Her Secret Affair (12 page)

Isabel absently tugged at the tight blue ribbons securing her bonnet. Today, though Helen didn’t know it, he had an engagement at Parliament. Isabel had lain awake half the night trying to devise a clever scheme for interviewing the Duke of Lynwood. It was impossible to escape during the day; young ladies did not wander around London on their own. Even if she did manage to get away and steal in through a back door of Lynwood House, a servant might catch her as she wandered around looking for the duke’s apartment. And she could think of no excuse that would get her past the front door, let alone upstairs to the family quarters. In the end she had decided to quit trying to be clever and embrace boldness instead. She had persuaded Helen to call on Kern.

The coach swayed as it pulled into the curved drive in front of Lynwood House. Stepping down from the carriage, Isabel caught her breath in awe at seeing the enormous stone residence that faced Hyde Park. With its high windows and stately cornices, it looked like a palace. The tall pillars of the porch dwarfed her. “You’re to live here soon,” she murmured to Helen as they walked up the broad front steps, Miss Gilbert trailing behind them. “Are you looking forward to the day?”

Helen sighed. “Yes, but I shall miss Papa very much. The old duke is rather a frightful man.”

“How so?”

Helen glanced back at Miss Gilbert, then whispered in confidence, “When I was a girl, he would pinch my cheek and slap my bottom. If I shied from him, he would bray with laughter.” She shuddered. “I cannot fancy living in the same house with such a man, though Justin assures me the duke keeps to his rooms these days.”

“When did he become ill?”

“Last autumn. He suffered a seizure and hasn’t received visitors these past six months.”

Isabel clenched her fingers into fists. That meant the lecher had been healthy while her mother was alive. Was he the one who had poisoned her?

A young, white-wigged footman opened the front door. “My lady,” he said, jerking into a surprised bow. “I fear Lord Kern has gone out.”

“Gone out!” Helen said, a pout of dismay on her fair features. “When will he return?”

“His lordship didn’t say. He left no instructions—except…”

“Except what?”

“He said that you and Miss Darcy are not under any circumstances to wait upon him here.”

Helen frowned. “What an odd message. He wasn’t expecting us.”

Isabel understood—too well. Kern had outwitted her, anticipating this visit.
Should I find you anywhere near Lynwood, there’ll be hell to pay.

But she wouldn’t give up without a fight. “You surely misunderstood,” she said. “Lady Helen is his lordship’s intended bride. He would never forbid her admittance.”

Looping her arm with Helen’s, she ignored Miss Gilbert’s squawk of dismay and marched past the astonished footman. Isabel found herself in the soaring elegance of the entrance hall. A domed window set high in the ceiling let in filtered sunlight, keeping the place from being gloomy. “One must never be bullied by a servant,” she murmured to Helen. “Now, which way to the drawing room?”

“Up one flight,” Helen said, leading the small party toward the grand staircase with its white-and-gold balustrade. “How magnificent you are, Cousin,” she added in a whisper. “I would have obeyed without question and fled home.”

“Oh dear, oh
dear,
” wailed Miss Gilbert, twisting her handkerchief. “His lordship will be
furious.
He will take me to task for your undisciplined behavior.”

“Nonsense, Gillie,” Helen said as they mounted the wide, marble steps. “He is not your employer. And besides, I am a grown woman now. You are my friend and my companion, but I do not answer to a governess any longer.”

“Or to any man,” Isabel added, determined to prevent Kern from dictating to his future wife. He would domineer a sweet girl like Helen unless Isabel took steps to protect her. “A woman should exercise an independence of mind rather than blindly follow the directives of others.”

“I quite agree. And I will tell Justin so the moment he arrives home.”

“Perhaps not the very moment,” Isabel cautioned. “One must sometimes allow men to
believe
they hold the upper hand. Even if they do not.”

“Oh, I see. How clever you are.” Helen blinked her admiring blue eyes. “How did you become so knowledgeable in the ways of the world?”

“From reading and the study of human nature.” To distract Helen, Isabel exclaimed, “What a perfectly lovely room. I vow, it will be your favorite retreat once you’re married.”

Its walls hung in yellow silk damask, the drawing room radiated a cheery warmth. There were groupings of chaises and chairs, elegant bric-a-brac on the octagonal tables, and a delicate French writing desk near the white marble mantelpiece. The long windows provided a breathtaking view of Hyde Park with its green trees and riding paths.

