Chapter Twenty-Five
Marlbury.
Of course it damn well was. Oliver had been the one to draw Marlbury’s attention to Isabella; after seducing Emily, Marlbury probably thought it would be amusing to seduce Isabella, too. Both sisters. A set.
He pinched his nose, trying to think through this mess.
“But how,” Emily said blankly. “Isabella didn’t even know Marlbury. I did everything I could to keep them separate.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Oliver said. “I told him about my intentions towards Isabella—as they had been at the time.”
“So what, he sought her out?”
“If he discovered I left with you, it’s a possibility.”
“For what reason?”
“Boredom? Spite? His father sent him to rusticate in the country because of his debts and bad behaviour in London. He’d become an embarrassment to his father—no doubt he was entertained by the prospect of causing havoc here, too.”
Emily merely stared at him. He should be thankful he wasn’t blaming him for this, but he wished she would. Marlbury was his friend, and he felt responsible. If he had never come to this part of the country, none of this would have happened.
“I expect they’ll be at Bidlington Hall, if that’s the case,” Oliver said.
“We can go there now and bring her back.” And he would have the pleasure of confronting Marlbury, preferably with his fists.
His sister, Annabelle, had married a lord with many a boxing ring under his belt, and Oliver had picked up a thing or two.
He had never been especially physically minded, but he would enjoy this.
“If they are at Bidlington Hall,” Emily said, inhaling deeply as though to find her equilibrium, “then all the servants will know.”
“Servants always know these things.”
“And if the servants know, the village will, too.” She swung her gaze back to Oliver. “But I won’t force Isabella to marry him, Oliver. I won’t.”
“I doubt you’ll be able to, even if you wanted to.” He plucked the letter from her hands and put it aside. Then he took her hand with his. “Right now, we must focus on retrieving Isabella. Do you want to join me in visiting Bidlington Hall?”
Her eyes were wet as she stared at him. “Join you?”
“Well, it is my carriage. Unless you intend to walk in the rain?” At her astonished blink, he clucked his tongue. “Did you think I would leave you here and now? Someone has to punch Marlbury in the face, and I’m sorry, darling, but I can’t let it be you—though I admit that you have prior claim.”
“Oliver . . .” She reached for the banister, holding herself upright. “What if she isn’t there?”
“Then I will help you find her.”
“Isabella is not—you do not need to do that,” she said weakly.
“Need is such a strange word. If my conscience prompts me to, does that make it a need?” What was a need, entirely aside from his conscience, was to ease the worry from her face.
“If there’s anything I can do to help, I will.
Besides”—at the thought of her confronting Marlbury alone, something dark and furious rose in his chest—“I would much rather you were not left to go alone.” At her slight frown, he suppressed the dark anger.
“Do you have blankets? The night is cold.”
She opened her mouth, as though she had prepared to say something else—to argue again, probably—but his question disarmed her, and she merely nodded. “Upstairs. Wait here.”
He did as he was told, glancing around the ruined house. Once, it must have been fine; there was no ballroom, but he had passed a spacious drawing room and a grand dining room. Certainly a gentleman’s abode.
It might still be saved; he hoped, for Emily’s sake, it would be, but he didn’t know how she would contrive to save it. As it stood, she barely had the funds to live in it and not starve.
The problem felt like his to solve, but she’d spurned his—impulsive, stupid—offer of help. Finding Isabella, forcing his former friend to face justice, was the only thing left he could do.
“Here,” she said, hurrying back towards him and thrusting musty-smelling blankets in his good arm. Immediately, he proceeded to shake one out, draping it over her shoulders.
“Oliver,” she started.
“I won’t have you catching a chill all for the sake of your foolish sister.” At the thought of the note, his gut burned with anger again. “She did this out of spite, you know.”
“But how did she know I’d gone with you?” Emily asked weakly. “I never showed her the note. She was asleep when I left. When I disappeared, why did she assume I intended to steal you from her?”
“There are two options,” Oliver said. “Either she saw you and me together when you thought she was asleep, or you disappeared and she went to Bidlington Hall and asked for me—only to find I was also gone. Marlbury will have seen to the rest, or perhaps he merely took advantage of her natural suspicions. She’s mistaken about one thing, though.
” His voice was colder than he had intended, matching the spray of rainwater as he unbolted the door. “I was never hers to steal.”
Wind rocked the carriage as it made its laborious way to the house on the hill. Bidlington Hall. Emily had only ever been there a few times before, sneaking to the servants’ entrance where Lord Marlbury had been waiting for her.
“Are you all right?” Oliver leant forward, his good elbow braced against his knee.
She could see so little of him, save for shapes, but somehow she knew him so well that she already knew what those shapes made up.
Without seeing, she knew his eyes would hold concern and his oft-playful mouth would be tight with worry.
“Yes,” she said.
He huffed a breath that told her he knew she was lying. But all he said was, “We’re nearly there. I should go in first and enquire after him.”
