Chapter 9
Isadore stared at the spreading stain of tea from the cup George had knocked from her hand.
She was not particularly attached to the carpets in her Grosvenor Street townhouse.
This had been her brother-in-law's residence until her husband died.
George had taken over the St. James Square house she'd shared with Gregory and her son, Jeremy.
He felt the smaller Grosvenor Street house suited her better.
She continued to watch the stain spread and soak into the thick Aubusson.
A quick glance to her left revealed Giselle standing demurely at the parlor door, that arrogant smirk firmly affixed to her lips.
Isadore drew in a long breath through her nose and at last raised her head to meet George Fitz-Wilton's furious gaze.
"I was not aware I was to be a prisoner in my own home, George."
He stopped mid-sentence no doubt shocked at her interruption of his denigration of her character. Not to mention her use of his Christian name in front of the servants. In addition to Giselle, two footmen and the slithering, toadying butler, Cribbs, were in the room.
"The servants are here for your protection, madam. They cannot protect you if they do not know where you are. I will ask you again, where were you last night? Your maid informs me you did not sleep in your bed. You are well aware of the importance of your reputation. Horace Sutton--"
"Horace Sutton would marry a Seven Dials brothel keeper if you told him to do so.
I'll match my reputation to his any day.
" Isadore fIxed her gaze on each of the servants in turn.
"And the only danger these lackeys of yours are keeping me safe from is making a single move without your knowledge.
" She treaded on dangerous ground but it was worth it to see his minions shocked expressions.
"You will answer my question, you prideful bitch," George growled as he reached down and dragged her to her feet by her wrist. She winced at the crushing power of his grip. She'd be damned if she cried out or even tried to wrest her way free.
"I attended Lady Drusilla Beauchamp's reading salon.
As it was late when I returned home, I slept in the green bedchamber at the back of the third floor so as not to disturb the servants.
You are certainly welcome to go to the Duke of Devonworth's home and interrogate his daughter.
Though I doubt that will endear you to either the duke or his daughter.
" She stared pointedly at his hand still squeezed around her wrist. He released her and shoved her back down into her chair.
"Go," he snapped at Giselle. "Check the condition of that bedchamber.
" The maid flounced out of the room in high dudgeon.
Isadore refused to rub her burning wrist. She poured herself a fresh cup of tea and made a great show of adding milk and sugar before she took a long sip.
The French ormolu clock on the mantle ticked away the minutes.
She'd had years of practice playing the serene lady completely unmoved by the misery that was her life first with Gregory and now under his brother George's thumb.
She had slept in the green bedchamber after Ban Dyer had set her down at the mews gate behind her house an hour or so before dawn.
Though her sleep had been fitful at best. In the full light of day, however, she'd decided to find another way to save Jeremy.
Isadore told herself the decision came of her horror at the deaths of those two men last night.
Mister Dyer was a dangerous man, and she had enough danger in her life.
The fact he'd kissed her as she'd never been kissed in her life had nothing to do with it.
He was vulgar, cold, and had no care for life nor fear of death.
He was the very last person on whom she needed to depend for anything.
Giselle stormed back into the parlor on her dainty little feet and offered George a saucy curtsy. The only female servants in Isadore's house he wasn't tupping were likely the cook and the housekeeper.
"It is as she says," the maid sneered, making no effort to show Isadore an ounce of respect.
Not that it mattered. The only thing she wanted from the little French tart was for her to leave and never come back, along with the rest of the servants.
Trying to find Jeremy was nigh on impossible living in this cage of a house.
"From now on, Isadore, you will let your servants know where you are going. What would I tell poor Jeremy if I allowed anything to happen to his Mama?"
She made him no answer. "Cribbs, show your master out, will you? I'm tired and wish to rest this afternoon."
"Isadore, this truculent behavior does not become you."
"Blackmail does not become you, George, but we each have our cross to bear.
Good day." She stood and left the room and him as gracefully and elegantly as she'd been raised to do.
No easy task when her legs quaked like jelly.
Once she got to the first-floor landing she stepped behind a large fern on a pedestal at the balustrade.
George, Cribbs, and Giselle made their way toward the back of the house.
They were going to the mews rather than the front door where George's carriage should be waiting.
Good.
Whip would be waiting to overhear their conversation.
He was quite good at playing the napping coachman.
