Temporary Mistress (33 page)

"Luanda's maid knows the dresser for Lady Jersey, so she always has the most divine gossip about the royal family," Amelia added, grinning at her sister.

"There you go, Abby, the girls will have a great good time without us men to bother with. And as a little compensation for my busy schedule at the bank, why don't you girls go shopping for new gowns and bonnets."

"Oh, Papa!" his daughters both squealed, indifferent to their father's company but charmed by his purse.

"You're the greatest papa in the world!" Amelia cried. "I know exactly what I want. Remember, Mama, that darling primrose gown that you wouldn't let me buy because it was too dear. Is that all right now, Papa?" she cajoled.

"Of course, poppet." For all Herbert's grasp on reality, he had hopes that his girls would make good matches—maybe even titled gentlemen if ones could be found who were necessitous enough. "Abby, you see that our daughters look up to snuff, now." He winked. "And I'll see that the bills are paid."

The rest of the dinner conversation was taken over by a discussion of various gowns and milliners, while the men enjoyed their roasts and wine without further interruptions. And once the women had gone from the table and father and son were left to their port, Herbert said, "I'd like a word with you about your cousin."

"I thought I might call on her after the races. Tavora House is only a few miles from Newmarket."

"I've sent some men to follow her there. With Lonsdale out of the picture, and very luckily, since Bathurst is near dead, I thought you might like to consider marrying Isabella."

"Mother won't allow it. Her reputation after Bathurst—" He shrugged at the impossibility.

"Just leave your mother to me. We're talking eighty thousand a year, my boy. I'll see that she understands one way or another. Isabella could be kept in the country until the season is over, I was thinking. No one need know you're married."

"I
might
consider it, then."

"Don't put on airs with me, son. I know how you feel about Isabella. And now with the threat of Bathurst over, we can return to our original plans. The money should be kept in the family anyway, by Jove," he gruffly noted. "And if George hadn't had his head turned by your cousin's sweet ways, he would have done the right thing. Call on her, by all means, when you go to Newmarket."

"Is her bodyguard still in place?"

Herbert lifted his brows. "There's two of 'em now. But you needn't make more than a social call. See how she seems. Whether she's friendlier. Reconnoiter, as it were."

"Until such a time as we find a means to carry her off?"

His father nodded. "Exactly."

"If Bathurst kept her," Harold slyly murmured, "she's bound to be well trained."

"And capable of giving you a go for it in bed, eh, my boy?" his father replied with a soft chuckle. "Nothing wrong with that."

"A man wouldn't dare give her much freedom—if she's such a hot little piece."

"No need to give her freedom, son. She'll be your wife. You can keep her locked away in the country or in the mews behind the house if you like. And if I didn't trust your mama's sterling reputation, I'd do the same." It was bluster, of course. Abigail would have his hide if he dared cross her. Or her brothers would, and they were more powerful and influential bankers than he. "Fortunately, Isabella is without family to come to her aid," Herbert said in a musing tone. "We can be grateful for that."

"Lonsdale proved very convenient, didn't he—killing Bathurst like he did."

"And he had the decency to die as well," Herbert observed, lifting his glass to his son with a smile. "To the noble art of dueling."

Harold raised his glass. "May they both rest in peace."

"Not likely with Lonsdale—or Bathurst, for that matter. Hell's likely waiting. Now, just a word to the wise on the issue of honor. Such sublime principles may be well and good for the aristocracy, but don't let me ever hear of you involved in anything so dangerous. We can hire men to fight our battles, as anyone with half a brain does."

"Don't worry, Papa. I know better than to risk my life."

"You're a sensible young man." He smiled. "As my son should be. I never brought you up to foolishly spill your blood on the dueling field."

"I prefer the pleasures of life, Papa. Like this very good port." He held the rich ruby liquor up to the light.

"Shipped in from the Douro despite that damnable Peninsular War that's bleeding England dry. If they'd let the bankers run this country, we wouldn't be fighting to keep some damned king on his throne. Making money for England and ourselves. That's what counts."

"And I'll do my best to bring Uncle George's money back into the family," Harold said with a grin.

"Hear, hear." Herbert saluted his son, and lifting his glass to his mouth, drained it in one gulp.

FOR THE FIRST FEW DAYS at Dermott's manor house on the island, his survival remained questionable. Dr. McTavert kept the earl heavily sedated to alleviate as much of his suffering as possible, but despite the powerful narcotics, Dermott was still in agony. He tossed and turned, trying to escape the pain, his agitated movements causing his wounds to break open, the renewed bleeding further weakening him. The doctor tried having him tied down, but the restraints only worsened his restlessness, so the small staff kept at the house were pressed into service, everyone taking turns holding the earl as still as possible.

