Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
T he next morning brought silence to Whitby Manor.
Unwelcome silence. Unbreakable, unwanted, deafening silence.
Isobel struck a single key on the piano. A tinny, uninspiring middle C responded.
She glared at her blank sheet of stave paper. Lifted her pencil. Set it down again.
Her left hand formed a C minor, picked out the notes one by one. And then her fingers hovered in midair, uncertain. Where to go next?
Where was the music?
For the first time in her life, she was glad to be interrupted mid-composition. Even when the interruption came in the form of the brother-in-law she had still not forgiven for his unexpected arrival in the middle of her schemes.
“We have a serious problem,” said Malcolm, striding across the empty drawing room. Isobel slammed her hand into the keys, the discordant clamour resonating painfully in her ears.
“We have an emergency .”
Malcolm stopped, hands on his hips, puzzlement marring his stern expression. “I’m talking about the news we received over the breakfast table about Mrs Whitby. You can’t be talking about the same thing, because you were not at breakfast. Which I noticed, by the way.” He held out a honey cake. “Eat.”
“I can’t,” said Isobel. Malcolm dragged a chair across the floor, sat astride it, and waved the cake at her, threatening to spill crumbs and sugar crystals over the piano keys.
“Eat, I said. Don’t make me force it down your throat. You’re pale as a ghost. You need food.”
She took the cake, if only to rescue the piano from a sticky demise, and picked off a crumbling corner. She’d never been less hungry in her life, but Malcolm was watching her, so she tried a bite. To her disappointment, the honey did not turn to ashes in her mouth. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was all she could do not to stuff the whole thing down in one gulp.
It would have been far more poetic to wither away with grief, but if Isobel had learned anything from the past weeks at Whitby Manor, it was that life was rarely as satisfying as poetry. She finished the cake and licked the honey from her fingers.
“I can’t hear the music,” she said, when Malcolm’s concerned gaze did not abate.
He frowned. “Do you have an earache?”
“No, knucklehead, I mean the music inside .” She threw up her hands as though she could catch the notes that she had always heard on the wind, as though they were floating through the air just beyond her hearing. “I can’t hear the next part of the melody. I had it all in my head so clearly, and now…”
She ran her finger down the keys, a frustrated glissando, ending in a gloomy chaos of bass notes.
Malcolm glanced at the blank sheet of paper, and at its crumpled, torn brethren filling the wastepaper basket beside it.
“I take it your clandestine rendezvous with Whitby didn’t go as you hoped.”
Isobel felt the blush ripen in her cheeks, but she made an attempt at hiding it anyway. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He gave her a knowing look. “Of course you don’t. Well, he was not present at the breakfast table this morning, either. Nor was Lord Bell, to Miss Georgiana’s apparent dismay. And our hostess, Whitby’s esteemed mother, seems to have taken to her bed, in the full expectation that she will never get up again. Though from what I know of the dear lady, news of a fresh suitor or two for her daughters will likely restore her from death’s door. In short, Isobel, you seem to have made all the trouble you can here. Time to move on and overturn another family’s summer.”
A shrill tin whistle played vibrato in her stomach. “I can’t possibly leave –”
“Dear child, you can and you must. It’s quite clear to me that Lady Ursula, much as I adore her, has no hope at all of keeping you out of trouble. And while I don’t know the ins and outs of whatever tragedy has befallen the Whitbys, I can see that the last thing they want is a mischievous houseguest stirring the pot. Your things are being packed as we speak. Lady Ursula is taking care of that much, at least.”
“Malcolm, you don’t understand! I can’t. Not without…”
Not without fixing things with Lucius. Unpicking the mess she’d made.
But matters with Lucius were already settled, weren’t they? He’d said his goodbye. He’d kissed her one last time. He’d made things perfectly clear.
But he was wrong . Isobel knew it in her bones. Her heartbeat had pounded the truth through her chest all night, keeping her from sleep: He’s wrong. He’s wrong. This is all wrong.
