Her Secret Affair (20 page)

He ordered himself to think of Helen. Helen, who in six weeks would be his wife. But to his shame, he could not conjure the likeness of his fiancée, not when he gazed upon Isabel’s vivid beauty.

She spun around, thrust her arm through Dickenson’s, and led the old roué toward a door at the opposite end of the ballroom. Anticipating her retreat, Kern increased his pace. He snubbed several acquaintances and whispers buzzed in his wake, but he kept walking. On some vague level, he surprised himself. He, who had always behaved with the utmost propriety, was giving chase to a female through a congested ballroom.

And he didn’t give a bloody damn what people thought.

Leaving the chamber through the opened door, he spied the couple in the deserted passageway. Dickenson had paused to smooth his thinning gray hair before a gilt-framed mirror, while Isabel tugged on his arm. “Miss Darcy,” Kern called out.

Her slender back went stiff. Dickenson frowned over his shoulder. Kern closed the remaining distance and stepped in front of them. “Before you run off, do allow me to pay my respects,” he said, taking her small, gloved hand and kissing it.

She smelled faintly of roses and rainwater. He wished to God she
was
stalking a rich husband. It would be far easier to think ill of her.

Her lips taut, she withdrew her hand. “Lord Kern. I thought you would be at the Hathaways’ tonight, keeping Lady Helen company.”

“Helen is indisposed, as you know. It is her fondest wish that
I
keep
you
company.” His gaze focused a challenge at Terrence Dickenson.

“Ah, I remember you now—you’re Lynwood’s heir,” Dickenson said. “Last time we met, you were peering through the banister rails at one of Lynwood’s parties.” His thin face took on a sly humor. “A more disapproving little fellow I never did see. Nor one more fascinated by the goings-on.”

Unwillingly, Kern recalled that night. He’d been home on holiday from Eton, still grieving the loss of his mother the previous autumn. Lonely and unable to sleep, he had ventured down the stairs only to see his father fondling a lady’s bare breasts in full view of the other revelers …

“Oh, really?” Isabel said. “How old was he?”

“Ten, perhaps,” Dickenson said with a shrug.

“And the duke allowed frolicking while his son was in the house?”

“Lynwood did whatsoever he pleased.” Dickenson cast a crafty glance at Kern. “Many a boy would have liked such a father. Especially one who took such care with his education.”

Darker memories pushed to the surface of Kern’s mind, but ruthlessly he buried them. He had learned the hard way to cage his wild urges lest they leap forth to strangle him. “It is the goings-on here that fascinate me,” he snapped. “I trust you have an explanation for leaving the ball with Miss Darcy.”

“We were discussing a private matter—” Isabel began.

“Pray allow Mr. Dickenson to answer,” Kern said.

Dickenson lifted his slightly stooped shoulders. “The lady was feeling rather faint from the crush of guests. We merely wished to find a quiet spot for her to recover.”

“Then by all means, let us do just that—all three of us.”

At his harsh tone, Dickenson backed up a step. “Hold on, old chap. The lady don’t need two escorts. Matter of fact, I’ll just toddle on back to the party now.”

“No,” Kern said. “I’ll have a word with you first. Both of you.” He took Isabel by the arm and marched her to the end of the corridor, where he opened a door in the white paneling and motioned to Dickenson to lead the way.

In the doorway, Dickenson dug in his heels. “I say, Kern, what is this havey-cavey nonsense?” he blustered. “You’re not Miss Darcy’s guardian.”

“An excellent point,” Isabel said. “I think Lord Kern should mind his own concerns rather than meddling in ours.”

“Then don’t think,” he stated in a voice that brooked no disobedience. “Just walk.”

Isabel felt a shiver of apprehension as they went down the servants’ staircase. She conceded the uselessness of arguing. If she wanted to interview Dickenson, she would have to do so with Kern standing guard.

Upon reaching the ground floor, they proceeded to a room lit by moonlight shining through a pair of tall windows. It was the morning room, judging by the small, pedestal table suitable for eating a private breakfast and the chairs arranged near the hearth for doing needlework and having cozy chats.

Not that there was anything cozy about
this
chat.

Isabel settled uneasily on the edge of a chaise. Kern closed the door with a definitive click. He prowled to a desk in the corner of the room, where he took up a menacing stance in the shadows. Clearly he knew of Dickenson’s connection to her mother. How had Kern discovered that fact without reading the memoirs? He must be guessing.