Even better, with everyone except Isadore he pretended to be nearly deaf.
If he heard anything of significance, he'd come up the servants' stairs and leave a note for her in Jeremy's bedchamber on the third floor.
Isadore had played the hysterical mother and insisted a room be fixed in the house with all of her son's possessions.
No one was to enter, not even to clean. Servants who saw her going in and out of the room ignored her, especially if she left with a large, lacy handkerchief pressed to her face.
She no longer wept for Jeremy. She allowed her sorrow and fear to turn to rage. In that much, she suspected she and Ban Dyer were alike. What would he think when she sent no word to him at The Angel?
Isadore picked up Whip's scrawled message and stared at the words for the tenth time in the last hour.
She'd discovered the note in Jeremy's room not long after George had left.
She'd sat frozen in disbelief for she knew not how long.
How she'd managed to go downstairs for dinner and pretend that all was well was another mystery she had no time to solve.
The meal had been unusually decent and the servants attentive, which sent her suspicions into the realm of the absolutely inevitable in light of her belief in what Whip had overheard.
Missus,
Fitz-Wilton up to something.
Planning to move Master Jeremy to Sutton's estate in Devonshire.
Sometime in the next three weeks.
Told that lightskirt Frenchie maid to have you ready to go then too.
Will see you wed in Devonshire.
Marriage papers including your will already drawn up by Sutton's solicitor.
You need to get shed of this house now.
W
Now, as she sat at Jeremy's desk and composed a note to be delivered to her friend, Drusilla, once again, she forced her fear to turn to a fury that thew all caution to the wind.
She finished the missive, sanded, and sealed it.
Whip would deliver the message into Drusilla's hand.
Her friend was used to dealing with difficult, overbearing men.
She would look George Fitz-Wilton in the eye and swear that Isadore was staying with her, but was too unwell to receive him.
A man looking to climb the social ladder would never dare to impugn the word of a duke's daughter.
Drusilla knew some of Isadore's difficulties with George, but not all.
She was the sort of friend who did not pry but would take a friend's secrets to the grave.
At this point, the less she knew about Isadore's plan, the better.
She tucked the note into her bodice and went to the window that overlooked the alley that ran along the side of the house.
Whip raised his head and tapped the brim of his hat.
When George had forced her to move into this house, her wardrobe of widow's weeds had been packed and put away in her bedchamber by Giselle.
The clothes she'd worn before Gregory's death had been packed into a series of portmanteaus and stored in Jeremy's room.
Isadore dragged several of the tapestry fabric bags to the window, lowered each one as far as she could and dropped them into Whip's waiting arms. He gathered them up and headed to the front of the house.
He'd left the carriage several houses down in the care of the elderly street sweeper Isadore had always made a point to tip handsomely.
She glanced about the room, taking in all of Jeremy's possessions he'd been forced to leave behind.
The sting of tears threatened. Her nose burned.
With a last steadying breath, she stuffed her journal and Jeremy's toy dog into her reticule.
She slipped into the small chamber next to Jeremy's and crept along the wall until she found the inset door.
The door led to a little-known servants' staircase.
On silent feet, she made her way down and came out in the area, the space at the front of the house below the street that was accessed by a set of wrought-iron steps.
By the time she clambered up to the street level, she saw the lighted lanterns on either side of her carriage as Whip drove slowly by.
He barely stopped as she snatched the door open and launched herself inside.
She knelt on the seat and watched as they left Grosvenor Street.
There was no sign of anyone from the house following.
It was nearly ten in the evening. The servants would be finishing their supper and would eventually make their way upstairs.
Giselle would find a note explaining that Lady Drusilla Beauchamp had asked Isadore to come and stay with her a while.
The maid would discover that some of Isadore's widow's clothes and undergarments were missing.
In truth, they were in a chest in the attic.
She'd mourned Gregory long enough. Time to get on with her life and to take control of the search for her son.
Once they reached Pall Mall, Whip slowed the carriage and opened the window between his box and the rear-facing seat.
"Where to, Missus?" he asked.
"Saffron Hill, Whip." She settled back against the soft squabs and closed her eyes.
"I don't like it, Missus. I don't like it at all. Nothing good will come of it. Mark me there, ma'am."
"I'm not looking for good, Whip. I'm looking to make a deal with the Devil."