Her Secret Affair (18 page)

Her heart sank. He must have heard about her stray mongrel, though he did not spare M’lord a glance. But she never gave up without a fight. “Good afternoon, Lord Hathaway. I should like a word with you.”

“No.
I
should like a word with
you,
young woman.”

He stepped back, a sweep of his hand bidding her to enter. She held the puppy and marched into the library. Never before had she been allowed into Hathaway’s private sanctum. Comfortable chairs and rugs silvered by age decorated the long room. The masculine retreat smelled of tobacco and leather and the ineffable essence of old money.

At any other time, Isabel would have liked to explore the rows upon rows of books lining the walls. She would have liked to examine the family portraits hanging on the paneling above the bookshelves. But not now.

Now she had M’lord’s welfare to consider.

Bracing herself to persuade the marquess, she turned around as he shut the door. “I know that my status as your guest permits me no further privileges,” she began. “Therefore, I must apologize for upsetting you—”

“Upsetting?” he said in a tight voice. “Your actions today have been insolent and insufferable. You have far overstepped your boundaries, Miss Darling. And I will not tolerate it.”

At his sharp tone the puppy growled, and Isabel stroked M’lord to calm him. Hathaway’s fierce attack both wounded and angered her. Was he so opposed to allowing this little creature in his house? “Pray forgive me for not coming to you straightaway,” she said. “You see, I didn’t think it would be wise—”

“You didn’t
think.
” Pacing before the carved stone fireplace, Hathaway ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “If there is one thing I can abide less than ill behavior, it is excuses. The least you can do is to own up to your actions.”

“I’m offering an explanation, not an excuse,” she said stiffly. “As I was saying, I didn’t think it wise to come here without first giving M’lord a bath.”

Hathaway stopped in his tracks. His face paled; then a ruddy color surged from his throat into his cheeks. “By God,” he said slowly, clenching and unclenching his fists, “if you dare to consort with gentlemen in your bath, young woman, I shall thrash you within an inch of your life.”

Stunned by his vehemence—and his mistaken assumption—she shook her head. “
No.
M’lord is my
dog.
I rescued him today from a band of bullies.”

“Your dog.”

“Yes. We’ve been talking about him—about whether or not you’ll permit me to keep him here.” Feeling as befuddled as Hathaway looked, Isabel tilted her head. “Haven’t we?”

The marquess blinked at M’lord, and the puppy gave a fierce yap, though spoiling the watchdog effect by wagging his tail.

“Apparently we’ve been speaking at cross-purposes,” Hathaway muttered. He stalked to the writing desk, picked up several sheets of vellum, and shook them at her. “I was referring to this letter, which was delivered a short while ago. In it, my brother told me of your vile accusations.”

She wanted to laugh from giddy relief. Lord Raymond. Hathaway was referring to Lord Raymond.

Of course, that was hardly cause for cheer.

She set the puppy down on the carpet and held the leather lead while M’lord trotted away to sniff the base of a dictionary stand.

The marquess glowered at her, his white-knuckled hands at his sides. “Have you nothing to say to this charge, Miss Darling?”

“Yes, I visited the Reverend Lord Raymond this morning,” she said carefully. “I merely asked some questions in regard to my mother’s death.”

“Questions, bah! You hurled lies at him. You claimed Aurora Darling was murdered.” His fist struck the desk, rattling the quills and silver inkstand. “It’s nonsense. Cockle-brained, fanciful nonsense.”

His vehemence jolted her, and she wondered if his reaction typified what would happen as more and more people learned the story of Aurora’s murder. “No, it isn’t nonsense. I was there at my mother’s deathbed. I
know.
”

“You know nothing.” He coldly regarded her. “Had such a crime been committed, the magistrate would have been notified. The news sheets would have covered the story in sordid detail. All of London would have buzzed with the scandal.”

“The truth was written in my mother’s memoirs. She swore she was being poisoned by one of her … her former lovers.” For some inexplicable reason, Isabel felt compelled to convince him and took a step closer. “Mama hid the book so well I didn’t find it until many months after she died. By then, who would have believed me?”