As Helen ordered tea and handed their wraps to the footman, Isabel wandered to a window. The light aroma of beeswax perfumed the air, and a fire snapped invitingly on the hearth. She couldn’t deny a moment of longing to think of living in such splendor, relaxing in this room with a book or gazing out upon the magnificent vista of the park. But to gain a position here, Helen must shackle herself to the haughty Lord Kern.

A shiver unsettled Isabel. So much for envy.

Restlessness kept her from sitting with her companions. Now that she had breached this fortress, she needed to fabricate an excuse to slip away. If her luck held, she would require no more than a quarter hour to accomplish her purpose.

Pressing her palm to her lower back, she approached Helen. “My lady, I fear an exigency is upon me. I must seek out the retiring room.”

Helen jumped to her feet. “What is it? Are you ill? We’ll return home at once.”

“My need is immediate.” Isabel modestly lowered her gaze. “It is my monthly visitor, you see.” It was not entirely a lie; she expected her courses to begin in a day or two.

“Oh! You poor dear. I’ll ring for a servant.”

Helen started toward the bell pull, but Isabel caught her arm. “No, please. I’d be mortified to ask the footman for assistance. I’ll go upstairs and find a maidservant.”

“You cannot go alone. Gillie, kindly accompany my cousin.”

Isabel motioned the aging governess to remain seated. “Please stay and enjoy your tea, both of you. I insist upon it. I’m perfectly capable of tending to my own needs.”

Before they could voice further objections, Isabel hastened from the drawing room. Her senses thrummed with anticipation. At last she had her chance, and she would make the most of it.

Should I find you anywhere near Lynwood, there’ll be hell to pay.

Lifting her dark-blue skirts, she ran lightly up the staircase. Kern could go to the devil. She wouldn’t waste any time being frightened of him. What could he do to her but rave and rant?

*   *   *

“Prostitution is the bane of our society,” proclaimed Mr. Bertrand Sweeney, who had stopped Kern outside the Commons Chamber to solicit his support for a new bill. “One cannot stroll along the Strand without being accosted by a hussy ready to sell her services for a shilling’s worth of gin. Why, the bawdy houses in this city must number in the thousands. They must be closed, all of them, to preserve the moral integrity of our great nation.”

A fortnight ago, Kern would have agreed with Sweeney’s conservative politics. Now he thought uneasily of the old whore Persephone, lying ill of a disease contracted in the pursuit of her profession. “And what would become of the women? How would they earn their bread?”

“That is no concern of ours, m’lord.” Grinning, Sweeney clapped Kern on the arm as if they were social equals. “Indeed, let the trollops wallow in the gutter where they belong.”

“I cannot consent to any proposal that will increase by vast numbers the destitute who wander our city.”

Sweeney’s jaw dropped. “Surely you of all men should champion my bill with your friends in the Lords Chamber. Your father, the duke, being a renowned reprobate—”

“Say no more,” Kern broke in icily. “This city needs stronger policing to enforce the laws we already have in place. Show me a bill for that, and I will gladly endorse it. Good day, sir.” Leaving Sweeney sputtering, Kern strode toward the main doors, his footsteps ringing on the stone floor.

The disagreeable encounter fed his inner turmoil, and after a morning of listening to long-winded speeches, Kern was tempted to abandon civic duty. He felt a yearning to hike the hills of his boyhood home in Derbyshire, to breathe the clean air of the country, to escape the problems of the city and concentrate on the familiar business of his estate. His wedding loomed six weeks away, and Helen surely would forgive him a brief absence. Perhaps then he could rid himself of this persistent restlessness.

But an iron-fisted purpose held him in London.

Isabel Darling.

She and Helen intended to spend the day selecting bride clothes, and Helen said laughingly that the bridegroom mustn’t tag along. Far from eager to make the tedious rounds of milliners and glovers, Kern had heeded the announcement with a sense of relief. Isabel couldn’t embroil herself in too much trouble while on a shopping expedition.

Or could she?

She might meet up with a besotted swain like Mobrey. Those dark, come-hither eyes would flash seductively. Her lush lips would curve into a siren smile. She would sway her hips and beckon to him, luring the unsuspecting fool into an indiscretion …

Kern balled his fists. Isabel Darling would never secure herself a respectable marriage. Never.

