Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
An unfranked letter on expensive paper and addressed in a fine hand to Barlow rested atop the correspondence meant for Victor at the breakfast table.
Having seen the same handwriting often during their years at school, Victor knew his friend would not be happy to see whatever the letter contained.
Especially given the slight that the postage had not been paid by the sender.
Victor slipped it under the stack of newspapers so that Barlow might enjoy his breakfast before ruining his day.
Barlow arrived in the breakfast room as Victor set down the Boston newspaper.
“Anything of interest?” Barlow filled his plate at the sideboard.
Victor tapped the paper. “There was ice in the wells near Boston on July fourth.”
Barlow’s eyebrows rose. “Isn’t that the day the colonists celebrate their victory against the king?”
“The very same. Rather dampens the festivities, I imagine—ice in your well when the sun should be shining on your parades.”
Barlow gave a short laugh. “I suppose we should not find it amusing.”
“No.” Victor’s expression grew more serious. “If they have ice in July, their growing season is full of crop failures.”
“As you predicted. Canada has not improved either, I suppose.”
Victor picked up a German paper, scanning the front page. “Europe’s harvests are already failing. Any hopes of imports are growing thin.”
“As much as I hate your doom and gloom, I am afraid you are correct.”
“I can hope I have made choices that mean those that depend on me for their livelihood will live through the winter.” Hope grew thin for many. Every newspaper brought worse news. Every report confirmed his darkest predictions. Shame on Parliament for passing the Corn Laws. People would starve.
“Your tenants and workers will. Few have taken as much care as you.” Barlow ate his breakfast, which, though adequate, did not contain the variety the young lord was accustomed to.
Victor sorted through the rest of the correspondence, feigning surprise when he reached the letter for Barlow. “Here, more cheerful news for your day.”
Barlow frowned at the missive. “Joy of joys, my father writes.”
As much as he could, Victor kept his eyes on his own business while Barlow read.
“As usual, father has few kind words to say. But the part about you is likely the reason for his letter.” Barlow’s contempt was palpable.
Barlow passed Victor the letter, pointing to the middle of the page.
It appears you have at last succeeded in dragging your sole respectable acquaintance down to your own deplorable level.
I am excessively grieved. Your long-standing friendship with Mr. Dalrymple has been your single redeeming quality, and I had flattered myself that his steadying influence might yet reform your character.
I am most distressed to learn that Mr. Dalrymple has begun to emulate your dissolute habits and has ruined the daughter of my late colleague, Lord Godderidge.
That such a promising young man should so far forget himself is a source of profound disappointment.
What renders the matter still more shocking is the report that Mr. Dalrymple refuses to make the lady an offer of marriage.
I had reposed such confidence in his judgement—indeed, I have acted upon his investment counsel these two years past—but I find I can no longer trust the character of one capable of such dishonorable conduct.
I was not at all surprised to discover you were residing at Mr. Dalrymple’s establishment when this disgraceful business occurred.
I retain some small hope that these accusations are without foundation. You will furnish me with a full and particular account of this affair by return of post. I expect your correspondence with all dispatch.
Blackridge
The words blurred before Victor’s eyes. “Ruined.” “Refuses to make an offer.” “No longer trust.” Each phrase was a knife between his ribs.
This wasn’t just about him—his reputation could weather storms. But Isabel.
Her name, her character, being dragged through the mud in London drawing rooms, in gentlemen’s clubs, in the very halls he had fought to enter.
Victor set the letter on the table between them. “How did your father hear of this?”
“At this point, how he heard is not nearly as concerning as what he heard. I am surprised that Sir Lightwood is able to spread rumors so quickly. He’s known to attend the gaming hells, and with so little to do in London, perhaps other men of influence are there as well.”
Barlow picked up the letter again. “I think I should leave for London immediately. The sooner I can talk to my father, the sooner we will know how to handle this. May I have your permission to disclose all that you’ve told me?”
“Of course. Anything for Isabel’s reputation.” Victor tapped the table. “I must call on Lady Katherine and Isabel as soon as I can this morning to tell them of the situation.”
“Are you going to propose?” Barlow’s sincere inquiry held no teasing.
