Emma Jensen - Entwined (23 page)

His regrets lie in others. Now, if you would excuse us, we must go in search of some color. Come along, Mariah. I have a lovely bit of tartan in mind."

Her knees were shaking by the time they reached the street. It was bad enough to have been forced into a confrontation with a woman from her husband's past; far worse for the woman to have possessed everything she did not. Beauty, elegance stature.

"Insufferable conceit!" Mariah shook out her parasol. "I cannot tell you how delighted I am she took another man rather than my brother. That was very well done, Isobel."

Isobel darted a quick glance back into the shop. Cecily, head thrown back, was laughing. Her own victory soured with the taste of lies. "Was it?

I'm fast coming to the conclusion, Mariah, that there isn't a whit of honesty to be found in this town."

Her sister-in-law patted her hand. "Don't fret, dearest. You have yet to visit Parliament."

Isobel turned in surprise. Mariah's clear blue gaze was guileless; only a single twitch of her lips betrayed her. A moment later they were walking arm in arm down the street, laughing loudly enough to turn heads.

Nathan was heartily regretting this particular decision. Thus far, he and Gerard had done nothing more useful than compare the merits of several different brandies. He was contemplating excusing himself to slosh his way home when Rotheroe, an hour late, sank into the empty chair.

"Ah, a breath of old times," he announced, pouring himself a brandy, then clinking his glass against Matthew's.

Nathan could not help but smile. Their breath in past times had indeed been much as it was now. Flammable. "It has been a while."

"Damn me, a year at least. How is Town treating you, Oriel?"

"As well as ever. It is... good to be back."

Rotheroe muttered something noncommittal. The return to Society could not have been easy on him. He had arrived from the Peninsula with a useless right arm and empty pockets, returned to the same lofty title and debt-ridden estates he had left. "Well, here we are again."

In vastly depleted numbers, Nathan thought. Aloud, he said, "A toast to the fallen."

"To Brooke," Gerard added. Rotheroe said nothing.

"Rievaulx."

"Dennison."

"To Brandon." Rotheroe plied the bottle.

Nathan's fingers tightened around his own snifter. "Brandon? Has something happened to him?"

The earl gave a humorless chuckle. "I have no idea, but he is the only one still on the Peninsula. It wasn't a peaceful place for the lot of us." He tapped his fingers on the table. "I hear you've been asking about Dennison.

You really ought to spare yourself the effort." • Nathan leaned forward.

"Oh?"

He could imagine the man's lean face closing, his often comically mobile features going stiff. "Come now, Oriel. Don't tell me you've forgotten. He was with me at Almeida."

Gerard coughed, shifted awkwardly in his seat. Yes, Dennison had been there that day, a day seldom mentioned among the Ten. It could never be proven that Dennison had fled his post, leaving English forces with no idea where their aid was needed most. Nor had anyone ever dared to ask Rotheroe if the vague rumors were true—if he had, in fact, been happily ensconced in a Portuguese brothel when the fatal attack began and had arrived belatedly at the garrison.

Whatever the reasons, the French had demolished the pitiful defenses.

Almeida, its garrison long regarded as indestructible, had fallen. Rotheroe, half-dressed and bloody, had fought well but ended with arm and reputation shattered. Dennison, hale and far too corpulent for a man stationed in a city under siege, had eventually been quietly shipped home.

"Did you encounter him often in Town?" Nathan asked, as casually as he could.

Rotheroe snorted. "Everywhere. The man had a knack of appearing in whichever place he was least welcome." There was another clink as bottle met glass again. "Let me guess; he died owing you money. Take my advice and cut your losses, my friend. He died owing
everyone
money."

"Including you?"

"Hah. I am beginning to suspect your time away has affected your memory, Oriel. Remember me? The earl with four houses, five sisters, and not a bloody cent to my name? The last person I would have sat down at the card table with was Dennison." Then Rotheroe sighed. "It really isn't sporting of me to speak so ill of the dead. Forgive me." He leaned forward and placed his good hand briefly over Nathan's. "It is good to know where you are, Oriel."

"Well, well, what have we here? 'Pon my word, it seems to be a sentimental reunion, and I wasn't invited. Breaks me heart, it does."

