Her Secret Affair (17 page)

“You should not have treated Lord Raymond as if he were a criminal. I’ve known the man since childhood, and I say he’s innocent of any alleged murder.”

“I see.
You
require proof that my mother was poisoned. But
I
am not afforded the same privilege in regard to Lord Raymond’s integrity.”

“No, you are not. Now come along before all of London sees us quarreling.”

Isabel realized that people strolled the byways, servants and tradesmen going about their business, fine coaches passing by. And who knew what curious eyes peered out the windows of the neighboring town houses?

Swallowing her ire, she accompanied Kern to the phaeton, where he helped her up into the high seat. Only as the horse began trotting and the carriage rolled smoothly down the street did he turn to her and say, “Tell me the names of the other men you are investigating.”

As if she would allow him to interfere again! “At the risk of repeating myself, that is confidential information.”

His jaw tightening, he frowned at the traffic. “I suppose they are all described in the memoirs which you refuse to show me.”

She pressed her lips together. Let him stew in his own ignorance. He did not wish to help her, but to warn the others. Men of his kind formed a closed circle, protecting one another’s reputation.

He peered at her, so keenly that she feared he would guess the small book lay within his reach, tucked inside the hidden pocket beneath her skirt. He couldn’t know; no one knew. She took care when she changed clothes so that not even Callie suspected.

Kern said, “One of the gentlemen on your list is Sir John Trimble.”

Isabel stiffened. Trust him to remember that card game at her first ball. But he couldn’t pry into Trimble’s past. He mustn’t. She couldn’t bear for Kern to find out that her own father had not wanted her.

At his level stare, a flush flooded her cheeks. Her palms felt clammy inside her gloves. “You can’t be certain of that.”

“No. But the truth shouldn’t be too difficult to ascertain.” He returned his attention to the road, and she soon noticed that he guided the horse south onto busy Regent Street.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I recall Trimble belonging to one of the clubs. It should be a simple matter to track down the man.”

Appalled, Isabel said, “But he’s out of town. You heard him say he was going to the country for a while.”

“Then we shall see if he’s returned.”

Damn Kern. She considered insisting he return her to Hathaway House, but feared more that he would interrogate Trimble himself and ruin the element of surprise. At the very least, she wanted to be present to hear what excuses Trimble had to offer in regard to her mother’s murder.

On St. James’s Street, Kern stopped the carriage in front of what looked like a graceful country house, though it sat in the midst of the city. He beckoned imperiously, and the doorman came hurrying down the steps.

In answer to Kern’s query, the servant lifted his top hat and scratched his balding pate. “Short man with a hidjus scar across his cheek? Think I’ve spied such a gennelman over at Boodle’s from time to time. Shall I find out for you, m’lord?”

Nodding, Kern flipped him a coin, which the man snatched nimbly. He dashed across the street to another elegant club, and within moments he’d returned with an address. Sir John lived in a rather seedy neighborhood off Haymarket.

Kern concealed a surge of triumph and set off in pursuit of his quarry. Though Isabel sat as stiff as a governess’s ruler, her gaze focused straight ahead, he sensed a powerful agitation in her. The breeze fluttered dark wisps of curl around her face. Undoubtedly she had known where Trimble resided. But she was determined to thwart Kern however she could.

He
was just as determined to thwart
her.

In short order, he drove through the crowded streets and located the dwelling in a row of small, undistinguished town houses. Kern wondered how a man who lived in such reduced circumstances had been able to afford Aurora Darling. That was one question Kern intended to pose.

But Trimble wasn’t in, and the brisk housekeeper who answered the door said he’d not yet returned from his trip. Kern had to settle for leaving word that he would come back on the following Friday morning.

“See? I told you he wouldn’t be here,” Isabel said with an air of triumph as they descended the front steps. “And you are not to return here without me. This time,
I
will direct the questioning. Lord Raymond might have revealed more had
you
been shrewder in making your accusations.”

Setting his jaw, Kern stopped beside the carriage. “Forget him. He isn’t the guilty party.”

