Her Secret Affair (24 page)

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do know. You claim you don’t wish to contact your father, and yet you want to follow Trimble. What do you know about Apollo that you’re not telling me?”

Her fingers tightened around the puppy. “Nothing.”

“I wonder.” Kern flashed her a fierce look. “Be stubborn, then, if you must. But Trimble is absolutely right on one count. You’re endangering yourself. And I will no longer permit it.”

His brusque tone shouldn’t have surprised her. A dozen sharp retorts sprang to her tongue, but she saw the futility of arguing. She was also beginning to see that when it came to honor, men could be extraordinarily obstinate. Like Trimble, Kern wouldn’t change his mind.

But that didn’t mean she had to obey him.

Chapter 13

“Are you going to tell her, Papa?” Helen asked, her blue eyes sparkling in the lamplight. She and Kern made a handsome couple, sitting side by side in the coach. “Oh, do tell Isabel what you’ve decided.”

Lord Hathaway shifted as if the padded leather seat had grown uncomfortable. Tension radiated from him, and although he continued to look at Helen, Isabel sensed his attention was focused on
her.

“No,” he said in a gruff tone. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

“It is the very place,” Helen insisted with an excited smile. “And what better time than on a ride to the opera with all of us here together? Besides, my cousin deserves to know what you’ve decided, if only to set her mind at ease.”

Isabel’s curiosity bloomed brighter. What decision about her could make Helen’s father appear so discomfited? He sat beside her, his posture rigidly upright despite the rhythmic sway of the coach. The small, interior lamp showed the strained expression on his profile.

Kern frowned at her, then at Hathaway. “Now you have me wondering. What is this decision?”

A muscle worked in Hathaway’s jaw. Then he gave a curt nod. “A matter has come to my attention. Helen—prompted by Miss Gilbert—informed me of a deplorable piece of gossip that circulated at the Wilkinses’ ball the other night.”

Isabel’s throat went dry. Had someone seen her and Kern locked in a passionate embrace? Had someone been watching from the shadows as they’d kissed and caressed like lovers? Shame weighed her with a sense of imminent doom. Her gaze locked with Kern’s. By his grim visage she knew that he, too, was reliving their illicit encounter. They had violated Helen’s trust, betrayed the tenets of honor. But if Helen knew their guilty secret, why did she look so animated?

“I simply could not believe it when Gillie told me what people were saying,” Helen said, leaning forward confidentially. “I was stunned by their viciousness. It is beneath the dignity of an aristocrat to be so mean-spirited. Had I not been ill that night, I would have put a stop to the tattling, once and for all.”

“What gossip did you hear?” Isabel asked cautiously.

“It seems,” the marquess said, “that everyone has found out about your lack of funds, Miss Darcy. The rumors have spread rapidly throughout the
ton,
fostered by a cad named Charles Mobrey.”

Mobrey and his tattling tongue. A vast relief eddied through her. “Oh,
that.
Well, it’s no matter. Small-minded people may gossip, but they don’t bother me.”

“You are admirably brave, Cousin.” Helen reached across the coach to squeeze Isabel’s gloved hand. “But the problem goes beyond mere gossip. A lady must have an adequate dowry if she is to marry well. I told Papa so this very morning.”

“And I must concur,” Hathaway said, glancing obliquely at Isabel. “I’ve been remiss in tending to your financial situation. Helen has convinced me to settle the sum of five thousand pounds on you.”

“Five
thousand
—?” Isabel echoed. A dizzying sense of unreality rolled through her. Had she not been seated already, her knees would have buckled. She groped for the hand strap and clung tightly.
Five thousand pounds.
He was awarding her the princely sum as if it were a few pence tossed to a beggar. “But … why?”

Eyes narrowed beneath his thick white brows, Hathaway stared at her. “I should think the reason is obvious. So long as you live under my roof, you are under my guardianship. And I will not tolerate gossip tainting any member of my household.”

His explanation sounded reasonable—and yet she sensed a hidden meaning behind his words. “Your offer is extremely generous,” she murmured. “But you cannot be serious. I could never accept your money.”

“You can. And you will.”

