Her Secret Affair (5 page)

“Which one what?”

Helen giggled. “Which one would you like to wear to dinner, of course?”

“Oh.” Isabel’s throat tightened. She reached out to caress the cool softness of the ivory silk. How generous of Helen to share her wardrobe. Isabel had prepared herself for opposition, for pacifying a spoiled, snobbish lady. But Helen had welcomed her with open arms. Somehow, that made the deception all the harder. “Can’t I just wear what I have on?”

“Heavens, no. Papa is most insistent on formal attire at dinner.” Helen turned to rummage through the huge armoire, where a variety of frocks hung from hooks. “So is Justin. We daren’t displease them.”

Isabel bristled. “Lord Kern cannot dictate how you dress. He isn’t your husband yet.”

“But he will be soon.” Helen whirled around, clutching a pale-blue gown to her bosom. “Oh, doesn’t he stir the most glorious awe in you? He is so handsome, so clever, so
perfect,
I never quite know what to say to him.”

I can think of a few choice phrases.
“Speak your mind, that’s all. Make him heed your opinions.”

“You make it sound so easy. But I confess to fearing I’ll bore him with chatter about parties and gossip and matters of no consequence. He spends many of his days at Parliament, you know.”

“He can’t be a member,” Isabel blurted in surprise. “His father is still alive.”

“Justin says he’s educating himself for the time when he will join the House of Lords. And I am a paper-skulled ninny when it comes to politics.” Helen sighed, as if her high spirits had plummeted. “How did
you
manage to speak to him so readily?”

Helen seemed genuinely worried, and Isabel bit her tongue to keep from denouncing Lord Kern as a priggish bore. “
I
am not betrothed to him,” she said. “Perhaps that’s why I’m not overwhelmed by his almighty greatness.”

“You must be a few years older than me, too,” Helen said, before hastily adding, “Oh piffle, I don’t mean to say you’re on the shelf, only that you’ve likely had more experience with the world than me. I’ve been confined to the schoolroom these past eighteen years, learning the accomplishments of a lady.” Her face lightened and she smiled winningly. “I am to be married on my nineteenth birthday, June the tenth. Did you know that?”

Eighteen going on nineteen.
Isabel sat unmoving. Her own birthday was June the twelfth. Helen was mistaken—by strange coincidence, they were the exact same age, born two days apart. Yet how vastly different their lives had been, she growing up with a courtesan for a mother and whores as her aunts, while Helen had known the security and respect due a high-born lady.

“No,” she said softly, “I didn’t know.”

“I am to have the most splendid wedding. It will be the pinnacle of the Season.” Holding the blue gown, Helen twirled around the dressing room. “Only imagine, me walking down the aisle of St. George’s, the choir singing, the roses blooming, everyone smiling. It will be as wonderful as a fairy tale.”

Watching her, Isabel felt the tug of wistful yearning. A long time ago when she was five, she had dreamed of being a princess. The fantasy lured her, sweeping over her again in a warm, compelling wave. She would grow up to have silky blond hair and sky-blue eyes and skin as soft and white as the petals of a lily. She would live in a palace and never have to eat mashed turnips. She would have a dog to romp with during the day and to cuddle with at night. After all, her father was the king.

By the time Isabel turned eight, she knew the fallacy of fairy tales. She had plain reddish-brown hair and dirt-brown eyes, and her skin freckled if she ventured too long into the sunshine. She lived in a rustic country cottage and dutifully ate mashed turnips. Dogs were dirty creatures and she mustn’t beg for one. After all, she had no father, only a distant mother who couldn’t be bothered with selfish requests. Thus proclaimed pinch-mouthed Miss Dodd who lectured her on the accomplishments of young ladies.

By the time Isabel turned twelve, she knew she was no lady, either. She had been born, not in a fine mansion, but on the wrong side of the blanket. She endured the jeering of village gossips because she had been banished from the city. After all, her mother was busy doing wicked acts with rich gentlemen.

But on rare occasions Aurora sent for her daughter, and oh, what visits those were! In a mad flurry of extravagance and kisses, Mama would dress Isabel in laces and silks as if she were a fashion doll. In the afternoons they would watch the lords and ladies promenade in Hyde Park, and at night they would stroll past glittering mansions where the gentry dined on cream and cake, with nary a mashed turnip in sight.