“Who, indeed?” The marquess’s voice rang with contempt. Tossing down the letter, he prowled back and forth in front of his writing desk. “To think Justin failed to silence you and your disgusting allegations this morning. By God, I shall have a word with him about
that.
”

“It’s no concern of his—nor of yours—if I choose to find the man who took my mother from me. Besides, can you prove Lord Raymond is
not
that man?”

Hathaway stood very still, yet she had the impression of seething emotions in him. “I will hear no more of this folly.” He pointed his forefinger at her. “Heed me now, and heed me well. So long as you are living in my house, you will behave like a lady. You will not go about like the common hoyden you are, accusing your betters of a capital offense. Do I make myself clear?”

Shocked to the core, she could only gaze at him. Then she managed a shaky nod as despair leapt out and sank its sharp teeth into her confidence. For a time she had felt accepted by him, a lady on equal social footing with his own daughter. How could she have forgotten that was all an illusion? In truth, he—like Kern—viewed her as an interloper. To them, she was no better than the tweeny who scrubbed pots in the scullery or the groom who mucked the stables.

Damn all noblemen.

Yet in the midst of her humiliation, she couldn’t help puzzling over Hathaway’s agitation. Why did he appear so white-faced and shaken, as if he had been delivered a shattering blow? Why did the shadow of some dark emotion lurk in his eyes?

Then the truth struck Isabel. Staring, she took a step backward.

Lord Hathaway was terrified. Terrified that his pious, conniving brother really might have committed murder.

*   *   *

“Murder, bah,” Minnie said. “’Tis a girl’s fancies and nothing more. I don’t know what else we can say, m’lord.”

In the unforgiving light of day, the parlor had an air of tarnished vulgarity. The sun had faded the maroon upholstery on the chaises and turned the gilt fringe on the draperies to the color of dingy brass. A shawl was draped carelessly over a broken cane chair. Brighter squares on the gold-striped wallpaper showed where paintings had once hung.

The pictures likely had been sold, Kern thought, judging by the squalid state of the house and the obvious need for funds. He hadn’t noticed the defects on his previous visits to the brothel. Candlelight and darkness forgave many faults.

Was Minnie telling him everything she knew?

He studied the stout woman who sat enthroned on a high-backed chair. But for the low green bodice that flaunted a pair of bovine udders, she might have been a duke’s dowager aunt. On the chaise across from her lounged Diana, idly twisting a lock of flame-colored hair while staring out the window.

The sooner Kern solved the mystery of Aurora’s death, the sooner Isabel would vanish from his life. “A girl’s fancies,” Kern repeated. “Then you’re saying Aurora Darling was
not
poisoned?”

“Who’s to know the truth but God?” Bowing her mob-capped head, Minnie heaved a sigh that jiggled her impressive bosom. “’Tis no wonder the sweet child is distraught. She did so love her dear departed mother. Not that Aurora deserved such loyalty.”

“Explain yourself.”

“From the time Isabel was born, her mum paid her little heed. She was only a babe in arms when Aurora sent her away to a wet nurse in Oxfordshire. Even as she grew older, Isabel only came back here for brief holidays. Of course
I
made a point to visit her whenever I could manage. Somebody had to look after the child’s welfare.” A look of earnest worry on her round face, Minnie leaned forward, her work-worn hands clasped in her lap. “Oh, do send her back home to us, m’lord. Don’t let her go on this way, poking into people’s secret lives. She can only come to grief.”

Kern feared that himself. He knew he should focus on questions about the crime, yet he hungered to know more about Isabel’s past. “And you,” he said, turning to Diana. “Do you concur with this assessment of Aurora?”

Diana buffed her fingernails against the brown silk wrapper that hugged her sagging figure. A webwork of lines marred her white skin. “Aurora didn’t want the chit raised around the men who used to come here. And I can’t say as I blame her.” She scanned him, her full lips pouting with hostility. “Too many toffs are keen on little girls. Men like you prefer to plow a tender field.”

If she had kicked him, he couldn’t have felt more jolted. Until now he had not considered Isabel as a young girl growing to womanhood with a company of harlots as her only family. But which version of her past was the truth? Had Aurora been a neglectful mother? Or was she to be commended for banishing her bastard daughter to the country? He was inclined to believe the latter, though it galled him to feel any admiration for a courtesan.