Dickenson stopped in the middle of the moon-silvered rug. He reached in his pocket, drew out a small box, and inhaled a pinch of snuff. “I don’t understand your highhandedness. You can’t have any interest in the lady. Word has it you’re engaged to Hathaway’s daughter, Ellen.”

“Helen,” Kern corrected oppressively. “Her name is Lady Helen.”

“That is neither here nor there,” Isabel said, determined to be the voice of reason. “Mr. Dickenson, you may as well know. We need your presence here for another reason entirely.”

We.
She’d included Kern unthinkingly, and yet she was suddenly very glad for his presence. Knowing that he stood nearby, she felt safe, protected, not so all alone.

If
he had the sense not to spoil the investigation as he’d done with Lord Raymond. She tried to catch his eye, to convey the message that
she
would handle the questioning, but his attention was focused on the older man.

Dickenson grimaced. “Reason? What reason? I’ve never done you a harm. We’ve never even met before … have we?” He peered owlishly at her. “No, I’d’ve recalled meeting a lady of your grace and charm.”

“You’ve met my mother,” she murmured. Gathering her courage, she added, “You surely remember her. Aurora Darling.”

Dickenson fumbled the snuffbox as if it were a live coal. It slipped through his fingers and thunked to the floor, spilling its dark powder. Paying no heed to the mess, he gaped at her. “Aurora—? Impossible. You are hoaxing me.”

“It is no hoax.” Kern leaned his elbow against the marble mantelpiece. “We know all about your past association with Aurora. She liked to call you Narcissus.”

Now how did he know
that,
too? Chilled, Isabel surreptitiously patted the hidden pocket where the diary was hidden. It was still there, a small thin rectangle concealed within her petticoat.

Dickenson’s eyes widened in the moonlight. Watching him, Isabel fisted her hands in her lap. She hated seeing awareness dawn in the eyes of a man, even this amoral man. She hated the moment when the trappings of a lady no longer concealed her base birth. She wanted to dash out of the room, to run as far and as fast as she could.

“’Tis those demned memoirs.” Dickenson swung toward Kern. “You’ve gotten your hands on the book,” he said hoarsely. “By Jove, you should act the gentleman and burn it.”

“He doesn’t have Mama’s book,” Isabel said. “I do. And it is safely tucked away where no one will find it.”

“So that’s the way of it, eh?” Dickenson scowled first at her, then at Kern. “Never would have taken a stuffed shirt like you for a blackmailer. By gad, you’re lower than Lynwood.”

Kern’s hands curled into fists; though he stood cloaked in shadow, Isabel could sense the fury radiating from him. Quickly she said, “We aren’t interested in blackmail, sir. Only in your answers to a few questions.”

“Questions? What questions?”

She took a deep breath. “Did you visit my mother in the month before she died?”

“Any time we spent together was private,” he said testily. “I certainly paid her amply for the privilege.”

Isabel winced inwardly to think of this lecher with her mother. Struggling for a calm expression, she repeated, “Did you visit her?”

When Dickenson stuck his aristocratic nose in the air, Kern growled, “Answer the lady. Did you or did you not go to see Aurora Darling in regard to the memoirs?”

Dickenson kicked at the tiny mound of snuff on the carpet. “So what if I did? If you’re planning on tattling to my wife, she’s off nursing her sister in Sussex. I won’t have you upsetting her with old gossip.”

“We’ll leave the tattling to the
Tattler,
” Isabel said acidly. “Tell me, do you recall the exact date on which you last saw my mother?”

“Date? How the devil would I recall the date? ’Twas last spring sometime.” Prowling to a mirror on the wall, he nervously smoothed his sparse hair. “April. Or perhaps May. Devil take it, I don’t know. It’s not something one records in an engagement book.”

Isabel controlled her frustration. “When you last visited her, did you bring her a gift? Flowers? Jewelry? Or perhaps … sweets?”

He shrugged. “Bonbons, I suppose. She liked the chocolate ones from Bell’s Confectionery Shop.”

Her heart beating faster, Isabel leaned forward. He could have added arsenic to the chocolates. The poison was readily available in any chemist’s shop. He could have acted out of desperation to stop Aurora from publishing the memoirs and getting him into trouble with his jealous wife.