She knew she could find a way through it all. Some stroke of inspiration that could reconcile his family’s needs with his own desires. His own love.
And he might not have told her he loved her – not quite – but the words didn’t matter in the end. Isobel knew that, too, more than bone deep. The truth of it sang in her heart. So loudly that she was deaf to everything else.
Malcolm’s eyes were so full of sympathy that she had to fight off the urge to scream.
“Where will you take me?” she asked. “Not to Alex – please. He’ll never understand.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m bringing you and Lady Ursula home with me. I haven’t the faintest clue what to do with you – which is a pretty good indication that you need Selina.”
He spoke Selina’s name with such reverence, such simple adoration, that Isobel was tempted by the thought, just for a moment.
Selina had always meant home to her, too. The safe, comfortable home of childhood dreams and childish sorrows. And in some ways, she craved a return to it. To leave Whitby Manor behind – to forget scheming lords and ruined gentlemen – to cry into her sister’s embrace and have her forehead stroked and be nursed back to happiness. Or at least the semblance of it.
To be the little sister again. The quiet one. The wallflower. After Lucius had made her feel like a roaring lion.
He’d shown her the truth of her own power, and she couldn’t give it up now. There would be no quiet convalescence in Malcolm and Selina’s country pile. Isobel was not a wallflower anymore; she was a trickster, a composer, a woman in love. She could no more run home to Selina than she could sprout wings and fly off into the summer sky.
But there was no use telling that to Malcolm.
“I’ll go and help Aunt Ursula manage the packing,” she said, rising from the piano. “Or perhaps I should say, rescue the maids from Aunt Ursula.” She gave Malcolm just the sort of bright, mischievous smile that would convince him she’d given up all thought of arguing and took her leave.
“Ah, there you are, my girl,” said Ursula, and turned back to shake her stick at the hapless Peggy. “ Not like that ! That’s Chantilly lace, you silly creature! Use the tissue paper!”
“Auntie,” said Isobel softly, taking up the packing paper and passing it to the maid, “there is no need for all this fuss.”
“There certainly is, if we want to preserve the lace,” Ursula sniffed.
“It will be safe enough hanging in the wardrobe. I am not leaving Whitby Manor.”
Ursula peered at her for a moment, then grinned wide enough to show her missing tooth. “That’s my girl. What shall we tell our dear boy Caversham? He’s putting on a great show as your stern older brother, but a little nudge here and there and we’ll steer him how we like.”
“Tell him nothing. Not yet.” Isobel hoped it sounded as though she had a mysterious plan for sorting everything out. The reality was that she had no idea what to tell Malcolm, because she had no idea what she could possibly do next, beyond the vague notion that if she could only track Lucius down, inform him that their engagement was not off, and let him kiss her until her knees trembled and her body caught alight and her heart chimed like a bell, it would all come right.
But Ursula was no fool. She gave Isobel a hearty laugh. “Come now. It’s not like you to have a head empty of ideas. Let me handle the pretty young duke. I’ve always had a way with his sort. You had better get moving if you want to make your rendezvous.”
“My what?”
Ursula tapped a wizened finger against the side of her nose. “Another note came for you this morning.” Behind her, Peggy dropped the nightgown she was folding, blushing scarlet. “And I’m only telling you what was in it because I’m sick and tired of all this play-acting and intrigue. Your mysterious letter-writer wants you to meet him – yes, my dear, I’m now quite aware that it’s a him – in the rose garden at noon. You’d better hurry if you want to get there in time. And while the two of you are straightening everything out, do make sure you mention Mr Babbage. That isn’t the sort of thing a gentleman likes to be surprised with on his wedding night.”
Isobel gave a guilty start. Aunt Ursula had always been her co-conspirator. Happy enough to encourage her endeavours – pleased enough to celebrate her income – but always clear as crystal that Isobel should never, under any circumstances, reveal Babbage’s true identity. She would never imagine that Isobel had been so foolish as to offer her secret up to Lucius without the security of an engagement.
