The Hidden Heiress (17 page)

Paige's face broke out into a smile. "I hate arithmetic."

Isabel shook her head and replied, "You hate all subjects."

Paige placed a finger against her lip. "I like it when you teach me to sing, draw, or speak French."

"Those aren't scholarly subjects."

After shrugging her indifference, her student leaned over the table, a sparkle in her brown eyes. "What do you want to speak about?"

"It's more like a favor I wish to ask you."

"What kind of favor?" Her interest diminished.

Isabel tapped her fingernails on the cover of the etiquette book in front of her, her gaze flitting about the room. "There are some people I would like Mrs. Templeton to invite to the ball."

"Like who?"

"Someone I used to work for," she replied. The words stumbled as they came out of her mouth. More lies. She was a villain to put Paige in such a position.

"Does mama know them?"

"I'm not sure if she does, but that's why I need your help. I would like you to check the guest list and if their names are not on it, obtain an invitation."

Paige watched her skeptically.

Isabel bit her bottom lip, her head ached more with each word she uttered. "I know it's a lot to ask. I would never put you in this position if it wasn't extremely important."

"How is it important? I assumed you just wanted to see your old employers," she said, her head tilted to one side.

"There's a little more to it than that."

Paige jumped forward, the edge of the table cutting into her stomach. "Was he your lover?"

"No, of course not," Isabel assured her.

"Oh," she said, falling back into her chair. She picked up a fountain pen and scraped the table with its tip. "That would have been more interesting."

Isabel sighed. "I can assure you the truth is far more interesting than that."

Her eyes lit up again. "What is the truth?"

"I can't tell you that, Paige." She exhaled with defeat. "At least, not yet."

"Oh." Her shoulders slumped. "I suppose I could help you. You deserve it after I tormented you for so long."

Isabel smiled. "Though I hate to take advantage of your guilt, I appreciate the gesture."

"But what about me?" Paige dropped her pen. It clattered onto the table, then rolled off the edge and onto the floor. "Have you thought about my problem?"

"Of course I have, but--"

"There are more pressing matters on your mind," she interrupted, eyes narrowing in distaste.

"Paige, I thought we had gotten past this."

Her student frowned. "You don't know this, but when I locked you in your bedroom with my uncle, I came back after a few minutes to listen. You weren't talking."

Isabel's cheeks burned. She pushed herself away from the school table. "Sometimes silence is more companionable than useless chatter."

"Right." Paige pouted into her book. "Sometimes, I wonder if you really want to help me."

"Don't be silly." Isabel opened the window to let the cool air in and spoke at the sky. "It's important to me that your parents treat you with more caring."

"But it's already been almost a week."

Isabel spun around to face her. "It isn't something I can put together overnight. This isn't a game."

"I don't think it's a game, Miss Balfour. I just wish someone in this house would make me their priority."

She was right. They were all so busy with their private intrigues, Paige was being pushed aside. Isabel collapsed onto the velvet upholstered window seat. She was guilty of it too.

Without Paige's assistance, she had nothing. She owed Paige more than she realized.

Isabel looked up at her student, who now avoided her eyes. Paige probably realized more than anyone that it wasn't a game. If it were a game, someone would have won by now.

"I said I would help you get your friends invited to my mother's party. Is there anything else you wanted or may I finish my work?" Paige asked, her voice trembled with each word.

Her mother's party. Of course! Isabel rushed to her student's side and crouched next to her. "At your mother's parties, do they usually play games?"

"Yes. You mean literal games this time, don't you?" Paige asked, looking down at her skeptically.

Isabel nodded. "Have they ever played Who's Who?"

"What's that?"

"The players pair up and compete against each other to determine who knows their friend better." Isabel smiled, squeezing Paige's knee. "You could play Who's Who with your mother. Maybe it will make her realize how little she knows about you."

Her mouth fell open. "Do you really think it could work?"

Isabel rose to her feet and said, "Absolutely."

Paige left her chair to hug Isabel, then pulled away to hop from one foot to the other around the school room. "So we will be helping each other."

"Yes."

The girl stopped, then looked at Isabel gravely. "I will get you that invitation. In one week, you will see your friends dancing about our large ballroom."

Only seven days until the masquerade. Seven days until she danced with her enemies.

It was useless.

Marshall threw off his bed sheets, tried lying on his back, and even had a glass of sherry. None of it worked. He just couldn't get to sleep.

All he could think about was the masquerade ball. How Isabel would be there. How he was finally ready to consider her as more than a governess. It was enough to make any man sleepless.

He was actually considering a career change.

For some reason, he hadn't been able to let her leave London without him. Every day up until the dy they'd left, he'd told himself he would be fine. The nervous feelings he got in his stomach when he thought of never seeing her again . . . those would pass. Besides, Paige would need a governess for at least three more years. Isabel wasn't going anywhere.