Isabel had sighed along with her mother, caught up once more in the yearning to be a princess. As she grew to womanhood, her fancies expanded with the hope of meeting a prince. He would fall in love with her at first sight and carry her away on his noble steed to the castle where they would live happily ever after. She would bring Mama there. Together, they would be great ladies admired and adored by all the people in the realm.

Of course, her mother had died and reality had intruded. It always did. And here Isabel sat, at long last a resident of the palace. Except that she was not the princess. Lady Helen filled that role.

Beautiful, sweet, naïve Lady Helen, who whirled around the dressing room as if waltzing with an invisible prince.

“It’s dangerous to believe in fairy tales,” Isabel felt compelled to say. “You might suffer a rude awakening someday.”

“Oh, my dear.” Her face full of sympathy, Helen danced to a halt in front of Isabel. “You’ve had so many terrible things happen, what with your parents’ passing and you being left all alone. But I’ll show you how wonderful life can be. And to make things even more perfect, you shall be one of the attendants at my wedding.”

“I don’t think that’s wise—”

“Please, Isabel, you
must.
We’ll start shopping first thing on Monday. And while we’re choosing my bride clothes, we’ll purchase a new wardrobe for you, too. My things are too insipid for your vivid coloring. If you’re to set society on its ear, you’ll need ballgowns and shoes and fans and all manner of fine bonnets.”

That was precisely the offer Isabel had hoped for, having little money of her own to squander. Her drab gray gown was left over from her days when she had studied under a governess, and the dresses she had inherited from her mother were far too risqué for a young lady who supposedly had been rusticating in the country. “What will your father say to the expense?”

“He’ll be pleased. Papa is the finest and most generous of men—you’ll see.”

No. She couldn’t believe that of Hathaway—or any nobleman. His pious brother had used her mother, had played on Aurora’s craving for affection.

Yet a wave of dark longing stole Isabel’s breath. All her life she had ached for a father. She had wanted him to hug her when she was hurt, to tuck her into bed at night and tell her stories, to listen to her hopes and dreams and fears. She’d wanted the protection, the closeness, the
love
she heard in Lady Helen’s voice.

Isabel’s triumph over the success of her ruse dissipated, leaving a sour churning in her belly. Had Hathaway acceded to her demands only to protect his own sterling reputation—and his brother’s? Or had he acted for his daughter’s sake, to shield his precious princess from scandal? The answer made Isabel feel dirty, as if she had tainted this happy home.

“I’m so glad you’ve come to live with us.” Helen’s eyes shone as she knelt before the stool and grasped Isabel’s hands. “We’ll be the best of friends. You’ll be the cousin—nay, the
sister
—I’ve always wanted.”

The feel of those warm, trusting fingers increased Isabel’s discomfort. Only with effort did she force a smile. Lady Helen didn’t know the real reason Isabel had come here. Yet the truth might come out. And soon, if she managed to prove Helen’s Uncle Raymond had poisoned Aurora Darling.

In the meantime, Isabel had another villain to investigate. Aurora had attempted to conceal his true identity, but Isabel had spotted the clues written in the memoirs. She had guessed the identity of her father.

Now she meant to track him down.

Chapter 3

Tonight marked her first excursion into Society.

Descending from the Hathaway coach, Isabel accepted the assistance of a young footman. For a moment she held his gloved hand as she lifted her gaze to the stately stone mansion, where the candlelit windows glowed with the aura of a fairyland castle. A dreamlike panic made her heart thump faster. Tonight she would join the
ton.
Tonight she would dance with the upper crust. Tonight she would leave behind the common masses who gathered across the street, oohing and ahhing as an endless stream of carriages discharged their stylish occupants.

The discreet tugging of the footman’s hand snapped her back to reality. She was holding up the line of guests. Releasing her tight grip, she graced him with a warm smile. “Thank you, sir.”

Ruddy color mottled his cheeks as he bobbed a bow. “Aye, m’lady.”

M’lady.
The respectful address gave her a rush of guilty delight. With Helen’s help, she had spent the past fortnight preparing herself, memorizing the strict rules of proper behavior. She had practiced dance steps with a tutor. She had enjoyed fittings for an array of new gowns, the finest of which she wore tonight. Donning the outer trappings had been the easiest part of her masquerade. But now came the test—could she fool these aristocrats?

