Chapter 17
Morning arrived without kindness. The light that filtered through the thin curtains fell in wan stripes across Alistair’s sitting room.
Alistair himself looked much the same, wan.
He had slept with his boots on and his coat half-open, slumped sideways in the armchair as though dropped there by an impatient giant.
His hair had rebelled spectacularly. When Isla entered, he blinked, then winced, as though her presence were made of bells.
“I suppose,” she said, “you feel as though your skull were two sizes too small.”
“Three,” he groaned, hand to temple. “Och, light. Why must morning insist upon being bright?”
She ignored the complaint. “You strewed these like leaves in a gale. Edward and I spent hours sorting them.”
Alistair’s eyes cracked open at that. “Edward?”
“Yes,” Isla said, pulse tightening. “Edward.”
She did not add he left without waking me, though the thought had sat like a thorn in her chest since dawn.
She had awakened alone on the chaise in her gown, chilled, stiff, and wishing that he had spoken to her.
Even a brusque goodbye would have been better than silence.
Alistair rubbed his face with both hands and sat forward, elbows on knees.
“I scarcely remember returning to the house.”
“That’s plain,” she said dryly, depositing a stack of letters on the table. “Tell me, have these creditors always been this aggressive? They all seem in a pure rage with us.”
He made a sound that was half scoff, half sigh. “No. Well. Not for months. I settled matters with every one of them. They agreed to leniency, indulgence, even on the understanding that I meant to repay. They trusted to my honor.”
“And now?” Isla asked,
“The rents would have covered the interest once the spring leases were signed. But suddenly these vultures circle again, each with a more venomous threat than the last.”
Isla frowned, scanning the letters. “The ink is fresh. Some arrived only yesterday.”
“Aye.” Alistair’s jaw tightened. “Because someone has turned them. And I know who.”
She looked up. “Turned?”
“Persuaded them that Strathmore is no longer worth patience.” He exhaled heavily and reached across the table for a particular letter, one written in the thin, precise hand of his man of accounts.
“My steward discovered that several of the men who once offered lenience now claim … pressure. From above.”
“Above?” Isla echoed. “Meaning wealthier clients?”
He shook his head, eyes sharpening. “Meaning Glenmore.”
The name struck the air like a whip crack.
Isla sat down. “Glenmore? What reason would he have to involve himself in our affairs?”
“The same reason his family always has,” Alistair said bitterly, “which is to cause Strathmore harm whenever opportunity presents. It was so since I was a bairn, since before you were ever born.”
“But this, turning creditors?” Isla shook her head. “That is not enmity. That is … vindictiveness of another order. We’re all Jock Tamson’s weans after all.”
Alistair’s mouth twisted. “Glenmore does not see it so. To him Strathmores are less than he. And he can afford to be vindictive. His pockets are deep and his pride deeper still. If he senses advantage in our suffering, he will take it.”
Isla sifted through the remaining papers. Bills overdue. Threats wrapped in politeness. Reminders written like knives.
Isla watched him carefully. The brother she loved, the same boy who had taught her to throw stones across the burn, who had stood between her and their father’s rare rages, who carried the weight of Strathmore on shoulders not built for such burdens.
That brother now looked every inch the hunted man.
“What of Wexford?” Alistair asked.
“What of him?”
“How does he see you? Your marriage. He is a man with deeper pockets than Glenmore. He could help us. If he does not have reasons not to.”
Isla blinked.
Does Alistair know of our arguments? Of his suspicion?
“What reasons?” she asked.
He hesitated. Then sighed, defeated. “Because his mother sent word to half of London that you had ensnared him.”
Her heart constricted. “She … did what?”
“Said you were seen slipping into the stables like a lightskirt,” Alistair muttered. “Said your fall was staged. Said I encouraged it.”
Isla sat back on her heels, breath thin. “He believed her.”
“I think he would sooner trust a cannon than that woman,” Alistair said grimly, “but doubt planted is doubt grown. Edward is an honorable man, and honorable men fear deception most of all.”
Silence pooled between them. Isla closed her eyes.
For one stolen evening she had thought Edward trusted her.
Not wholly, not foolishly but enough to sit with her in the warmth of that kitchen, to drink tea and laugh at her disdain for London lace.
