On Gentle Wings (5 page)

Standing breathlessly in Kit’s embrace, Isobel met his
unwavering gaze and noticed again that his deep-green eyes were flecked with
sparkling gold motes. Her hands rested on his forearms where he held her waist,
and the velvet sleeves of his doublet felt sinfully soft.

Her heart hammered in her breast. She feared he could hear
it, dreaded even more that he would recognize her as his “Madame Mysterie” by
some tiny nuance or expression. Even knowing Kit was angry with her, Isobel
could not quite quell the frisson of excitement coursing through her veins.

She had once overheard Madame Rouissard rapturously
describing the sensation of being in love to her young charges — mostly in
French, of course, but she had been able to grasp the gist of the message and
Anne had wandered about for days, whispering
frisson
under her breath
and using it in every other sentence as if it might be a magical charm.

Perhaps it was.

Gathering her courage, Isobel looked directly into Kit’s
gold-flecked eyes and stated very softly, so Maggie couldn’t overhear, “I’m
leaving soon.”

“I see.” He obviously didn’t take her seriously, for he
released her to sweep an ostrich-plumed green hat from his head. He stuffed it
casually beneath his left arm. “And when do we bid you
adieu
, fair
Isobel?”

“Just as soon as you find another to take my place. With the
girls, I mean.” She faltered over the words for they were painful to hear, and
even more so to contemplate. But Uncle Simon had been quite clear and correct
on the fact he was her only living blood relative and as such had jurisdiction
over her just as a father would. Kit was related only by marriage, besides
which, she supposed he cared very little for her fate.

Maggie had crawled out from under the rosebush and was
clinging to her father’s leg. Kit bent to pick up his youngest daughter and
nuzzled her sun-warmed titian curls.

“Come now, Isobel, how could you even think of leaving this
behind?” he asked, and winked at her over Maggie’s head.

To his obvious surprise, she shook her head and whispered,
“Oh, but I don’t wish to go. Truly, I don’t!”

Unable to utter another word for fear the depths of her
emotion might betray her, Isobel whirled about and rushed back to the house.
She caught a glimpse of her own brown ankles when she burst through the
servants’ entrance and paused a moment to angrily tug down her skirts. Cousin
Kit must surely regard her as a silly, countrified chit, compared to the
ivory-skinned, sophisticated ladies he dallied with at court! Ladies like his
lisping
Madame Mysterie
. It was a most galling realization.

Well, Isobel reasoned, she often frolicked like a colt with
the girls on these warm summer days and it was ridiculous to don fine skirts
that would only be soiled by grass stains and likewise be wasted on
Ambergate
’s
staff. What value an elegant gown when it would only serve to foil her
frightful plainness?

She hurried upstairs to her room on the second floor, deliberately
ignoring Susan’s passing question about supper and bolting the door behind her.
She could not, would not, cry!

Nothing was worse than a blotchy complexion on a woman, she
knew, especially if one were already ill favored. At least, knowing Kit as she
did, Isobel reckoned he would not pursue her but spend a few hours with his
daughters, therefore giving her precious time to recover her dignity.

A sudden, sharp rap at the door startled her.

“Isobel.” The deep male voice was familiar, but unusually
serious. “I must talk to you right now.”

“I fear I am — unpresentable.” It was the only excuse she
could think of on such short notice.

“I’ve already seen your bare ankles, so you do not suppose I
shall be shocked by a bit of décolletage?” Kit’s voice teased her through the
closed door, and Isobel felt her cheeks grow warm. “Besides, m’dear, you were
quite stern in your admonishment that I spend far too much time admiring the
cleavage at court. Therefore, I surely must be accounted an expert, and I daresay
one such view is much like another.”

When she saw the handle begin to turn, she flew to lean
against the door. “No, please! I-I shall come downstairs presently.”

There was a deliberate pause, and then he said, “Very well
Isobel. I will be in the parlor. Pray do not dally. We have much to talk about.”

At last she heard his footsteps receding down the hall and shakily
released her breath.

“
W
hat’s going
on, Annie?” Grace demanded of her eldest sister as all three Tanner girls lay
upon their stomachs peering down between the balustrades. They’d hidden in
Anne’s room until Isobel had passed by and gone downstairs. Each of them had
been sobered and confused by what she saw through the crack in the door.