Nathan instantly recognized the voice. He felt his jaw, relaxed with brandy and Rotheroe's words, go stiff. "St. Wulfstan."

"Ah, as lavish a welcome as any man has ever had!" Unasked, St.

Wulfstan dragged up a chair. "Lest I overstay my welcome, I'll join you but for a moment. Damned if the three of you don't look like the business end of a mop. Marriage not suiting you, Oriel?"

"It is suiting me perfectly well."

"Grand. I had a bit of a chat with your wife at the Winslow bash."

"I know. She told me."

"Did she now? Well, I must say you've made an intriguing choice there, man. Not a bad one, though. Not at all. All spark and flame. I look forward to continuing my acquaintance with her."

Nathan was halfway from his seat when Gerard's hand on his arm drew him back. "Stick with your empty-headed debutantes, St. Wulfstan," he growled. "Isobel is far too intelligent to find you remotely interesting."

He could almost see the man's flashing, insolent grin. "Why, I do believe I have just been warned off the lady. How diverting." There was a creak as St. Wulfstan levered himself from the chair. "Take care you don't amuse me too much, Oriel. I've been known to howl at the moon.

Gentlemen, we simply must do this more often. Auld lang syne and all that."

Nathan, still simmering, wondered if he really had to let the man walk away so easily. Foolish as it might have been, his fingers itched to grasp a handful of cravat and stuff it into the smug mouth.

Beside him, Matthew Gerard cleared his throat. "I trust you will come see me, St. Wulfstan. When you have a moment to spare." His voice held the old steel thread of authority. "We have matters to discuss now that you are returned."

St. Wulfstan gave a short laugh. "Of course, sir. You may be sure I'll not shirk my responsibilities. When I have a moment to spare."

Gerard waited until St. Wulfstan had left before offering, "You really mustn't let him provoke you, Oriel. He is, after all, being no more than himself."

Nathan grunted. "Tell me, Matthew, why we have always been forced to accept that excuse for him. Should Rotheroe here have behaved as St.

Wulfstan does, you would have had him on the carpet in an instant."

There was a moment of silence before Gerard replied, "It is wrong of me, I suppose. But St. Wulfstan was asked to do tasks the others of you never were. I always felt it best to let him go about as he saw fit." He gave a heavy sigh. "Beyond that, I have never once felt that I had complete control over him. St. Wulfstan is so good at what he does because he enjoys it. I honestly don't think honor or loyalty has ever played the smallest part in his service."

That, Nathan decided, was as disturbing as it was impressive.

Later, as he made his way home, two sheets to the wind and decidedly dull of mind, he replayed St. Wulfstan's insulting words. Damned if the blackguard hadn't been right. Isobel was indeed all spark and flame. The question, of course, was how he was going to get her burning beneath him.

CHAPTER 14

Nathan could not find his wife. She had been by his side not five minutes past, but William had arrived and, when Nathan reached for Isobel, had earned himself a stinging comment from the elderly Mrs. Harrington.

She'd had a perfectly good reason for scolding him; he had taken a rather intimate grip on her arm.

His quick apology, including a ridiculous comment about having mistaken her youthful presence for that of his wife, had apparently satisfied the lady. He had then heard her remark to some unidentified companion that perhaps the Oriels should show a bit less affection toward each other in public.

The general consensus of Society seemed to be that the Marquess and Marchioness of Oriel were utterly enamored of each other. One London rag had recently printed a quip about a certain lord all but tripping over his own feet in his efforts to be always at his adored bride's side. Nathan found being mocked by a newspaper far preferable to having his eyesight questioned. It would have been nice, however, to have been portrayed in a less ego-pricking manner. His adored bride had laughed and read the section aloud a second time, just to be sure he'd heard properly.

At present, his adored bride was not at his side, nor could he find her.

He could hear her, though, that soft Scots voice taking some poor fellow to task for having placed Skye off the coast of Yorkshire. Isobel was having the damnedest time accepting the fact that, for most of the benighted ton, the earth ended at England's borders.

"A pity 'tis not so," she had muttered on a previous evening. "Had your ancestors believed they'd drop into the sea should they venture north of Galloway, we'd be a jollier lot in the Highlands now."

