Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
"Did you hear about the altercation at the Mayfair Fox?"
Isobel's fingers tightened around her champagne glass. She stood near the refreshment table, pretending to be interested in the elaborate sugar sculptures while Lady Foster's voice carried across the ballroom.
"An altercation?" another woman asked, her tone dripping with false concern. "How dreadful."
"Oh yes. Lord Markham's son just arrived from that part of town. He said there was quite the commotion. A fight, apparently. And a woman was involved."
Isobel felt every muscle in her body go rigid.
"A woman?" The second voice rose with scandalous delight. "One of his employees, no doubt. Those gambling house women are all—"
"Lady Foster." Isobel turned, her smile fixed and brittle. "What interesting gossip you're sharing. Pray, do continue. I'm fascinated to hear what else Lord Markham's son claims to have witnessed."
Lady Foster had the grace to flush. "Your Grace, I, we were simply—"
"Simply spreading rumors about my husband at a ball he's hosting?" Isobel's voice remained pleasant, but steel ran beneath it. "How very kind of you."
"We meant no offense," the other woman stammered.
"Of course not." Isobel set down her glass with deliberate care. "If you'll excuse me, I see my sister needs attending to."
She swept away, head held high, but she could feel their eyes following her. Pitying her. Judging her.
Poor Duchess. What did she expect, marrying the Mayfair Fox?
Joan appeared at her elbow, Lord Ashford trailing behind looking concerned. "Isobel, are you all right?"
"Perfectly fine," she spat through clenched lips. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Don't deflect." Joan lowered her voice. "I heard what Lady Foster said. About Andrew and some fight at the club."
"Gossip is rarely accurate." But Isobel's jaw was tight.
"Perhaps if we moved over there… " Lord Ashford began.
"No, it’s not appropriate.” Joan held Isobel’s hand. “You’ll only feed the gossip.”
Isobel wanted to argue. Wanted to demand a carriage and rush to Mayfair like Lord Ashford suggested, propriety be damned.
But Joan was right. Running would only feed the gossip. Make her look weak. Make Andrew look like a man whose wife didn't trust him to handle his own affairs.
So, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and turned back to face the ballroom full of watching, judging faces.
“Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe the musicians are preparing for the next set."
She walked back into the center of the ballroom, Joan flanking her like a guard. Lord Ashford followed, his presence a silent show of support.
The whispers intensified.
"Look at her, pretending nothing's wrong."
"Do you think she knows about the woman?"
"Poor thing probably has no idea what her husband really gets up to at that club."
Isobel smiled through it all, danced with Lord Ashford several times, and had pleasant conversations with guests who looked at her with barely concealed pity.
And with every passing hour, her worry transformed into something harder.
Anger.
Because once again, Andrew had chosen the Mayfair Fox over her. Once again, that deplorable club had taken precedence over their marriage, over the ball they were supposed to host together, over her.
By the time the last guests finally departed, the sky was beginning to lighten with dawn.
"Isobel," Joan said softly as they stood in the entrance hall. "Come home with me. You shouldn't be alone."
"I'm not leaving." Isobel's voice was flat. "This is my home now."
"Then I'll stay with you."
"No." She softened her tone with effort. "Go home, Joan. Lord Ashford is waiting to escort you. I'll be fine."
Joan looked like she wanted to argue, but Lord Ashford touched her elbow gently. "Come, Miss Leyton. Your sister knows where to find us if she needs us."
After they left, the house felt cavernously empty. Servants moved quietly through the ballroom, cleaning up the detritus of the failed evening. Mrs. Brendan approached, her expression carefully neutral.
"Your Grace, perhaps you should retire. I'll send word the moment His Grace arrives."
"No." Isobel smoothed down her skirts. "I'll wait in the drawing room. Send tea, please."
"As you wish, Your Grace."
Isobel settled into the drawing room, Chance padding after her and curling up by her feet. She poured tea she didn't drink and stared at the dying fire and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The clock struck one. Then two. Then three.
With each passing hour, her anger solidified into something cold and hard in her chest.
She'd been a fool. A complete and utter fool.
She'd let herself have hope. Let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, Andrew was starting to choose her over his precious club. That the past weeks of him being home, of them growing closer, of genuine affection building between them—that it had all meant something real.