Isobel was crying. There was no mistaking the signs for
she’d stopped several times to blot her face with a linen before proceeding
down the hall. But worse than that, she’d changed into her oldest, ugliest
brown gown, the one Anne always pertly referred to as the “rag bin.”

Viewed through the generous eyes of youth, their Isobel was
the loveliest lady short of the queen (who must of course be accounted the
first and foremost Tudor Rose, according to their Papa); but in that hideous
brown gown, even their beloved Isobel had no chance of redeeming herself.

For Papa was angry. He was rarely curt with them or, indeed,
with anyone else; but he’d sent them all upstairs with the stern order to stay
put until he’d spoken to Isobel. And they’d been so deliriously happy to see
him! What a blow to be dismissed with hardly more than a fleeting hug and kiss
when they were used to far more attention from their doting sire. Anne had been
especially insulted.

“Hush, goose!” she said sharply now when Grace repeated her
question. “I can’t hear over your yammering.”

“But why would Papa come home from court just to scold
Isobel?” Grace wondered, ignoring her sister’s reprimand.

“I think ’tis something to do with that nasty old man who
came the other day,” Anne said. “Now, do hush!”

Maggie seized the opportunity to pull her thumb from her
mouth and said simply, “Want Iz-bel.”

“Well, you can’t have her now. Maybe none of us will, ever
again.”

Grace was horrified by her sister’s cryptic statement. “Oh
Annie, what d’you mean?”

“I mean I overheard that nasty old toad telling Isobel she
has to leave with him.” Anne’s bright-green eyes narrowed, fierce with anger,
and her mouth had a ferocious set. Because she was a strawberry-blonde in the
summertime, even lighter in coloring than the other two girls, her fair skin
took on a particularly alarming, mottled shade of red.

Grace was suddenly scared. Not of Anne, who was always rude
and usually bossy to boot, but because she dreaded the notion of losing Isobel
even more than the thought of her father’s leaving again.

“Ohhh, Annie. We have to do something!”

“There’s nothing to do except hope that horrid old toad goes
away, or dies,” Anne said flatly. It sounded as if she were hoping for that
outcome right now.

“But Father says it’s wrong to wish evil upon anyone,” Grace
said. “Even bad people, or toads.” Her six-year-old mind worked furiously, and
a minute later she had an idea.

“I’m going to pray,” she whispered loudly.

“Shush!” Anne scolded her, glancing about the hall to make
sure they hadn’t been overheard. “You don’t know anything about it,” she added
mockingly. “You and Maggie only know baby prayers.”

“Do not!” Grace shot back, her voice rising again. “I’m
going to pray to a real live saint, and then you’ll see.”

“See what? What d’you even know about saints?” Anne scoffed.
“We’re not papists.”

“Susan told me to pray to a nice old man named Saint Anthony
when I lost Judith, my favorite doll. She promised he’d find it for me,” Grace
said, savoring the rare opportunity for defiance.

Anne feigned shock, though. of course she knew the maid was
Catholic.”’Tis a good thing Mama isn’t here,” she said primly. “She’d strap you
and Susan both for that.”

This ominous warning served to subdue Grace long enough for
them to hear their father’s muffled shout behind the closed study door. The two
older girls looked at each other, frightened.

“Maybe you’d better pray to that old saint, after all,” Anne
whispered to her little sister. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

Grace only nodded, wide-eyed.

~*~

“
W
hat d’you
mean, you’re leaving?” Kit demanded, as if this were the first he’d ever heard
of it.

Isobel faced him in the parlor and wearily began again. “I told
you, my Uncle Simon came to
Ambergate
the other day and said I must
return to Cornwall with him.” She was still nearly as dazed as he by the
unwelcome news, and just as unwilling to accept it.

Although she was glad on the one hand that Kit seemed truly
reluctant to let her go, she supposed it was only because he would be forced to
find another full-time caretaker for his girls, and thus be inconvenienced.

But how dare he act so ignorant of matters, Isobel fumed,
when he must have approved Elspeth’s final provision in her will, or at the
very least known of it!