Isabel joined the parade of guests mounting the stairs to the columned porch. Her braided gold spencer warded off the evening chill. She could hear the rustling of her jade silk skirts, the swirl of conversations, and the gay trill of laughter. Despite her fears and doubts, exuberance bubbled up inside her. Her father had come from this world.

Holding her head high, she walked up the steps. She had a right to be here. Yes, she did. Finally she would be treated like the daughter of a gentleman instead of the bastard of a whore.

Cold, gloved fingers closed around her upper arm, squeezing hard. Jolted out of her reverie, she looked up into Lord Kern’s scowling face. The joy inside her twisted into a knot.

The white cravat set off his swarthy skin and black hair, and the light from the torchères cast a sinister darkness into his green eyes. In contrast to the amiable man who had chatted with her and Helen in the carriage, he radiated hostility.

His harsh voice rasped into her ear. “For pity’s sake, show a little more discretion.”

He was a master of disguise, concealing his brutal side from all but Isabel. She didn’t like being hated—though after years of being teased by village bullies, she’d learned to hide the hurt. In her haughtiest tone, she said, “I beg your pardon?”

“If you insist upon flirting with the servants,” he hissed, “at least have the courtesy to do so in private.”

“Flirting?” Realizing he referred to the footman, she bristled, lowering her voice when she caught the curious glance of a stout lady ahead of them. “I don’t suppose
you’ve
ever offered a charitable word to a servant. Else you would have recognized my kindness for what it was.”

“Your kindness is legendary,” he muttered. “Especially toward
wealthier
men.”

“And your boorishness is showing.” She glared down at his big hand, his fingers pressing into the sleeve of her spencer. “Release my arm. You can find someone else to escort.”

His grip remained firm. “Helen is the only other woman in our party. And she’s walking behind us with her father. So I’m afraid you and I are forced to play your game.”

“Marvelous,” Isabel said through gritted teeth. “But once we’re inside the house, I’ll thank you to stay far away from me.”

“Your gratitude is premature.” He bent nearer, and she caught a whiff of his cologne, a musky male tang that caused an involuntary melting sensation inside her. “Rest assured, Miss Darling, I don’t intend to let you out of my sight.”

She resisted a shiver. What did he mean by that ominous remark? Lord Kern had the power to ruin everything. A word from him, and she would be exposed for a charlatan.

The closeness of the crowd made further private conversation impossible. Caught in the crush of guests, they moved through the massive double doors, relinquished their wraps to a servant, and started toward the receiving line. She heard Helen chatting with her father; then Lord Kern joined in their conversation, chuckling at one of Helen’s sprightly remarks. In a dramatic transformation, he smiled at his fiancée, his stern features softening with charm and warmth.

Watching the two of them, Isabel felt a hollow ache inside herself, a queer sense of aloneness. Everyone else here
belonged,
by the simple and unattainable gift of birthright.

“Miss Darcy?”

Lord Hathaway extended his arm, offering to escort her to their host and hostess. She searched his majestic, aging features for the animosity Kern had exhibited, but found only cool politeness. It made her feel all the more guilty for using him and his daughter as pawns. When she had first joined his household, the marquess had subjected her to stony silence. Yet his granite facade had shown small cracks of late. Yesterday, he had gruffly praised her manners at dinner. Tonight, on the way to the ball, he had inserted several droll compliments into Helen’s monologue about Isabel’s transformation. Perhaps he truly accepted her …

“You’re hesitant,” he observed. “Never fear, the Winfreys won’t bite.”

Taking his arm, Isabel smiled with heartfelt warmth. “Thank you, my lord.” She impulsively added, “You’ve been more than welcoming. I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”

The marquess didn’t smile back. Blankness veiled his coal-dark eyes, as if he regretted showing gallantry to his blackmailer. “Any courtesy on my part has been done for Helen’s sake,” he said curtly. “You would do well to remember that.”

“Of course.” The brief sense of affinity shriveled inside her. How foolish to think otherwise, Isabel chided herself. How foolish to hunger for true acceptance. Though she wore the garb of a lady, she had the soul of an outcast. And a heart shadowed by a deadly purpose.