“No.” Emily shook her head, feeling as though her breath was too tight. “I need to be the one to do this.”
“Emily.” He hesitated. “If the servants come to know you’ve been travelling with me—”
“There’s no point in trying to preserve my reputation.
” She tightened her fingers around her cloak until her knuckles ached.
“I respect and admire you for the attempt, but I have no interest in my reputation when my sister’s is at stake.
Do you really presume no one will know where I’ve been?
Or that I’m with an unmarried man? Rumours fly, especially if Isabella was so bitter as to run away with the man I warned her against.”
“You warned her against him?”
“Yes. And now she thinks she has won some great victory over me because she will be the one to marry him.” Emily sighed, peering out of the dark window. “I suppose she thinks she is a better marriage prospect than I.”
“She would be wrong,” Oliver said shortly.
“You didn’t think so initially. And she is prettier than me. Even you can’t deny it.”
“To a stranger, perhaps,” he said, “but not to me.”
She shook her head, deciding not to argue the point. That didn’t matter now. None of it mattered except getting Isabella back.
The coach rolled up the driveway to the house, most of its lights extinguished. An unpromising sign, but evening had now advanced into night, the darkness absolute. Perhaps they had retired.
If they had retired to bed—
No, she wouldn’t think of it.
“I’ll ask if he’s at home,” Oliver said. “If he is, I’ll come and fetch you. No point us both getting wet, and I would rather the servants didn’t know you were with me unless absolutely necessary.”
Even now, knowing everything he did about her past and with Isabella’s shame hanging over her, he tried to preserve her reputation. Emily tried not to love him for it, and failed.
“Hurry,” she said.
Oliver opened the door, letting in a brief flurry of rain before he slammed it behind him.
She looked up at the imposing house beyond, familiarity hitting her in a nostalgic wave.
This was the first time she had been here in seven years.
She let her gaze trail across the magnificent facade, cloaked in rain and darkness.
What a spectacularly beautiful house, and what rottenness it held inside.
Once, she had come here with her heart in her mouth and anticipation in her chest, believing that she would one day be mistress.
So much for that.
Seventeen, it seemed, was the age for foolishness—hers and Isabella’s. But she had been young and ignorant. No one had warned her away from Marlbury. Isabella had the benefit of her experience, and she had still made the same choices.
Oliver turned away from the door after speaking to the butler.
No, worse choices. If Marlbury had asked her to run away with him, she would have refused. Isabella, apparently, had jumped at the chance.
Oliver strode back towards her, his face shadowed. Over the course of their time together, it was as though she had seen him grow from a boy into a man, the transition happening before her very eyes. And now it was complete; he had left boyishness behind him, at least for the present.
She found she missed it.
She found she adored the man he had become.
“He’s gone,” she said, shocked by the cracked desperation of her voice.
“Three days ago, according to the butler,” Oliver said, pounding the roof once to let the coachman know they were ready to set off.
“And his father is due to arrive to the house tomorrow. He sent a letter ahead informing Marlbury of his imminent arrival, and the same day, Marlbury left.” At her blank look, he added, “You may believe his father will disapprove of his actions, and so he is attempting to evade the consequences.”
“But if he took Isabella with him—did he?” she asked, looking into his face.
“The butler confirmed he took a young lady with him, and I can only assume it was Isabella, yes.”
“Then why?”
“Either she volunteered to go with him, or he offered to take her.”
“But why,” Emily said, her lips numb. “Surely—why would he go to all the trouble of taking her if he meant nothing by the association?” She sent him a pleading glance, although she already knew the answer, deep down. “Do you think he could be intending a runaway marriage?”
Oliver hesitated. “I think it unlikely,” he said at last.
“Then why take her at all? I don’t understand. Surely he must know he would attract censure for such a thing.”
“In London?” Oliver sighed, and she felt the full impact of her naivety. In London, of course there would be no one who would really notice or care. Isabella was a nobody. Society only cared when one of their own was affected; otherwise, they were more than happy to turn a blind eye.
Marlbury was the son of an earl. There were plenty of things such a man could do and get away with.
The thought made her sick to the stomach.
“We don’t know anything for certain,” Oliver said. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll set off after him.”
“Not tonight?”
“Not in this weather, I’m afraid.” He grimaced. “I don’t have the funds.”
And neither did Emily. She fought the urge to drop her head into her hands. “So what now?”
“Now I’ll take you home and discover what direction he went in.” Oliver met her gaze. “I’m sorry, Emily. This mess is at least partially my fault.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Let’s lay the blame at the appropriate door. Marlbury is most to blame here. And Isabella.” Once, Emily would not have believed her sister capable of such things, but she would have been wrong.
“Then we’ll have to make sure he suffers for what he’s done.” Oliver’s knee brushed hers. “Will you let me in later tonight if I come to the back door?”
She knew what he was asking. If he could stay the night with her.
She could not bear to spend it alone.
“I’ll leave it unlocked,” she said.
“I won’t let you down,” he promised, and heaven help her, but she believed him.