“Aye, I know you told me earlier, but I thought ’twas an
idle threat, hurled in the heat of anger.” Kit looked tired as he raked a hand
through his already disheveled auburn hair. “I can see now you’re quite
serious.”

Isobel had earlier declined his offer to perch upon the
lovely murrey-velvet divan or partake of a watered glass of wine, but she was
so unnerved now she crossed right over to the fine teak table and poured
herself a goblet. Feeling rebellious, she chose brandy, not the wine. She made
it generous for good measure. She needed it to steady her nerves. She turned,
raised the goblet to her lips, and stopped when she saw Kit staring at her in
frank amazement.

She expected him to demand to know if she’d been subjecting
his daughters to such a poor example, but he did no such thing. Instead, he
cleared his throat.

“Isobel, how long have you lived at
Ambergate
?”

She hesitated, considering the curious question. “Nigh eight
years.”

“Right. Then you must be fourt — nay, fifteen?” He sounded
hopeful for some reason.

She shook her head. “I turned eighteen last May.”

“Damme.” Kit swore softly but explosively and gazed at her
in an appraising fashion that made Isobel terribly nervous. She risked taking a
tiny sip of the brandy then, but he said nothing. The spirits burned a
fortifying trail of fire and temporarily drowned the wild butterflies in her
stomach. Dear heavens, he hadn’t recognized her from the masque, had he?

“I hadn’t realized,” he said at last, somewhat awkwardly,
and she relaxed. “I imagine time passes more swiftly for the young.”

Isobel gathered by that remark that he considered himself
old by comparison. She knew, however, that Kit was only nine-and-twenty and
would not see three full decades until December twenty-sixth. Funny, Susan had
once remarked, that the master had been born on Saint Stephen’s Day, he who was
the patron saint of horses. For everyone knew Kit Tanner was horse-mad as well.

Now, however, Isobel found nothing amusing about Cousin
Kit’s past or, indeed, her own predicament.

“Where’s the man now?” Kit demanded, speaking of Simon
Taggart as if her uncle constituted an especially irritating personage who must
be dispensed with in all possible haste. Which he was, of course, but Isobel
assumed Kit’s show of concern was precipitated on his daughters’ behalf, not
hers.

“He’s staying in town at
The Oak and Thistle
,” she said.
“I could only get him to leave by promising I’d join him for the journey home
in three days’ time.”

“Home?” Kit frowned, seeming preoccupied. “
Ambergate
is your home now, Isobel.”

“Yes, of course.” Because of the girls, she thought. And the
fact she’d lived here for almost half her life.

“You realize I intend to speak with your … Uncle Simon, is
it? Tonight, if possible.” Kit paused as if waiting for her reaction, but
Isobel remained miserably silent. “I’m certain I can convince him it’s in your
best interests to stay in London. That is, if you wish to.”

She was jolted from her silence by the challenge in his voice.
“I want to stay. For the girls’ sakes, of course.”

“Of course,” Kit echoed, his green-gold gaze searching hers
as if for something more. She fell silent again, wishing she had the courage to
tell him how she truly felt, not only about his daughters, but about him as
well.

“Well, I suppose a maid who’s seen eighteen long years of
life is mature enough to know her own mind, aye, Isobel?” he asked in
thoughtful conclusion, clearly not expecting a reply and sounding far more
optimistic than either of them felt.

~*~

E
xactly as he’d
expected, Kit disliked Simon Taggart on sight. The man’s severe expression and
plain mode of dress made it clear he tolerated no nonsense in his household,
nor any undue mirth. Isobel had told Kit nothing of her uncle’s cheeseparing
ways, but it was obvious enough from the fact the man chose not to reside in a
regular room at the inn. Instead, he found Taggart in the stables, planning to
bed down with his sway-backed mount.

This decision had not been made, Kit suspected, solely
because Taggart was a humble fellow intent on saving himself a handful of quid.
Rather, Isobel’s uncle was as greedy as he was calculating, as evidenced by the
way Taggart’s shrewd gaze quickly summed up his appearance. Kit had not taken
the time to change from his courtly attire and knew he must appear quite the
dashing — and rich — bit of gentry.