“What is the point of all this questioning?” Dickenson whined. “Truth be told, I should jolly well like to know how you came to be living under Hathaway’s roof—and using a false name. You must have duped the marquess. Such a man would never condone a whore’s get in his house.” His upper lip curled in crafty disdain. “Come to think of it, if you don’t destroy those memoirs immediately, I’ve a mind to go straight to him and alert him to your sordid little scheme—”

“You won’t breathe a word.” Kern strolled toward Dickenson. “You see, the point of this questioning is simple. We wish to determine who poisoned Aurora Darling.”

Dickenson staggered backward a few steps. He lifted a hand to his cravat, his signet ring glowing in the moonlight. “P-poisoned? Are you saying … she was murdered?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. Then he squeaked out, “And you think
I
did it?”

“That depends. Can you can verify where you were on the night of May the tenth last year? The night Aurora took ill.”

Dickenson’s mouth worked. “I-I-I told you, I don’t keep precise accountings of visits to courtesans. What man would be dunderhead enough to do so?”

“Then we shall have to find out the information from another source,” Kern said in an ominous tone. “In the meanwhile, I would advise you not to leave the city. The magistrate at the Bow Street Office may wish to question you.”

“Magistrate! This is beyond absurd. You oughtn’t to be helping this little tart—you owe allegiance to your own brethren.” He started to shake his finger at Kern, then apparently thought better of it and lowered his hand to his side. He spun toward Isabel instead. “And you … you belong in the gutter. Not among decent folk. You’re no more a lady than my laundress.”

Isabel sat rigidly upright, her hands folded in her lap. She knew that outwardly, she was the image of a gentlewoman, and yet inside she felt like that little girl again, yearning to be a princess while knowing fairy tales could never come true.

Muttering self-righteously, Dickenson bent down to get his snuffbox and tucked it into an inner pocket. He straightened to his full height and swept her again with his spiteful gaze. “Furthermore, I’m not surprised Mobrey was gossiping about your lack of a dowry. Wait until everyone hears what
I
have to add—”

Kern surged out of the shadows and caught Dickenson by the throat, thrusting him up against the wall. A small table crashed over. A basalt vase slid to the floor and smashed into black shards.

Kern didn’t appear to notice. “Say one word against Miss Darcy and you’ll answer to me.”

“I … won’t.” Dickenson made a wet, choking sound. “Let … me … down.”

“First, apologize to the lady.”

“I-I’m … sorry.”

“That’s better.” Kern released his captive and stepped back. “Heed my warning,” he said. “If you mention this meeting to anyone, I won’t hesitate to reveal the filth in your past. Your wife will know every sordid detail.”

“Y-yes, m’lord.” Dickenson made a feeble attempt to straighten his mussed cravat. He edged toward the door and scuttled out, slamming it shut behind him.

The muted lilt of a minuet drifted from the upstairs ballroom. To hide the trembling of her arms, Isabel crossed them over her midsection.
Little tart … you belong in the gutter … you’re no more a lady than my laundress.
The opinion of a jaded rake should hold no consequence, yet she stung as if she’d been slapped. Her only consolation was in seeing Dickenson trounced before he could expose her masquerade to all of society.

Not that she thought Kern meant anything personal in defending her. Understandably, he wished to protect his own interests—by keeping Lady Helen and Lord Hathaway clear of scandal.

Still, Isabel felt obliged to him. “Thank you for coming to my aid, m’lord. It was most kind.”

“Kind,” he. repeated darkly.

“Yes.” A faint aura of danger radiated from him. How well did she know him, really? Conscious of how isolated they were, she rose from the chaise. “I do appreciate your assistance in questioning Mr. Dickenson. It was foolish of me, I suppose, but I didn’t expect him to threaten me.”

Intending to return to the ballroom, Isabel walked toward the door. She had no sooner placed her hand on the brass lever when Kern came at her like a streak of dark lightning. She found herself in the same position as Dickenson had been—with her spine meeting the wall. Except that Kern’s fingers did not circle her throat. They burned into her bare shoulders.

Intense emotion glittered in his eyes, and the awareness of his hard male form washed through her. The hot thrill of it left her breathless. She knew she ought to protest his cavalier treatment of her, yet no words came to her tongue. Instead of talking, she wanted to do something else with her mouth. She wanted to kiss him.