A shadow haunted his grim gaze. His lips were taut, his expression stony. Why was he determined to give her this gift? A sum so enormous she could buy a spacious cottage in the country for her aunts, with plenty left over to live in comfort for the rest of their days. The prospect was infinitely tempting. Of course, to receive the bequest she would have to marry. And the money would go to her husband. She would have to persuade him to give her a portion of it for her own use …

Marrying also meant continuing the masquerade, hiding her disreputable past forever. Did the marquess believe she would feel no compunction about tricking an unsuspecting gentleman? He must. Dismay gnawed at her, although she had known from the start that he thought her amoral.

But still she couldn’t fathom his purpose. Why would Hathaway risk having her remain in society, where as a purported relation of his family, they would encounter one another time and again?

Her skin prickling with suspicion, she glanced at Kern. She could see the shock in him, the tightness of his smooth-shaven cheeks as he looked from Hathaway to her. And she could see anger in his hard stare.

Five thousand pounds.

Then, in a cold flash, she fathomed the reason behind Hathaway’s astonishing offer. Yes, it made a horrid, diabolical sense. He wanted her to stop investigating Lord Raymond.

Hathaway was buying her silence.

*   *   *

“What the bloody hell were you thinking?” Kern demanded. “Why would you promise her a marriage portion?”

He and the marquess stood in a little-traversed corridor of the Opera House in Haymarket while Hathaway puffed on a cheroot. They were waiting for Helen, who had vanished into the ladies’ retiring room. It was intermission, and flocks of elegant theatergoers could be glimpsed in the foyer at the end of the passageway, sipping lemonade and discussing the performance. Pleading a headache, Isabel had remained in Hathaway’s private box. Kern had had his doubts about leaving her alone there, but his drive to confront the marquess overruled any trouble she might court.

“Keep your voice down,” Hathaway ordered. “Lest all of London overhear us.”

Bracing his hand against the wall, Kern muttered, “Then give me your answer quietly.”

“I already did. I want the gossip to stop, even if I have to buy her respectability.”

Kern voiced the suspicion that had cudgeled his mind during the first half of the performance. “Did Isabel extort this money from you? Did she threaten to publish the memoirs?”

“Good God, no.” Hathaway bent down to tap the ash from his cheroot. “She’s never asked me for so much as a farthing, though I’ve paid for her wardrobe, of course. Can’t have the girl going about in rags.”

Kern despised himself for being glad she hadn’t descended to more blackmail. “But
five thousand
? No one will expect you to grant so much to a distant relation.”

“People may call me eccentric if it pleases them.” Hathaway gave him a level stare. “That is far better than stirring questions about Isabel’s background. Such gossip would reflect badly on Helen. Surely you realize that, Justin.”

He did, yet outrage still sank its teeth into him. “So you’ll all but invite Isabel to wed a gentleman,” he said in a harsh undertone. “You’ll let her dupe an honorable man.”

“She may not take the offer. And if she doesn’t marry, she won’t get the money.”

“But you know damned well she’ll do it. You’re taking a hell of a risk. She’s the bastard of a courtesan.”

Hathaway wore a stony expression. “She was taught by a governess, and she’s comported herself well.”

“And what happens when she’s found out?”

“She won’t be. She’s a clever girl.”

“Right. Just the other day, you said she’s been gadding about London and asking questions of her mother’s ex-lovers.”

“Not anymore. You’ll see to that.”

Kern gritted his teeth. Nothing he said budged the marquess from his incredible, implacable decision. He couldn’t imagine Isabel wedding—and bedding—one of the fops who buzzed around her.

No. By the devil, he
could
imagine it. He could imagine her opening her smooth white thighs to some rutting fool. He could imagine himself being plagued by her in the years to come, watching her swell with another man’s child, seeing her grow soft and handsome with age. He could imagine he and Helen being obliged to entertain Isabel in their home, enduring her sensual smiles and acerbic wit.

“Bloody
hell,
” he snapped. “You know what she is and where she came from. Sooner or later she’s bound to make a mistake. She’ll bring shame on you—on all of us.”

“Nevertheless, the matter is settled.”

The marquess turned away to take another pull on his cheroot before stubbing it out in an ashtray. Kern had seldom seen him smoke, and never in public. He couldn’t shake the gut feeling that something disturbed Hathaway, something deeper and darker than a monetary gift to the woman who had blackmailed her way into his household.