But at the first crisis at the Mayfair Fox, he'd abandoned her without a second thought. Left her to face the gossip and pity alone. Left her standing in a ballroom full of people who looked at her like some pathetic creature who was too naive to see what everyone else could see clearly.
She would never be his priority.
The drawing room door opened.
Isobel didn't turn around. She'd heard his footsteps in the hall, heavy and uneven, and she'd forced herself to remain still. To not rush to him like some desperate, lovesick fool.
"Isobel."
His voice was rough, hoarse with smoke and exhaustion.
She turned slowly, and despite her anger, despite her hurt, her breath caught.
He looked like he'd walked through the fires of hell.
His coat was scorched, hanging in burnt tatters from his shoulders.
His cravat was gone entirely, his shirt open at the collar and streaked with soot.
There was an angry red burn across his left forearm, another on his neck disappearing beneath his collar.
His face was smudged with ash, his dark hair disheveled and reeking of smoke.
Soot stained his breeches, and she could see his hands were scraped raw.
All her carefully maintained fury wavered.
"Andrew." His name came out as barely more than a whisper.
He swayed slightly in the doorway, gripping the frame for support. "I'm sorry. God, Isobel, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I missed the ball. I'm sorry I wasn't here."
She stood on shaking legs. "What happened? Are you hurt? Should I send for a physician?"
"I'm fine." But even as he said it, he winced and his hand went to his ribs.
"You're not fine." She moved toward him despite herself. "Sit down before you fall down."
"I need to explain."
"After you sit." She guided him to the settee, her hands gentle on his uninjured arm. He didn't resist, sinking onto the cushions with a barely suppressed groan. "Mrs. Brendan!"
The housekeeper appeared with impressive speed, as if she'd been waiting just outside. Her eyes widened at Andrew's state.
"Water, clean cloths, and the medicine kit," Isobel ordered, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "And more brandy."
"At once, Your Grace."
Andrew caught Isobel's wrist, his grip weak but insistent. "Isobel, please. Let me explain what happened."
"After we tend to your injuries." She pulled away, moving to the sideboard to pour brandy with trembling hands. She pressed the glass into his hands. "Drink."
He obeyed without argument, which frightened her more than his appearance. The Andrew she knew never obeyed without at least teasing her first.
Mrs. Brendan returned quickly with supplies. She placed them on the table beside the settee. "Shall I fetch the physician, Your Grace?"
"No," Andrew said immediately.
"Yes," Isobel countermanded.
"Isobel."
"Don't argue with me." She met his gaze, and something in her expression made him close his mouth. "Mrs. Brendan, send for Dr. Richards. Tell him it's urgent."
The housekeeper curtsied and hurried out.
Isobel knelt beside the settee, carefully rolling up Andrew's sleeve to expose the burn on his arm. It was red and blistered but not as deep as she'd feared. She wet a cloth and began cleaning it with careful touches.
Andrew hissed through his teeth but held still.
"Talk," she said quietly, not looking up from her work. "Tell me what happened."
He was silent for a long moment, and she could feel the weight of his gaze on her.
"I had a plan," he said finally, his voice rough. "I went to the club tonight with my solicitor, Mr. Davies. I was going to give Annette, the Dowager Countess of Halford, more operational control. Let her manage the day-to-day affairs while I stepped back."
Isobel's hands stilled on his arm. "Why?"
"Because I wanted to be here. With you." His voice cracked slightly. "I wanted to be at the ball, by your side where I belonged. I thought if I could just arrange things properly, I could have both—the club running smoothly and a real marriage with you. I was trying to do the right thing."
She resumed cleaning the wound, her throat tight. "What happened?"
"We were in my office, signing papers. Annette was there, going over the operational procedures. And then—" He stopped, his jaw clenching. "And then Lord Dalton showed up."
"Dalton?" Isobel looked up sharply. "The man from the garden party?"
"The same." Andrew's expression darkened. "He was drunk. Raving. Kept shouting about how I'd ruined him, how the Mayfair Fox had destroyed his life. I tried to calm him down, tried to get him to leave peacefully, but he—"
He broke off, and Isobel saw his hands curl into fists.
"He had lamp oil," Andrew continued, his voice flat now, emotionless. "He threw it everywhere—on the curtains, across the floor, on the tables. Before anyone could stop him, he lit a match."