Dermott had hardly eaten anything since the duel, and the amount of liquid he'd drunk was so limited, the doctor was becoming fearful of dehydration. The earl's weight was dropping precipitously. In order to keep him from wasting away, the doctor ordered he be fed at least a few spoonfuls of broth every half hour. But the procedure was laborious and not always successful. Despite Dermott's weakened condition, he was still a strong man, and even sedated, occasionally he'd strike out at the annoyance and the soup and spoon would go flying.

One afternoon, in a rare moment of rest, Shelby and the doctor stood on the terrace, breathing in the fresh sea air.

"He's better—don't you think?" Shelby had been diligent in his duties, scarcely leaving the earl's side since the duel.

"He's not worse." The doctor was cautious, particularly with such severe wounds.

"Not worse is good news in itself."

McTavert nodded. "It's an indication of the earl's general good health. He's been able to fight off the infection I feared. At least, so far."

"It could still appear?"

"It could, but it's not as likely after this much time. I'm more concerned that his wounds won't heal if he continues to be so unsettled."

"I'll take care of that," a soft voice affirmed.

The men turned to find the dowager Countess of Bathurst standing in the doorway. "I've already been to see Dermott. He's much too thin, of course, but he seemed to know my voice, and I was able to quiet him."

"How did you know we were here?" Shelby was astonished. The earl had particularly wished his mother to be spared any anxiety.

"I believe you mentioned the seashore in your note, Shelby, and there is only one seashore for Dermott. He's always loved this place. I came as soon as I received your note and could get my maid to pack." She smiled. "Betty is not easily persuaded to travel."

"Countess, may I introduce Dr. McTavert." With a small gesture Shelby indicated the doctor. "He saved Lord Bathurst's life."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Although I've been cautioning Shelby about being too optimistic. Not that your son is in any immediate danger," he quickly added.

"But we must get some food into him," the countess asserted, her mind crystal clear when it came to her son. "If someone would bring me a cup of tea and make up some barley soup for Dermott, I'll go to sit with him."

"I'll see that a room is prepared for you," Shelby said.

"Betty is already unpacking in my usual room, Shelby. And if someone would see that she has a wee bit of brandy, she will prove much more amenable. She likes it with warm water," the countess added with a sweet smile. "Come, Doctor. I wish for an expert opinion on my son. And I warn you, I listen only to good news."

While the doctor was explaining the nature of Dermott's gunshot wounds, Isabella was aiming a small pistol at a target Joe had set up in the orchard. They'd been practicing for several days now, and as a pupil, she was showing great promise.

"Sometimes I wonder why I let you talk me into this exercise." Isabella squinted down the barrel of the firearm.

"Because we saw those strange men loitering in the village and again, not half a day later, near your stables. And they weren't lookin' for work, even if they pretended they were." And you needed to get out of your room, he thought, and stop crying. "Squeeze that trigger nice and slow now."

Isabella exerted deliberate pressure on the trigger, held her breath, and fired.

"Right through the head!" Joe gleefully exclaimed. "You have talent, damned if you don't."

Joe had drawn a human form on the target, against Isabella's better judgment. Which is why they were well away from the house. She found it mildly disconcerting to be learning to shoot another human being.

"Thanks to your teaching, Joe." But she was smiling, pleased she was capable of learning to shoot straight. There was a certain satisfaction in taking charge of one's safety, and she had Joe to thank for her increasing expertise. "Now, if only I could learn to reload faster."

"That just takes practice, Miss Isabella. But an eye, now, that's another thing. Some people have it and some don't, and your aim is tops."

"So you think I might actually have to shoot one of my uncle's henchmen?" Still not completely reconciled to the possibility, she carefully took aim with the second round in the chamber.

"I'd say you'd better be prepared. I hope I'm here to guard you, but you never can tell. They know Mike and me are here, and any attackers are bound to try to deal with us first."

"If I don't want to spend the rest of my life hidden in my room, waiting for a possible attack, I suppose I'd better learn to protect myself."

"Now you're talkin', Miss Isabella. I'm glad you're comin' around."

His arguments had fallen on deaf ears at first, Isabella refusing to believe her life was still in danger. But Bathurst was gone, Joe had reminded her, and with him the only real threat her relatives respected. And the two strangers with their dubious story had finally convinced her. They hadn't had the look of day laborers or farmhands.

A small explosion of gunpowder left a puff of smoke in the air, and her second ball took out the target's eye.

"Remind me to keep on your good side," Joe teased.

"And now I have to reload," Isabella grumbled, the procedure lengthy.

"I'll do it for you this time." Joe took her weapon from her and bent to the task.

Dropping onto the grass, Isabella leaned back on her arms and gazed up at the sun-filled sky. "It seems so peaceful out here, it's hard to fathom my uncles' malevolence."

Joe looked up from his task. "It's just about money, miss. You have it and they want it."

"It's hard for me to fathom such greed when they have enormous wealth of their own."