And he must heed the danger represented by her mother’s memoirs. Though at present Isabel dared not publish the filth without endangering her masquerade, Kern knew she
would
attempt blackmail should the opportunity arise. This very morning, he had instructed the footmen against such an event. So why did he feel so uneasy?

He exited the Commons Lobby to find his carriage waiting outside, the smart black equipage drawn by a pair of matched grays. As the footman leaped down to open the door emblazoned with his coat of arms, Kern snapped out a single word to the coachman.

“Home.”

*   *   *

Isabel glanced over her shoulder at the long, elegantly appointed passageway. She saw only a maidservant staggering under a pile of linens and heading in the opposite direction. A tomblike silence lay over the upper floor.

Removing her bonnet, Isabel looped the ribbons over her arm. She pressed her ear to a white-painted door. Within, a querulous voice rose and fell, though the words were muted. The duke?

There was only one way to find out.

Taking a shaky breath, she turned the gold handle and crept inside. She found herself in a gloomy sitting room that smelled sharply of medicines. The voice came from the next room, and she tiptoed toward the open portal.

A fire blazed on the green marble hearth. No expense had been spared in furnishing the room with the finest in ottomans and chairs and gilt-framed paintings. Dominating the cavernous chamber was a massive four-poster hung with bronze velvet. The ornate ducal crest adorned the gold-fringed canopy.

A liveried manservant stood beside the bed, attempting to coax the white-haired invalid into swallowing a spoonful of tonic. With a sweep of his gnarled hand, the duke struck away the spoon. Syrupy brown liquid sprayed the wall, and the utensil fell to the carpet.

“Get away, you mangy dog! Poison me, will you? Bring me my dueling pistols, by gad, and fight like a man.”

Poison?
Isabel’s ears perked up. If the duke suspected others of foul play, might it not point at his own guilty conscience?

“Your Grace, Dr. Sadler says this medicine will improve your health.” The servant retrieved the spoon, then picked up a brown bottle from the bedside table.

This time, the duke opened his mouth and took the tonic. And promptly spat it back into the servant’s face.

The man lurched backward, scrubbing his sleeve over his eyes. Dark spots marred the front of his pale-blue livery with its waterfall of white lace.

The duke tipped back his head and cackled with laughter. “Think you can get the best of Lynwood, eh? That’ll teach you. Keeping me confined to this demmed bed.”

Isabel saw her chance and hurried forward, the bonnet swinging on her arm. “You’ll be wanting a change of clothing,” she said to the servant. “I will sit with His Grace until your return.”

The servant pivoted, a look of alarm on his ruddy features. “No strangers are allowed in here, miss.”

“It’s quite all right. I’m a friend of the family, cousin to Lady Helen Jeffries.”

“Cousin, eh?” the duke said. A broad smile showed his yellowed teeth, and he patted the bed. “Sit down, my pretty.”

“I wasn’t told of any visitors.” The hulking servant peered suspiciously at her. “Sorry, miss, but I’ll be ringing for help.”

“Yes, do that,” she bluffed. “Tell the whole staff you’re not competent in your post. Tell everyone you couldn’t properly care for His Grace.” When the man hesitated by the velvet bell rope hanging near the wall, she put on her most severe countenance and added, “Run along now. With luck you’ll only be gone for a few minutes.”

“Be off, you scurvy rat,” added the duke, who sat glowering in the bed. “You can’t have her—she’s mine.” He snatched up a silver cup from the bedside table and hurled it at the lackey.

The manservant caught the vessel, but not before liquid drenched him. Scowling, he backed away, shot a suspicious glance at Isabel, and then scurried from the chamber. The door banged shut behind him.

Isabel was alone with the Duke of Lynwood.

He looked old and cross, a man far past his prime. Like a map of dissipation, spidery red veins lined his nose and cheeks. He wore a voluminous nightshirt with ruffled cuffs, the collar open to show the gray hairs on his broad chest. Rumpled white curls framed the strong bones of a once-handsome face. His eyes glinted a shrewd shade of green.

Kern’s eyes.

But this man possessed not a jot of his son’s iron-willed honor. This disgusting lecher had been intimate with her mother. The thought made Isabel slightly queasy. Although she had loved her frivolous, pleasure-seeking mother, she herself could never embrace such a wicked life, could never put her happiness in the hands of a man who refused to marry her, who thought himself her superior simply by virtue of his birth.