Isobel's breath caught. "Oh God."
"The fire spread fast. Too fast." Andrew stared at nothing, his eyes haunted.
"The curtains went up first, then the wooden paneling.
Within minutes, the whole room was ablaze.
I could hear people screaming in the main hall—patrons, dealers, the serving women.
Annette was trying to help me grab the ledgers, the important documents, but I pushed her toward the door. Told her to get everyone out."
His voice grew quieter. "I stayed behind to make sure everyone evacuated. Went through every room, every floor. The smoke was so thick I could barely breathe, couldn't see more than a few feet ahead. But I had to make sure. Had to know everyone was safe."
"Andrew."
"The staircase collapsed while I was on the second floor." He said it matter-of-factly, but she saw his hand tremble as he raised the brandy to his lips. "I had to jump from a window. Landed wrong, hurt my ribs. But everyone else was out by then. Everyone was safe."
"And the building?"
He met her eyes, and she saw the devastation there. "Gone. The whole thing. By the time I got out, the entire structure was engulfed. The fire brigade arrived, but there was nothing they could do. I watched it burn, Isobel. Watched everything I'd built over the past twelve years crumble.”
Silence fell between them, heavy with the weight of what he'd lost.
Isobel finished bandaging his arm and moved to examine the burn on his neck. Her fingers were gentle as she tilted his head, exposing the angry red mark that disappeared beneath his collar.
"Take off your shirt," she said quietly.
"Isobel."
"Don't argue. I need to see if there are more burns."
He obeyed, wincing as he shrugged out of the ruined coat and began unbuttoning his shirt. She helped him ease it off, and her heart clenched at the sight of more burns scattered across his chest and back—nothing life-threatening, but enough to tell her how close he'd come to serious injury.
She cleaned each wound with methodical care, her mind reeling.
He'd been trying to step back from the club. For her. He'd been at the Mayfair Fox making arrangements so he could be home more, be the husband she needed. And while he was doing that, while he was trying to fix things, his entire life's work had gone up in flames.
And she'd been standing in a ballroom, angry at him for choosing the club over her, when he'd actually been choosing her over the club.
“What of Dalton?” Isobel asked quietly. “Was he taken away in irons?”
Andrew shook his head. “No. He was there — we’re certain of that. The lamp oil, the timing, all of it points to him.”
He paused. “But after the blaze was set, he vanished. No one can find him.” Andrew stared at the floor. "He came there to destroy me, and he destroyed himself instead."
"That's not your fault."
"Isn't it?" His laugh was bitter. "If I hadn't run that club, if I hadn't let my reputation become what it was, if I'd just been a normal Duke instead of the Mayfair Fox…"
"Then you'd still be your father's son living in ruins," Isobel interrupted sharply. "Andrew, you can't blame yourself for what a desperate, drunk man chose to do."
"Can't I?" He looked up at her, and she saw the raw anguish in his eyes.
His eyes searched hers, desperate for reassurance she wasn't certain she could give. Not when her own hurt was still so fresh.
But before she could say more, Dr. Richards arrived, bustling into the room with his medical bag.
"Your Grace," he said, moving immediately to Andrew's side. "Let me see what we're dealing with."
Isobel stepped back, letting the physician work. He peered at the wound, examining it from a careful distance with practiced efficiency, asking a series of clipped questions as he worked and checked him over with professional thoroughness.
"You're lucky, Your Grace," Mr. Richards said finally. "The burns are painful but superficial. Your ribs are bruised, not broken. You'll be sore for several weeks, and you'll need to keep those wounds clean to prevent infection, but you'll recover fully."
"Thank you, sir," Isobel said quietly.
After giving instructions for care and leaving several tinctures and bandages, Mr. Richards departed. The first light of dawn was creeping through the windows.
Isobel and Andrew sat in silence, the weight of the night pressing down on them.
"The club is gone," Andrew said finally, his voice hollow. "Everything I worked for. Everything I built. Just... gone."
"But you're alive," Isobel said. "You got out safely. That's what matters."
"Is it?" He looked at her, and she saw something break in his expression. "The Mayfair Fox was my entire identity, Isobel. It was who I was. How I defined myself. And now it's gone, and I—" His voice cracked. "I don't know who I am without it."