“I don’t know. I was planning to propose at the harvest fair, which is yet three weeks off. I’ve commissioned a brooch for the occasion, and it will not be ready for another fortnight at least.”
Barlow raised his eyebrows. “You commissioned jewelry and did not consult me?”
Victor barked out a laugh. “I thought it best that you not know.”
“I would have teased you mercilessly. However, that bit of information may sway my father. Give me the name of your jeweler, and I will see if I can hurry along the piece.” Barlow’s earnestness proved his friend’s mettle.
For all his rakish ways, Barlow was loyal when it mattered.
“I promise to do all within my power to squelch these unfair rumors, not only for our friendship, but I too respect the Godderidge family.”
Servants were called, and within the half hour, Barlow and his horse were headed to London with his carriage following shortly after.
Victor paced his study. He had at least an hour before he could call upon Isabel. Maximillion followed the back and forth at first with his feet, then with his head, and finally only with his eyes as he sank down to await his master’s next move.
Was it too soon to propose? They had barely courted.
While he was sure of the depth of feeling in his heart, she had yet to express any feeling at all.
He had yet to receive her brother’s blessing for their courtship.
Imagine if David disapproved, and he proposed?
Gretna Green? What was the best course of action?
He had the money for the donation that would get him a special license, but not the connections.
He assumed Isabel would want to be wed from her own church with proper banns read.
She deserved that. Deserved to stand in the church where she was christened with her head held high, not rushed into some hasty ceremony because of Lightwood’s lies.
They’d squelched the local gossip, but rumors from London would eventually reach the area, and those who ranked from neighboring towns would gossip.
He hated gossip. It ruined lives and reputations.
Though he doubted his would be tainted for long, it galled him that Sir Lightwood would drag the name of Isabel into the gutter where the vile man lived.
Good, kind, and talented Isabel. Who cared about a dog’s toy ball and harvest fairs and making sure no one went hungry.
Isabel, who’d laughed in the rain and looked at him like he was worth something.
Now her name would be synonymous with ruin, all because Lightwood was a greedy, vindictive soul who deserved more ill on his head than Victor could ever voice.
Victor stopped pacing and pressed his palms flat against his desk, head bowed.
If only he could ride to London and call Lightwood out.
But violence wouldn’t restore Isabel’s reputation.
Only marriage could do that. Marriage, which should have been a joyful choice made from love, not a desperate measure to salvage honor.
She deserved better than this. Better than him.
Better than a proposal born of scandal rather than love.
Only thoughts of Miss Jane, Miss Rose, and Isabel’s reaction kept Victor from plotting Sir Lightwood’s demise.
Victor slapped the desk with such force that Maximillion jumped. Proper calling hours or not. He must salvage his future.
“Izz? Mamma?”
Isabel jumped at Edward’s shout from the entrance hall. What was he doing here? She dropped her sketchpad and pencil and hurried to the landing at the top of the stairs.
“Edward!”
“Izz!” Her brother ran up the stairs two at a time. “Are you well?”
“Of course. Why would I not be?”
“And Mamma?”
“I believe she is in her sitting room.”
Having heard her son’s shout, Mamma joined them. “Edward, what are you doing here? I didn’t expect you for another week at least.”
Edward looked from mother to sister. “You are well?”
“Of course. Now, why are you here? What is the haste?” asked Mamma.
“I heard a rumor in Town that my sister had been ruined by Mr. Dalrymple, and knowing that she has no affection for the man, I could only imagine it had been by force. Deborah encouraged me to leave with all haste. I have ridden through the night.”
Isabel grabbed the banister for support. How had Sir Lightwood caused such damage so quickly?
“You look faint. Are you sure you are unharmed?” Alarm filled Edward’s face.
Gathering all the strength she possessed, Isabel stretched out her arms and spun slowly. Hoping to reassure her favorite brother. “As you can see, I am perfectly well, and I promise I have not been harmed, nor ravished.”
“But the rumors—”
Mamma held up her hand. “Perhaps we should go into my parlor, and I will call for tea. I’m sure you are starved.”
“Yes, that would be best. I should see to my horse—” Edward looked to the front door as if realizing in his haste that he may have not even tied his mount.