“Oh? He had ample cause. And if you mean to take so careless an attitude toward Trimble, too, you must leave the interrogation to me.”

“Like hell,” Kern bit out. He never swore in front of females, but Isabel Darling pushed him to extremes. “I intend to keep a firm leash on you lest your lack of breeding land you into trouble.”

“My lack of breeding?
Your
father is Lynwood.”

Refusing to snap at her bait, Kern gritted his teeth. “Your lack of breeding,” he repeated. “If anyone of consequence should see you visiting gentlemen without a proper chaperone…” He almost said
you’ll ruin yourself,
but amended, “You’ll bring shame down on Lady Helen and her father.”

Isabel drew herself up with dignity. “I am perfectly aware of how a lady comports herself. I had a governess who taught me to curtsy and simper with the best of them—
oh!
”

Struck by the alarm elevating her voice, he followed her gaze across the street, where a group of urchins huddled on the corner, their attention focused on something small crouched within the center of their circle. Their shouts and taunts radiated a sinister brutality.

To Kern’s astonishment, Isabel seized the whip from its stand inside the phaeton and then hastened toward the band of children. “Good God,” he muttered, and strode after her. What ill-bred calamity was she involving herself in this time?

One flourish of her whip and the ragamuffins scattered in four directions, disappearing into alleyways and around corners. By the time he reached her side, she was scooping up the brown-and-gray animal that cowered on the ground.

She cradled it to her breast. “Oh, Kern. It’s a puppy. Isn’t she adorable?”

“He,” Kern corrected, giving the tiny, quivering creature a cursory examination to make sure it wasn’t hurt. Mats covered its floppy ears and short tail. “And he’s filthy. You had better put him down.”

“No.” Isabel shot Kern a fierce frown. “Those boys might return and bully him again.”

He had to concur with her reasoning. “And what do you intend to do with the animal, then?”

“I’ll take him home. I’ll care for him myself.”

“May I remind you, Hathaway House is not your home. You’ve no right to impose a mongrel upon the marquess and his household.”

Her face paled, but she did not release her hold on the dog. She cuddled it in her arms, stroking the dirty gray spot on its brow while the little creature grew calmer. “I have another home where I can take him eventually,” she said. “In the meantime, I will not abandon this puppy.”

Turning on her heel, she marched toward the phaeton. Kern followed, resenting her for making him feel like a first-rate cad. Who was he to obstruct her kindness? Did he despise Isabel so much he could accept no human decency in her?

He helped her up into the carriage, and she held tight to the puppy, though dirt smudged the amber silk of her gown. As she crooned to the dog, her expression softened and she smiled, absorbed in doting on her ragtag pet. The breeze flirted with her curls, and sunshine pinkened her cheeks. She might have been a lady bent on rectifying the harsh injustices of life. He caught himself wishing for half the attention she lavished on the animal.

Kern snapped the reins. How ridiculous to feel his gut twisted with jealousy over a godforsaken ball of fur. If anything, he should be bent on discovering who else she suspected of murder. What other men had she paid special attention to these past few weeks?

There had been Charles Mobrey, but Isabel had not solicited his friendship; she had used him to obtain an introduction to Sir John Trimble. Since then, a number of young gentlemen had courted her, but Kern could think of no one in particular who might have frequented an aging whore when there were younger ones to be had.

Why should he bother solving the mystery, anyway? So long as Isabel refrained from accusing his family members, her plotting shouldn’t interest Kern. Let Isabel make her private accusations. Give her enough rope, and sooner or later she would hang herself. Sooner or later she would confront the murderer—and the murderer would deal with her.

Chilled to the core, Kern glanced at her. She giggled as the puppy licked her chin. Giggled like a carefree girl. A violent pressure built in his chest. He wanted to shake some sense into her. He wanted to rant at her, to forbid her from pursuing her dangerous course of action.

When she saw Kern watching, the light in her eyes dimmed, though a twinkle of defiance lingered. “M’Iord,” she said.

“Yes?”

“That is his name.”

Had she guessed the identity of the murderer? Clenching the reins, Kern leaned toward her. “Who? Who is this man?”