Well, Nathan thought, England had done her empiric best at overrunning lands northerly. Now it seemed Scotland had come back to captivate London.

"She's made quite a mark, your Scottish wife."

"Hmm?"
He turned back to face his brother. "Yes, Isobel appears to have brought the Highlands into vogue."

"She's in fine looks this evening. To think Alvanley called her plain.

Absurd."

Nathan had not heard Alvanley's remark. He wondered if he ought to set the man straight on the matter of Isobel's beauty, perhaps with a fist to the jaw. He reluctantly decided against it. Should he miss and Alvanley strike back, there was every chance he would end up flat on his back. It would be embarrassing beyond measure to be felled by such a soft creature and would do Isobel no good.

Of course, she would likely come to his defense and flatten the baron with one swing. Oddly, such an act would probably raise her to mythic status. The ton already considered her something of a luminary. Like her countrywoman Flora MacDonald, renowned for risking her life to spirit Bonnie Prince Charlie away from British troops, Isobel held a definite fascination for the descendants of those bumbling soldiers. The Scottish Woman, according to current opinion, was not at all what one might expect.

In fact, whispers declared, there must be a good dose of English blood running through the MacLeods.

Isobel, to her credit, expressed her opinions on that matter in Gaelic.

Her audience, having no idea what she was saying, was invariably charmed.

While William rattled on, Nathan scanned the colorful blur nearby. He could hear Isobel, but he still could not see her familiar red curls.

" 'Tis not an island, my lord," she was saying. "Scotland is joined to England by land."

Nathan could not hear the response to that, but Isobel's explanation was more than audible. "I expect the moat confused you, sir. 'Twas dug by English slaves and runs from Locherbriggs to Pittenweem."

A figure promptly detached itself from a nearby knot and rushed off, no doubt to explain to still ignorant cronies that it was the slave-dug moat that made Scotland appear an island. Grinning, Nathan made his way toward his wife, her brilliant hair now visible in the midst of the circle. Obligingly, people moved out of his way. Oriel, current opinion dictated, was too besotted with his wife to notice whose feet he trod upon.

"Who was that, my dear?" he asked when he reached her.

"Mr. Ellsworth."

"You really must stop sporting with the savages, Isobel. They will believe anything."

Her laugh, as always, served to set his every nerve ending on fire. The easy slide of her arm through his did not help. Damn William. Damn every well-sighted, fawning fop present. They could see precisely how well Lady Oriel looked in her brilliant yellow gown. He could only imagine.

Isobel watched Nathan's expression grow stormy and wondered at it.

Only moments before, he had been grinning, looking inordinately pleased.

Now he looked pained.

"Is your leg bothering you?" she asked softly. "We can leave, if you like."

"Hmm?
Ah, perhaps a bit. Are you certain you do not mind?"

"Not at all." It was quite true. She tired of performing for the ton and was looking forward to some time alone with her husband. They had had so little of late. "Shall we go, then?"

It took them far too long to reach the door. They were forced to pause as countless people bade their good-byes, expressed belated or repeated felicitations on their marriage, or merely stood in their path and stared.

Isobel's pleasant smile wavered at the sight of Ellsworth bearing down on them, his round face washed with vivid pink. She really ought to have resisted the impulse to make up that story, but he had been so easy to dupe.

The young man, it was clear soon enough, bore no grudge. "I must say, Lady Oriel, that was a deuced good one. A moat." He actually seized her hand and bent over it. "Deuced good. I might just use it myself. With your permission, of course."

Isobel managed to grant his request while maintaining a straight face.

After a few more
deuceds
and another sweep at her hand, Ellsworth trundled off.

"Careful, my dear, or they will be constructing a monument to you in Hyde Park."

"Cuist!"
she scolded Nathan and pushed him toward the door.

Their footman spotted them as they reached the street and ran to fetch the carriage. Isobel, idly scanning the arrivals, thought she spied St.

Wulfstan. She released Nathan's arm and stepped forward to get a better look, but try as she might, she could not find him again. It was no loss, she decided. She would be more than content not to face the man again any time soon.