Lavinia intends to unpin the very fabric of your existence—to send you scurrying from public life entirely. That is her ultimate goal. She must not see even the slightest muscle twitch in your face.”

Isolde had nodded numbly in agreement, but truthfully, every muscle in her body twitched, not just those in her face.

Tristan continued his hunt for Ledger. His notice in the London Times had resulted in dozens of messages, sending him chasing across the city most days. But so far, every clue had been fraudulent. His secretary had vanished into thin air.

However, Isolde knew he sympathized with her trials. A taxidermied ferret appeared one morning on the mantel in the breakfast room. Tristan had glanced at it knowingly, a mischievous smile in his eyes, as he pulled a chair out for her to sit. The next afternoon, Isolde discovered the ferret had moved to the library mantel. Each day, she would find the ferret in a different post. The wee private joke between herself and Tristan lifted her spirits and gave her strength to stay the course.

The ball was now only two and a half weeks away, and Isolde was counting down the days. The date glowed in her mind, an enchanted door beyond which lay freedom.

She had finished addressing all the invitations and ensured they had been hand-delivered by trusted footmen. Thankfully, she could say that Lady Lavinia had not interfered with the invitations.

But what about the ball itself? With each passing day and every hour spent in preparations, Isolde fretted. Fredericks and Mrs. Wilson were on high alert, even going so far as to station a footman at the kitchen door to ensure that no one meddled in the preparation of foodstuffs.

At least Isolde’s performance on the ballroom floor would be better than she had anticipated, thanks to Tristan’s tutelage.

“We shall practice every morning after breakfast,” he had declared two days after the wood-chopping incident as they spent a welcome few minutes together in his private study.

“So often?” Isolde frowned. “Do you truly consider my dancing skills to be so lacking?”

“I cannot say, as you and I have never danced.” He leaned in on a chuckle. “But I am shameless in seizing any excuse to spend more time in your company.”

Isolde had smiled and kissed him thoroughly as a reward.

Fortunately, Tristan hadn’t lied about his dancing prowess. As requested, they began practicing in the ballroom, Mrs. Wilson accompanying them on the pianoforte.

Dancing was significantly easier under Tristan’s instruction. Isolde was starting to think that perhaps she hadn’t been properly motivated in the past. Suffering through lessons with Mac or James was a far cry from twirling in her husband’s strong arms. Granted, she still had to concentrate intently, counting the beat as sure as an orchestra conductor, but her feet and brain were slowly learning to cooperate with each other.

“You glide like an angel,” Tristan said, pulling her into a tight spin as they waltzed one morning only seventeen days before the ball.

The extravagance of Tristan’s words caused her to stumble and miss the beat.

“Tristan!” she laughed. “What have I said about flowery praise? I can’t keep count when ye say such things.”

“I am unrepentant, Wife. You must learn to endure outrageous compliments as you dance, as I am sure you will receive many during our ball.”

Och , this dear man.

He spun her again, and this time, Isolde managed to follow his lead. Mrs. Wilson continued to play, though her knowing smile said she had overheard their flirtatious conversation.

“You have mastered the waltz, I think,” he continued. “Shall we move on to the mazurka next?”

“Do ye think I’m ready?”

“Of course. I suggest we start with—”

Bang.

The ballroom door opened with force.

Both Isolde and Tristan jumped at the sound. Mrs. Wilson’s playing stumbled to a halt.

Lady Lavinia stomped into the ballroom. A lock of her hair stood out jet black against the brown of its neighbors—a discoloration courtesy of Allie secreting ink black onto Lady Lavinia’s hair brush earlier this morning.

Lavinia shot daggers at Isolde, before aiming her gaze at Tristan.

“Your Grace,” she said shortly, “might I have a word?”

Given how Tristan’s arm tensed where it encircled Isolde’s waist, he clearly found the lady’s intrusion as offensive as Isolde did.

“If you wish,” he replied, his expression and voice instantly becoming that of the toneless Duke of Kendall.

Lady Lavinia’s eyes drifted to Mrs. Wilson at the pianoforte in the corner, and then back to Isolde tucked against Tristan’s side, before raising her eyes to his once more.

“ Alone , if I could, Your Grace,” Lady Lavinia said.

“As I have repeatedly stated, Lady Lavinia, anything you have to say can be said in the presence of my wife and staff.”

Lady Lavinia clenched her jaw. “It is a private matter.”

“If the matter is so private that it cannot be said in front of my wife, then I daresay it is not something I should be privy to regardless.”

Lady Lavinia’s gaze flickered to Isolde and then back again. The lady clearly wished to complain about Isolde herself. She nearly snorted at the woman’s effrontery. As if Tristan would side with Lady Lavinia on anything.