And for good reason. A duke’s sister, publishing music? Trying to make her name as a composer? It simply wasn’t done. At best, Isobel would be ridiculed. At worst, she and her family would lose a great deal of social standing. What need did the Duke of Loxwell’s sister have to gather pennies from publishing music? People would talk. And in the ton , certain kinds of talk were near-fatal. Society loved a scandal – as long as it was kept at a safe distance.
Isobel froze.
Society did love a scandal. Society scoured the gossip columns, bought prints of saucy caricatures, passed forbidden novels from one gloved hand to another.
Society loved a scandal and paid for it as handsomely as for every other pleasure.
The idea sang like a struck harp string in her mind. “You think the danger of being found out is no longer so great?” She was speaking as much to herself as to Ursula. “My sisters are married. My brother is well-established among his peers… My own little scandal wouldn’t harm them, would it?”
Ursula laughed heartily. “You don’t need to worry about that, my dear! Not when a fellow is as hopelessly in love with you as young Whitby. Even if it doesn’t end with a ring on your finger, he’ll never expose you. Now hurry , Isobel! It’s very nearly a quarter to one. Even the most lovelorn fellow won’t wait forever.”
All of a sudden, Isobel felt like a bottle of champagne that had been shaken until it was liable to explode. She was filled with bubbling, fizzing excitement. It had as much in common with nausea as with joy.
She blew her aunt a kiss and tried – failed – to keep her feet from running as she sped through Whitby Manor towards the rose garden.
Lucius would never expose her. She had never doubted that.
She’d have to do it herself.
He was still there. Standing with an arm tucked behind his back, gazing out at the idyllic pastoral vista before him. In his other hand – the one pressed anxiously to his heart – he held a small box which contained a ring.
Lucius knew all this thanks to the breathless report of his youngest sister. All the disappointment of Lord Bell’s disappearance was quite forgotten as Georgiana stood at the window, hands clasped together, gazing down in rapture at Lord Randall, who was waiting in the rose garden for Isobel.
It was more than Lucius could do to pretend that he was not in agonies of suspense himself.
He paced up and down the room like an angry bear, responding to each of Georgiana’s updates with a grunt that gave no indication as to his true feelings, but did at least serve to let off some of the steam building within him. Thereby reducing the chances of his pent-up rage exploding out in a volcanic eruption.
“The ring is an heirloom, I believe,” said Georgiana, flattening her nose against the glass in her eagernessto watch. “It was left him by his grandmother.”
Lucius grunted. The fist around his heart squeezed so tight that he could not have spoken comprehensible words if he tried.
“I did have hopes of Randall myself,” Georgiana admitted, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, “but I see now that we are quite ill-suited. It seems everything is working out for the best. Oh! Here comes Isobel into the garden now.”
“Georgiana, if I desired a blow-by-blow account of somebody else’s business, I would read the scandal sheets,” said Evie tartly, glancing up from her horizontal position on the chaise. “I’m sure that Lucius does not wish to hear another word.”
“Well, since Lucius does not wish to marry her, I do not see why Randall may not take his chance.” Georgiana turned back to shoot Lucius a sympathetic glance, the tip of her nose bright pink from where it had rubbed against the windowpane. “Poor dear. Do you regret breaking it off?”
Lucius grunted, found it failed to convey the depth of his feelings, and managed to follow it up with a growl. Georgiana gave a little jump of surprise but was swiftly diverted again by the goings-on in the rose garden.
“He is doing it! He is really asking her. He is down on one knee – Lucius, did you get down on one knee when you proposed to Isobel? I have always thought of that as the correct way to do it. Perhaps, if you did not bother, it is all for the best that you called things off. Though I admit I would have dearly loved to call Isobel my sister. Oh! Look! You will never guess what – he’s taking her hand – kissing it –”
“Georgiana, that is quite enough.” Evie leapt up and dragged the curtain across the window so violently that it threatened to rip from its hangings.
