Chapter 22
Nicholas had needed distance. Distance from London and Lady Isabella, but more than that, distance from thinking. The distance of simply existing in the moment, not remembering what had happened, not feeling any emotions. Yesterday he’d done just that: not thought, merely existed, sitting on the rough wooden bench in front of the inn, a tankard in his hand, the sign creaking above his head, watching the world go by.
Today it was time to make decisions. He chose the bench in front of the inn again and laid the facts out in his mind.
Firstly, Lady Isabella had sheltered Harriet.
For that, he could only thank her.
Secondly, she had named him for an ogre.
He grimaced at memory of Gussie’s ball, the whispers and the sniggers, the sideways glances, his rage in discovering what he was being called. Ogre.
He waited for fury to resurface. It didn’t.
So, Lady Isabella had named him for an ogre. But it hadn’t been intentional.She’d said so, and he believed her. Isabella was someone who rescued kittens from rivers; she wouldn’t deliberately harm anyone. A mistake, then. One that he could forgive.
Thirdly, she had lied to him.
That was the most painful memory. Lady Isabella had lied to his face. He could recall the moment, the time and the place: late afternoon in Hyde Park, with the sun low in the sky and a breeze lifting the leaves on the trees. He’d sat alongside her in the phaeton and spoken of his intention to find Harriet’s benefactress. Isabella had been beautiful. And tense.
I was angry. And she was afraid.
And so she had lied to him.
In that context it was understandable. More than that, it was forgivable.
Nicholas sighed.
Isabella had planned to tell him, to reveal her lie. Nicholas, she had said. There’s something I must tell you. About Harriet Durham.
But he’d been too angry to listen, too hurt by her deceit, too betrayed.
Nicholas grunted. Idiot. Isabella had made a mistake, several mistakes, but her intention had never been to harm him.
Everyone makes mistakes. It’s part of what makes us human.
And he’d made a mistake, too, calling on her immediately after Mr. Shepherd’s visit, allowing his hurt pride to rule him, accusing her of keeping her friends close and her enemies closer.
He could hear her voice, see the tears shining in her eyes: It wasn’t like that at all!
And he had known that, even when he’d thrown the accusation at her. What had grown between them, the friendship, the laughter, the kisses—that had been genuine, it had been real, it hadn’t been a game.
I love her. And I think she loves me.
No,he corrected himself. It was possible that Lady Isabella had loved him—and even more possible that she no longer did. Because the mistake he’d made on Wednesday was quite as bad as any she’d made.
Nicholas pushed to his feet and strode around to the stableyard, calling for the ostler. “My horse! As fast as you can!”
* * *
Isabella called at Major Reynolds’ house in Albemarle Street on Friday afternoon. He was still out of town.
“Would you like to leave a message, ma’am?” the butler asked.
“No,” Isabella said. No messages, no ink on paper.
She turned away and walked down the steps. Partridge said nothing. She was wearing her expressionless servant’s face. What did she think of this second trek to Albemarle Street?
Rufus was easy to read. He didn’t care. He lifted his leg against one of the steps—fortunately the butler had closed the door—and then pranced ahead of her, sniffing the fence railings in passing.
When they reached Clarges Street, Isabella’s steps slowed. She halted outside her house.
Partridge halted, too, silent. Rufus sat on the doorstep and waited.
Isabella stared up at the house, at the blank windows. She didn’t want to go inside, to sit with her regrets and her grief, her helplessness.
I need to face the world. She needed to do. Something. Anything.
Accordingly, at five o’clock, she drove to Hyde Park in her phaeton. Her appearance caused a slight stir. People stopped their carriages to greet her, to ask whether she’d been unwell.
Isabella smiled and kept her replies vague.
No one inquired whether her two-day disappearance from the parks and ballrooms had anything to do with Major Reynolds’ abrupt departure from London, but she was certain some of them were thinking it.
Isabella found that she didn’t care. The fresh air, the sunlight, the breeze on her face, lifted her spirits. No more hiding, she told herself as she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. From now on I face the world.
She unbuttoned her gloves and pulled them off. “I shall be going out tonight, Partridge. The Griffiths’ ball. I shall wear... the cream slip and the peony red robe.” Red for courage.
“Very good, ma’am.”
Isabella dined with her cousin and Harriet, and then went upstairs to change. She surveyed herself in the mirror once she was dressed—the cool folds of cream silk falling to her ankles, the red crêpe robe fastened over her bosom with rosettes of pearls, the long gloves, the satin dancing slippers, the pearl and ruby earrings dangling from her earlobes.
A maid tapped on her door. “The Washburnes’ carriage is here, ma’am.”
“Excellent,” Isabella said. She took a deep breath—Courage—and picked up her reticule and fan.
* * *
The Griffiths’ ball was one of the larger events of the Season, and the mood of the evening—gay, hectic—caught Isabella up almost as soon as she and the Washburnes entered the brightly lit ballroom. It was easier than she’d expected to lock her emotions away and fix a smile on her face. She enjoyed it all: the music, the conversation, the laughter, the dancing. Especially the dancing.
After a particularly energetic contredanse, Isabella retired to the side of the ballroom to drink a glass of champagne and fan herself. Gussie and Lucas joined her. Lucas was red-faced and panting. “I’m too old for this,” he said. “If you have any compassion, Isabella, you’ll lend me your fan.”
Isabella laughed and handed it to him. “Where’s yours?” she asked Gussie.
“Lucas stepped on it,” Gussie said, pulling a face. “And it was made of ivory!”
“Not my night,” Lucas Washburne said ruefully, fanning himself.
Gussie reached out and took his free hand.
The glance that they exchanged—loving, amused—made Isabella’s throat close. She looked hastily away and swallowed a mouthful of champagne.
The dance floor was empty. Guests milled around the edges, talking and drinking and laughing. At the far end of the ballroom, a man paused beneath the arch of the doorway. His face was in shadow but he had a soldier’s bearing, a soldier’s way of standing quietly and observing.
He could almost have been Major Reynolds, except that the major wasn’t in London.
Isabella averted her gaze. She took another hasty swallow of champagne. Her pleasure in the evening had evaporated. I want to go home.
“Nicholas is here,” Gussie said.
Isabella looked around.
The man had stepped into the blaze of light from the chandeliers. He was walking towards them. His hair was brown, his face tanned. A scar was livid across his left cheek.