“I’m not referring to any man. It’s the perfect name for
him.
” Smiling impishly, she hugged the homely stray dog to her bosom. “Henceforth, he shall be known as M’lord.”

14 May 1821

Though my hand trembles with weakness, I take up my pen once more to record my thoughts … nay, my fears. Has it truly been a fortnight since I took ill? The malady has kept me abed, sapped my strength, made me aware of how frail a vessel is the mortal body.

Alas! Until this vile sickness struck, I enjoyed the health and spirit of a woman far younger in years. I lived for pleasure. But now all prospect of pleasure has been robbed from me.

I have been poisoned.

Dear Reader, you may scoff at my suspicions, yet heed me well. These past weeks, my lovers have come here, one by one, to warn me against my writings. Now I fear there is a Villain among them who wishes me dead, a Villain who is determined to keep me from completing these memoirs.

But I will not be stopped. Having squandered both fortune and love, I find myself weary and alone. God willing, the proceeds from my book will permit me to leave this house of assignation forever and join my dear daughter in Oxfordshire. There at last we shall live together, she and I. And perhaps there I might find a measure of the peace I never found with her father …

—The True Confessions of a Ladybird

Chapter 10

Isabel hesitated in the corridor outside the library.

M’lord wriggled in her arms and his cold nose nudged her chin. The dog had cleaned up rather nicely, she thought, though it would take a few more good meals to fill out his scrawny body. After a wild bath in the scullery sink that had rendered Isabel as wet as the frisky pup, his coat shone like honey dappled with milk. A footman had produced an old collar from the stables, and a kitchen maid had cleaned the leather lead. Botts the butler had wrung his hands and fretted over what the master would say. Isabel had assured them all she would obtain authorization from Lord Hathaway.

Now, having changed into her best aqua tea gown, she faced that very task.

Filled with guilty apprehension, she rubbed her cheek against the puppy’s soft head. These past weeks, the marquess had been decent enough, considering she had blackmailed her way into his esteemed household. Hathaway had treated her politely while maintaining a circumspect distance. In truth, he might have subjected her to petty cruelties, but instead he had paid for her new wardrobe and accepted her—albeit reluctantly—as a companion for his only daughter. Just as reluctantly, Isabel was coming to believe him a true gentleman, honest and fair, even admirable. She had not thought such a man existed—at least not in aristocratic circles.

Lord Kern, on the other hand, exemplified the arrogant snob. Though he wanted people to believe him honorable, he lacked tenderness and integrity. Witness his angry kiss.

Her skin flushed with unwelcome heat. She cursed the feeling for what it was, sexual longing. Yet she wanted him with all the shameless hunger she had heard the aunts talk about—she wanted to feel his warm body cover her and to know the touch of his fingers on her naked flesh. She wanted to learn carnal knowledge with Kern as her teacher.

Only an idiot would desire the one man who could defeat her quest for justice.

Only a hussy would covet the fiancé of a dear friend.

Only a wretch would demand yet another favor from Hathaway.

Isabel faced the closed door of the library. This morning she had acted without thinking. Now that she’d had time to reflect, she knew she had rushed to M’lord’s defense from more than the humane desire to rescue an abused animal. Although she never would have admitted as much to Kern, she had seen a phantom of herself in the puppy—the misfit taunted by village bullies about her shady past.

Isabel clasped the dog closer. He was so small, so vulnerable, as she herself had once been. She had intended to leave him in her bedchamber just now, but he had whined and cried, begging her with adoring brown eyes until her heart had melted.

No one would take him away from her.
No one.

She raised her hand to knock. Before her knuckles met the white-painted panel, the door opened and the marquess stormed out.

She jumped back, bumping the door frame. Hathaway came to an abrupt halt. He reached out as if to steady her; then he jerked his hand back. “You,” he said in an ominous voice.

He stood as straight as a poker. Though not a tall man, he radiated so much authority he seemed to tower over her. His white caterpillar brows clashed in a frown. Not since she had presented him and Lord Raymond with the damning excerpt from her mother’s memoirs had the marquess regarded her with such icy contempt.