“But I had not finished watching! I’m sure they were just reaching the most interesting point!”
“A proposal is a private matter, and both Isobel and Randall would be absolutely mortified if they knew their business was being shouted about the house as though you were a town crier and they an attraction at a travelling fair. Go and find yourself something useful to do. You will hear every detail which Isobel wishes to share from her own mouth when everything is concluded.”
“It is not at all fair!” cried Georgiana. “I have never once received a proposal, and this is Isobel’s second in as many days.” She gave Lucius a meaningful glare. “Even if the first was not made in the proper fashion.” Her protests continued as Evie bundled her out of the door. “I know I am right! If he had proposed properly, he would not have taken it back the very same evening!”
Evie closed the door on Georgiana’s defiant glare and turned back to face Lucius. “Georgie does have a point,” she said, fixing Lucius with a suspicious look. “But I will not press you on it. I am hardly one to talk about what does and does not constitute a valid proposal of marriage.”
Grunting and groaning would no longer suffice. Lucius took a step towards the curtains, knowing that if he swept them aside to see Isobel doing anything other than pushing Lord Randall into the fishpond, the volcano within him would erupt and Randall’s all-too-handsome face would be the first casualty.
If only it were as simple as punching a rival into submission! Physical violence, though it had never been Lucius’s preferred method of dealing with problems, was at least quick and effective. He’d have given anything to simply knock Randall to the ground and carry Isobel away in his arms.
But, since he could not, there was nothing to say that he had to remain at Whitby Manor and watch Isobel announce her engagement to the man she’d really wanted all along.
Lucius forced himself away from the window and took up a pen, scribbling a quick note and scattering blotting sand so hastily that a great deal was wasted by falling to the floor. A loss of roughly a farthing, he calculated. It might well be the last such frivolous expenditure he made in a while.
The ink dry, he folded the paper in half and handed it to Evie. “Give this to her, if she asks,” he said.
Evie took the note, frowning. “Whatever it is, would it not be better to tell her yourself?”
Lucius risked a glance back at the curtains, their heavy fabric forming long dark shadows against the bright sunlight outdoors.
He imagined the scene that lay just beyond them. No false proposal, this. Isobel deserved exactly what Georgiana dreamed for her. An honest gentleman down on one knee, hiding no dark secrets, an heirloom ring in his hand, a fortune at his disposal.
Lucius could not offer her that. So, again, Georgiana was right. It was better to let her go.
“If anyone asks for me, I have gone out riding. And I intend to make it a very long ride.”
Evie held his gaze for a long moment. Then she gave a nod. “I’ll cover for you. For as long as I can.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Evie, do you still feel the same way about Lord Henry? There are no circumstances under which you might marry him?”
She dropped her gaze, surprised into revealing a hurt he knew she’d been at pains to conceal. She tried to back away, but he held her tightly.
“No,” she said, reluctantly meeting his eyes again. “No! It’s out of the question.”
“Even if the alternative was terrible? Even if it meant certain ruin?”
“What sort of question is that?” She scanned his face, alarmed. “Who have you been talking to?”
He said nothing. He knew that, if he waited long enough, she would answer.
Evie sighed. “There’s a difference between being ruined and being unhappy. No. I’ll never marry him.”
“Then burn his letters.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Burn them. Don’t be sentimental. Do it today.”
“Lucius…” She didn’t bother asking which letters he meant or pretending there was nothing worth burning. She caught at his sleeve, clinging to him like the little girl he still had to remind himself she no longer was.
The baby sister he’d tried so hard to protect.
“Are you coming back?” Evie asked. She did not need to be told that wherever Lucius was going, he had no desire to be followed or found. “When will I see you again?”
“On the other side of ruin.” He gave her a grim smile, pulled his sleeve from her grasp, and left without a backward glance.