Careful not to let his composed features alter a whit, he circled the women, deliberately engaging Minnie’s watchful gaze. “You claim that Isabel is prone to fancy. Yet late on the night Aurora took ill, you saw a man entering her bedroom.”

“Aye, but that weren’t anything out of the ordinary.”

“Can you describe the man?”

Gripping the arms of the chair for leverage, she shifted her bulk. “No, m’lord. It was past midnight, and so dark I only caught a glimpse, enough to know he was a customer. At the time, I thought nothing of the matter. Aurora always liked her privacy.”

He turned to Diana. “Did
you
see this man?”

“Don’t you think I would have said so by now?” She gave a toss of her fiery hair, and the sunlight picked out dull gray strands among the red. “I was in bed, if you must know.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. I do as little entertaining as possible, men being the swine they are.” Her lip curled, making Kern aware of where Isabel had learned her scorn for gentlemen.

He closely watched both women. “Do either of you know where Aurora’s memoirs are hidden?”

Diana shrugged. “That’s a question for Isabel.”

Frowning, Minnie shook her head. “She has the book with her, I suppose. And ’tis folly indeed, her going after all those society gents just because Aurora had some wild notion she’d been poisoned.”

“Has anyone ever tried to steal the memoirs?” Kern asked.

“Steal?”

“Yes. It strikes me as odd that a man might have killed Aurora to stop her from publishing the memoirs. Then he left without the book.”

Minnie inserted a finger beneath the mobcap and scratched her scalp. “I never thought of that before. But the diary was hidden for many months. Mayhap he looked but couldn’t find it.”

“Perhaps.” But still, Kern wondered. Wouldn’t the murderer have turned the house upside down in a search for the damning volume? And what would he do when he learned that Isabel now possessed it?

The thought shook Kern. A man who had killed once would not hesitate to kill again …

Diana crossed her legs, one of her slippers impatiently kicking the air. “Is that quite all, your lordship? I’ve plenty to do with Callie and Isabel gone and Persy still recuperating.”

“Aye, we’re too busy for this chitchat,” Minnie said, her eyes narrowing on him. “For one, the cabbage soup will burn, and then what’ll us poor old women do for dinner? It’s not like we can afford to waste.”

So that was the way of it.

Kern reached into an inner pocket, drew out two gold sovereigns, and placed them before a chipped statue of a naked nymph. Diana sat up straight, the boredom fleeing her fine-aged face. Minnie stared at the money and avariciously rubbed her thumbs against her forefingers.

“Now,” he said, “tell me everything you know about Aurora’s lovers.”

*   *   *

Isabel arrived at the ball unfashionably early. Only a few guests stood chatting in the entrance hall, waiting for Lord and Lady Wilkins to form a receiving line. The butler stalked past, balancing a silver tray of wine bottles. A white-gloved footman took Isabel’s pelisse and Miss Gilbert’s cloak.

“Oh, dear, I do not think we should have come alone,” Gillie whispered. Bundled in brown bombazine, she dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief. “We ought to have waited for Lord Kern to escort us.”

That was precisely why Isabel
had
contrived to depart well before the appointed time. “Nonsense,” she said. “It is perfectly respectable for a lady and her companion to attend a ball.”

“Yet a gentleman would lend us his protection and gallantry.”

“And we would be imposing on him. With Helen still abed with a cold, he surely will be thankful for being spared the obligation to escort us.”

At least Isabel prayed so. She had no wish to spend the evening dodging her nemesis. Today, she had ascertained the arrival in town of another gentleman who had once consorted with her mother. She was banking on the hope that he, too, had received an invitation to this, one of the premier events of the season.

The last aggravation she needed was Lord Kern hovering at her elbow. Now that he knew she sought to punish one of his kind, he would thwart her at every turn. Unless she kept a step ahead of him.

Yet as she and Miss Gilbert mounted the grand staircase to the reception rooms, Isabel felt her worries float away. An irresistible excitement bubbled inside her, the thrill of living a favorite fantasy, of being a princess on her way to meet a prince.

Ever since she had joined the ranks of polite society, that youthful daydream had enveloped her again like a gossamer veil settling over her common sense. Though a part of her knew it was impossible, she still wanted—yearned for—what she could not have.