They had fallen asleep near one another, the faint heat of his shoulder grounding her.
She had woken warm, hopeful and foolish. And he had left without a word.
Alistair watched her face tighten and muttered, softer, “You like him.”
“I do not,” she said at once and too quickly, “remember that I was forced into this marriage.”
Her brother’s mouth twitched. “Isla. You redden faster than a struck match.”
She rose, spine stiff. “Whether I like him or not is irrelevant.”
“That,” he said, “is precisely why it matters.”
She avoided his gaze and resumed collecting papers, stacking them with neat precision to hide the tremor in her fingers.
“Alistair,” she said calmly, “these debts, these threats, they did not appear from thin air.”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “They did not.”
“Then tell me what changed.”
Alistair leaned back, eyes weary. “What changed is Glenmore has patrons, wealthy ones. And one of his most tireless advocates is none other than the Dowager Duchess of Wexford.”
Isla’s head snapped up. “Edward’s mother?”
“Aye.” His voice roughened. “You asked about her prejudice. It is worse than you think. She tolerates one particular Scot because it lets her strike against others. Namely us. Glenmore funds half her charities.”
“And she believes,” Isla murmured, “that she can burn us first.”
The thought chilled her more deeply than the morning air.
Alistair nodded. “She knows the power of a whisper in the right parlor.”
“A weapon subtler than any blade,” Isla agreed.
She sank into the chair opposite him.
What a tangle! Edward’s mother conspires against us and who knows how much of her intrigue has seeped into Edward’s mind. What seeds of doubt she has sown.
“Edward came back last night from a meeting with his solicitor. We talked and enjoyed each other’s company. But he left without a word this morning,” Isla said.
“He returned here ready to confront you,” Alistair said, “because he learned something of the gossip half of London is whispering and left because he feared what he felt.”
Her eyes lifted sharply. “Felt?”
Alistair was watching her sharply through the pain of an alcohol haze.
“Isla,” he said, rubbing his brow, “the man carried you through a ballroom. Stood against the ton for you. Raced after you in Hyde Park. Shouted himself hoarse defending you to half of London. Men do not do these things out of duty alone.”
Her heart performed a painful, treacherous flutter. She quelled it at once.
Weesht! I’ll no be made a fool of!
“He mistrusts me,” she said firmly.
“He mistrusts everyone,” Alistair corrected. “It is a habit of men who have commanded ships. But he mistrusts you less than most.”
Less than most. What an exquisite misery that is.
“I tell myself it does not matter,” she said, “our lives are already entangled. Whether he doubts me or not cannot change that.”
“But it can change everything,” Alistair muttered, rising with a groan. “If he doubts you in marriage, it will be a misery for you both.”
“Then I shall make certain he does not,” she said, deciding it as she spoke it.
Alistair blinked. “You mean to confront him?”
“No. Not confront.” Her voice steadied. “Clarify.”
“And if he does not believe you?”
“I’ll survive,” she said, forcing a smile she did not feel. “I can survive doubt.”
Alistair snorted despite himself. “If you speak to him, do so with care. Wexford is like a gunpowder magazine. One wrong spark…”
“… can blow the roof off,” she finished, “aye. I noticed.”
He eyed the bloodless pallor in her cheeks. “Are you certain you wish to speak to him today?”
“Yes.”
Because the alternative, letting suspicion fester between them was worse. Alistair watched her with brotherly exasperation softening into affection.
“You’re determined.”
“I am,” Isla said, looking down at her hands. “I must understand what he believes. And what he fears.”
“And what you feel?” Alistair asked quietly.
She swallowed. “That least of all.”
He rose unsteadily. “Then God help the both of you.”
***
An hour later Isla stood in the foyer of Portman Square, bonnet in hand, cloak fastened tight, the door open to the sweep of the street. A footman waited with her gloves. She slipped them on with steady fingers and said, “Have the carriage brought round. I am going to Wexford House.”
The footman bowed and hurried off.
Isla inhaled the clear, cool air of the street and stepped onto the front step, spine straight, the faintest tremor hidden beneath layers of resolve.
Edward Ravenscroft would have his doubts answered.
And she would finally learn whether his mistrust was armor or accusation.
Either way, the storm between them would break today.