God! What would make Hathaway abandon all good judgment?

Lord Raymond. Hathaway had always protected his younger brother.

But that would mean Hathaway was bribing Isabel. Paying her to hold her tongue. Impossible.

At one time, Lord Raymond had been somewhat of a rake, squiring a variety of lower-class females until he’d made the mistake of seducing the wife of a wealthy merchant. He’d been discovered
in flagrante delicto
and challenged to a duel, which he barely escaped with his life. Since then, he’d led an exemplary existence devoted to the parishioners of St. George’s Church.

Or had he? Was there a more sinister crime in his past? One that Hathaway hoped to silence?

No.
No.
Kern couldn’t allow himself to think ill of Hathaway, the man whom he had known since boyhood, whom he considered far more a father than Lynwood. Hathaway was the most honorable man Kern had ever met. He had kept Kern on the straight and narrow path of propriety. He certainly wouldn’t shield a murderer.

Unless the murderer was his brother …

Escorted by a gentleman, Helen approached them from the foyer. She seemed almost to float in her angelic white gown, her fair hair piled atop her head, her face wreathed in a smile. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting. Look who I happened to meet in the foyer. I’ve been telling him the news about Isabel.”

Charles Mobrey made an elaborate bow, his corset creaking. “Hathaway. Kern. How positively delightful to see you. I was just remarking to Lady Helen how pleasant it is to renew acquaintances with old friends. Is Miss Darcy here?”

Kern wanted to smash the ingratiating smirk from his face. “Not for you,” he said.

“Oh…” Mobrey’s mouth flapped like a fish’s. “I-I was so hoping to see her. We had a rather silly quarrel last time we met, and I wished to apologize—”

“You’ve said quite enough,” Hathaway broke in, his expression freezing. “Helen, we should return to our seats. The second act will be starting soon.”

“But … but…” Mobrey stammered.

Helen slipped one hand around her father’s arm, and the other through Kern’s. Without so much as a good-bye, they left Mobrey standing alone in the corridor. As soon as they were out of earshot, Helen whispered, “I knew I could count on the both of you to give him a setdown. What a self-important worm, to think we would permit him to court Isabel.”

“He shan’t come near her,” Kern said. “I’ll see to that.”

“And we must set to work on finding her a good husband,” Helen added as they ascended the stairs to the upper corridor. “Someone as wonderful as you, Justin.”

Her naïve smile struck Kern with guilt. She wouldn’t think him so wonderful if she were to find out about the passionate kisses he and Isabel had shared. Helen would be hurt, terribly hurt. All because he had failed to control his dishonorable urges, his craving for a woman beyond the pale. The sordid secret weighed upon his conscience.

“Oh, I do hope Isabel has gotten over her headache,” Helen went on. “I should feel dreadful if she’s caught the sniffles from me. Spending a week confined to the house is positively wretched.”

Kern thought a week of isolation would do Isabel a world of good. By then, he would have heard from Trimble and with any luck solved the mystery. He would convince her to renounce the marriage settlement and return to her own world, sparing him the torment of seeing her time and time again.

He opened the small door to their private box. “I’m sure she’s perfectly fine—”

The platitude died on his tongue as he followed Helen into the enclosure. No one occupied the row of four gilt chairs looking out over the lamplit theater. No one stood in the gloom behind the red velvet curtains.

Isabel was gone.

*   *   *

Taking a swift glance around, Isabel opened a door beside the stage.

A few minutes earlier, she had been sitting in the plush confines of the Hathaway box, gazing down on the audience. During the first act of the opera, she had spied a man sitting alone in the crowd, a man she needed to question. With her mind still reeling from the shock of Hathaway’s bequest, it had been no hardship to pretend a headache. Helen had wanted to stay with her, and Kern had stared suspiciously at Isabel, but thankfully the party had left her alone during the half-hour intermission.

It was then that she had seen Terrence Dickenson leave his seat.

Rather than head back to the foyer, where the other patrons sought refreshment, he had gone up the aisle toward the stage. There, he’d furtively slipped through a small door in the side wall.