“I merely thought . . .” Lady Lavinia took in a deep breath. “I merely thought Your Grace should be apprised of what is being said.”

“Being . . . said?” Tristan repeated slowly.

“Yes.” Lady Lavinia’s eyes darted meaningfully toward Isolde.

Tristan went terrifyingly still at Isolde’s side. “I dislike your undertone, Lady Lavinia. Are you implying that I should give heed to scurrilous gossip regarding my duchess?”

“Not all gossip is scurrilous, Your Grace.”

Isolde started to doubt Lady Lavinia’s intellect and sanity. Was she a madwoman? How could she still think that Tristan’s loyalty could be swayed? Heaven knew Isolde had said plenty of terrible things about the Duke of Kendall over the years—and he about her in return—but since those days on the Isle of Canna, Isolde had never once doubted his adoration of her. He would always take her side. Over anyone and everyone else.

“Lady Lavinia,” Tristan’s tone crackled with the hauteur of the generations of arrogant dukes who had come before him, “I fear you are not quite understanding the lay of the land here. All vulgar gossip is libelous if it involves my wife. I do not care what is being said. They are lies spread by jealous, spiteful tongues. And anyone who wishes to remain under my roof would be wise to repudiate such falsehoods if and when they are heard.”

“Your Grace, truly—”

“Am I clear, Lady Lavinia?” Tristan held the woman’s gaze with his steely one. Isolde knew precisely how unnerving that look could be.

Lady Lavinia’s chest heaved, and she shot another daggered look at Isolde.

“You may go.” Tristan dismissed his cousin’s wife with a final withering glance and then turned his back on her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson, for your accompaniment,” he said to the housekeeper. “We shall let you return to your tasks.”

Mrs. Wilson stood, curtsied, and quietly slipped from the room.

Lady Lavinia, however, remained rooted in place, nostrils flaring.

Utterly ignoring her, Tristan turned to Isolde, gazing into her eyes. She saw the outrage and mischief lingering there. Never let it be said that Allie was the twin with the greatest penchant for mayhem. As if to emphasize the point, Tristan pulled Isolde tightly against his chest, cupped the back of her neck, and kissed her. A hungry, fervent sort of kiss that Isolde knew was meant to taunt Lady Lavinia with what she would never have.

Isolde heard a rustle of silk skirts, followed by the ballroom door shutting with a loud thunk.

She burst into giggles, pressing her forehead to Tristan’s chin.

“I can’t say that is the response I had hoped for my kiss,” Tristan murmured. “I should probably try harder.”

“You are terrible, Tristan.”

“I truly am.” He placed a mock hand over his chest. “Some enterprising lady should reform me.”

“Not Lady Lavinia, I hope.”

“Never.” He shuddered. “I had a significantly more beautiful lady in mind.”

“Did ye now?”

“Absolutely. Besides, what is the point of being a duke if I can’t clear a room in order to ravish my wife?”

Isolde grinned. “No point at all.”

Tristan kissed her again, and Isolde tried to ignore her niggling worry. Lady Lavinia had been left seething and humiliated.

What dreadful retribution would she conjure next?

With every passing day, Tristan loathed London more.

Isolde suffered. Oh, she hid it well and refused to let him see how Lady Lavinia’s presence wore on her, but Tristan understood regardless. The smudges under his wife’s eyes continued to grow and her appetite seemed off.

Stubborn woman.

Perhaps he should kidnap her away regardless. To hell with London and the Lady Lavinias of the ton.

But he had given Isolde his word that he would permit her to fight this battle, and he would honor his vow, no matter how taxing.

Consequently, he focused on spending as much time as possible with his wife, trying to fill her hours with non-Lavinia activities whenever he could. They danced for an hour each morning. And in the afternoons and evenings, if matters permitted, he took Isolde driving in Hyde Park and escorted her to soirées and dinners.

When he was not with her, he spent the occasional afternoon with Hadley or Penn-Leith. But mostly, Tristan chopped wood and chased information about Ledger as it arrived. He was slowly losing faith that the situation with his former secretary would resolve happily. Surely, Ledger had suffered some calamity or become a victim of violence.

Or, perhaps, he led a secret life—one that his friends and family weren’t privy to. He wouldn’t be the first man to do so. But surely the contents of his personal trunk would have hinted at such a thing. The more Tristan examined Ledger’s disappearance, it was as if the man had simply stepped out of the door of Gilbert House and vanished into the ether.

Yes, Tristan’s notice in the newspaper had elicited messages and suggestions, but nothing had come of it so far. Most who responded were fraudsters attempting to earn a coin through lies. Yet, tracking each snippet of information down gave Tristan a sense of purpose, a rhythm to his days.

Something had to come of it. Tristan refused to give up hope.