Chapter Eighteen
“He is gone? The earl has left The Grange?” Isabella stared at Jenkins in disbelief.
“A most urgent matter called him away early this morning,” Jenkins said, glancing nervously at the floor. “He left this note for you.”
“I see.” Isabella studied the sealed envelope the valet hastily thrust into her hands.
A cold dread swept through her, and she struggled against voicing her fears.
She thought last night they had shared a moment that went far beyond pure physical pleasure, yet something must have gone terribly wrong to cause Damien to flee without even speaking to her.
With shaking hands, Isabella broke the seal and quickly read the note.
Urgent business calls me away, my dear. I shall return as quickly as possible. Watch over Catherine and Ian for me. Have faith. Damien.
“Bad news?”
“No,” Isabella answered, tensing warily at the sound of Lord Poole’s voice.
Determined not to be caught wallowing in self-pity, she turned her head toward him as he entered the dining room and smiled brightly.
Crushing the note in her hand, she slipped it unobtrusively into the pocket of her gown.
“Will you join me for breakfast, Lord Poole?”
“I would be delighted.” Lord Poole glanced about the empty room with obvious interest. “No doubt Saunders is already outside mucking about the estate. I shall enjoy having you to myself this morning.”
Isabella’s smile disappeared. “The earl has been called away on business.”
“Wonderful. I hope he will be gone a long time.” Lord Poole removed the bread rack from the sideboard and placed it on the dining room table.
He retrieved the butter dish and jam pot, set them cozily on the table, and then held out a chair expectantly.
“Sit down, Miss Browning. I will ring for coffee. Or would you prefer chocolate?”
“Coffee will be fine.”
A stone-faced Mrs. Amberly answered Lord Poole’s summons, and Isabella watched in amazement as he charmed the housekeeper with a few softly spoken words and a dimpled grin.
Leaving the room with a broad smile, Mrs. Amberly returned quickly with a steaming pot of coffee and a large dish of coddled eggs that actually looked appetizing.
Isabella selected a piece of bread, declining the offer of eggs.
She sipped her coffee quietly and studied Lord Poole openly as he ate his breakfast. He seemed a man accustomed to being in the company of women, and he possessed an effective manner for dealing with them.
She assumed he was unmarried since Damien had never mentioned a Lady Poole.
Isabella strongly suspected Lord Poole was a favorite with the unattached ladies of the ton due to his pleasant face and polished manner, not to mention his wealth and title.
“You are rather quiet this morning, Miss Browning. I trust you slept well?”
“Fine,” Isabella said. Swirling the dregs of her coffee in her porcelain cup, Isabella suddenly felt nervous and uncertain. “Actually, that is a lie, Lord Poole. I did not sleep well last night. And we both know why.”
Lord Poole’s expression was unruffled. He forked in a final bite of egg, then carefully placed his cutlery on his dish. “I upset you last evening with my outburst. I deeply regret any discomfort I inadvertently caused you.”
“You showed little interest in my feelings last night. I was given the impression your words were meant for Damien, not for me, my lord,” Isabella said. She glanced at him suspiciously, but his placid expression revealed nothing. “I wonder even now if you spoke the truth about your family.”
“Of course I told you the truth.” Lord Poole pressed Isabella’s forearm urgently. “I would never lie about something this important.”
“Then I suppose I must consider the possibilities.” A nervous fluttering began in Isabella’s stomach. “My mother died when I was eight years old, and I discovered the day I left my home that the man who married my mother was not my natural father. Perhaps we are related.”
“I feel certain you are my sister,” Lord Poole responded quickly.
“I find this difficult to accept, without proof of paternity. My resemblance to Emmeline coupled with my name could be a unique coincidence, Lord Poole.”
“Please, call me Thomas. And I shall feel honored if you will allow me to address you as Isabella.” He smiled broadly at her slight nod of acceptance, and Isabella felt the tension ease from his grip.
“I require no additional verification of your identity, but naturally I shall pursue the matter if you wish. My father passed on ten years ago; my mother preceded him by a year. There was no reference to a child in any of his papers. Had I known of your existence, I would have moved heaven and earth to find you.”
“Thank you.” Isabella took a deep breath and released it slowly, realizing that the anger she had felt toward him last night was fading. It was difficult to remain aloof from him when he demonstrated such concern.
Lord Poole’s glance shifted to his empty coffee cup. “I would like to know more about you, Isabella. What was your mother like? Your childhood? And how did you ever end up here, working for the earl?”
It was a strange and unusual sensation for Isabella to be the focus of such intense interest. She had rarely spoken about herself or her life with anyone. No one had ever cared enough to ask. Except Damien.
To her annoyance, Isabella’s first inclination was to invent a cozy, carefree childhood and a gay, frivolous adolescence. Shaking off the impulse, she slowly refilled Lord Poole’s coffee cup and her own before speaking.
“I’ve led a rather quiet life, Thomas. I have no doubt you will find it dull and uninspired.”
Lord Poole made no reply. And because he didn’t press her, or ply her with cloying sympathy and insincere soothing words, Isabella gradually revealed the circumstances of her youth.
She spoke of her mother’s death and her childhood fears. She told him of her grandfather’s indifference, her great aunt’s cruelty, her longing for a warm and loving family. She related tales from her life as a governess and revealed the bizarre events that had brought her to Whatley Grange.
Isabella nearly spoke of her love for Damien, yet managed to hold back at the last moment. She knew Lord Poole would be displeased, and she did not want to jeopardize the fragile bond she was forging with him.
“Life has treated you unfairly, Isabella.”
“There are many poor souls in this world that have suffered far more than I have,” Isabella said, disliking the edge of pity she heard in Lord Poole’s voice.
“Yes. But those unfortunate creatures are not my sister,” he replied very quietly. “I know I cannot change the past, but I will do everything in my power to guarantee that your future holds the fulfillment of all your dreams.”
Isabella’s violet eyes widened. “That is a bold promise, sir,” she said breathlessly.
Lord Poole laughed. “You will soon learn I follow through on all my promises.” He stood up. “Come along,” he said, extending an arm to her. “I know just where we shall start.”
Isabella rose to her feet. “Where are we going?” she asked as they entered the foyer, her mind whirling.
“To the village. To buy you a new frock,” Lord Poole said.
“Oh, no.” Isabella pulled up short. “I have far too many things to do today. And I must look after Catherine and Ian.”
“They may accompany us.”
Isabella shook her head vehemently. “No.” She offered no further explanation. As much as she would dearly love a fashionable new gown, Isabella felt decidedly uncomfortable at the suggestion. It was far too intimate a gesture. Besides, Damien would be furious.
Lord Poole accepted her refusal, but Isabella could tell by his hardened expression that he was not pleased. To his credit, he did not press the matter and escorted her up the main staircase, his voice and manner extremely polite.
They rounded the second story landing, but instead of proceding up to the third floor, Lord Poole pulled Isabella down a dark hallway.
She had never previously ventured into this part of the house, but Lord Poole appeared confident of his destination.
Eventually he stopped in the middle of the hall and stood silently before a closed door.
Isabella could feel the trembling of his arm through his thick cloth jacket.
“Is something wrong, Thomas?”
“This was Emmeline’s room,” he whispered reverently.
He reached up, and with the tip of his finger gently caressed the intricate wood carving in the center of the door. Isabella placed a hand on his shoulder, offering silent comfort, but Lord Poole ignored her and continued staring at the door, his expression morose.
“The children are waiting,” Isabella finally said.
The sound of her quiet voice appeared to awaken him from his catatonic state and Lord Poole jerked forward suddenly, thrusting open the door.
With a startled cry of surprise, Isabella followed him inside. The room was huge and cold and held a faint, though not unpleasant odor. Lord Poole took slow, even steps as he walked to the center of the room, his demeanor pious and somber.
“Everything appears to be as it was,” he whispered softly.
Strolling about the room with a glazed expression, he touched each piece of furniture, dipping his fingertips into the layers of dust as if it were holy water.
Stopping in front of the large mahogany armoire, Lord Poole yanked hard on the delicate knob.
Isabella gasped when the door opened, and she caught a glimpse of frothing colors.
The wardrobe was literally stuffed with women’s clothing.
Lord Poole pulled out a silver ball gown, his hands trembling visibly.
Several other dresses fell out of the wardrobe onto the dusty carpet.