Then Jane had told him about the ball she had planned for Saturday. A lot of men went through the Templeton household on a normal day, many more when there was a party. Any one of them might fall in love with Isabel. Then where would he be? Alone. Forever.

He left his bed and searched the floor for his trousers. He pulled them up to his waist and tucked his chambray shirt into the band. Perhaps a good book would distract him from his ruminations. Even better, a boring book might cure his insomnia completely.

He went downstairs, the floor cold on his bare feet. He held the candle out in front of him and smiled. He'd done the exact same thing many times as a boy: sneaking into the library at night to spirit away the books he wasn't allowed to read. As he approached the library, he remembered the feeling of secrecy that accompanied those late night jaunts. It would be nice to have that anxious feeling again.

He needed to be more careful what he wished for. Marshall's heart beat faster the moment he opened the library door.

Isabel sat at the corner table, nearly hidden by stacks of books and warm, concealing candlelight. But he knew she was there immediately. As though he'd ever be able to walk into a room and not instantly sense her. So much for reading a dull book to put himself to sleep.

He knocked on the inside of the door. "May I come in?"

Isabel jumped at the sound, too engrossed in what she was reading to have noticed the door had opened. "Of course. You don't need to ask." She quickly shut one of the books on the table in front of her. Probably one of those sensationalistic penny dreadfuls.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, shutting the door behind him.

"No." She moved aside some of the books in front of her.

"I couldn't sleep either. Are you excited about the ball on Saturday?"

"Yes," she admitted. "I still haven't decided what I should wear."

"If you want to be unique, you might wear nothing at all."

"Marshall!" She gazed up at him, narrowing her eyes at his distasteful comment.

He had no doubt she wasn't as shocked as she liked to pretend. He shrugged. "Masquerades are all about having the best costume."

"And what are you wearing?"

"Well, if you won't take my suggestion, perhaps I should do it. Though I don't think it will go over as well."

She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Are you going to sit down?"

"If you insist." He scanned the shelf nearest to him. He had to pick out a book or she might wonder why he was in the library at all. He'd hate for her to think he'd followed her. "Let me get a book first."

"Of course."

When nothing jumped out at him, he grabbed a thin volume without reading the title. He turned quickly, eager to join her at the small, intimate table.

His hip hit the table closest to him and a book slipped off its slick surface hitting the floor with a loud thud.

Isabel jumped out of her seat, clutched her chest with one hand, and screamed. "What was that?"

Marshall ignored the fallen book and rushed to her side. "I dropped a book. A heavy book by the sound of it."

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her mouth slightly open. "You dropped a book?"

"Yes, that was all." He touched her shoulder, but it only made her jump again. "What's wrong? I would have been more careful had I known . . ."

She shook her head. "I'm quite all right. No need to apologize."

"But you're flushed and--"

"I'm fine." She fanned herself with her hand and moved back to her seat. "It's just so late at night. I suppose I'm a little tired. And nervous . . . about the party."

Marshall watched her hands shake as she turned the page in the book open in front of her. She wasn't as fine as she wanted him to believe, butto press her further would only separate them more. She might even leave.

He sat across from her and leaned over to see which book was illuminated by the brass gas lamp. "You shouldn't be nervous. There will be so many people there, they won't even notice you."

The hand that had been skimming down the page stopped.

Marshall gritted his teeth. "That didn't come out quite the way I'd planned."

"I know, Marshall. I understand." Isabel lifted her head. The warm pool of light framed her beautiful features. "Do you read Shaw?"

"Yes, I do. Though he's not the most popular at the moment."

"No, but I enjoy his novels. I like how he contrasts the classes so well. I've always been curious about the other side."

"Have you enjoyed analyzing the signs of it in this household?"

She gave him a bewildered look. "Oh . . . yes, of course."

Had he said the wrong thing again? He stood up and walked back to the shelves. "There's a title of his in here that I read last Fall."

"I would have thought you'd be too busy attending country parties to read."

"I like to read in bed. When I'm alone."

She blushed and looked back at her book. "I assumed the latter."

"I know. Forgive me for teasing you. What I meant to say is that attending parties is a necessity for a man in my position, but it's not always the best part of the job."

"What is the best part?"

"Passing a law I feel strongly about. A couple of years ago, I was at the front of the movement to pass The Married Women's Property Act."

"I remember that," she said, "I didn't know you were involved."

"Yes, I was. You follow politics?"

"Not to a great extent, but my cousins keep me informed."

"Your cousins?" He rubbed his bristly cheek with the back of his hand. "I don't know much about your family."

She appeared to be surprised. Why would his question shock her? Perhaps it was something else. After hesitating a few tension-filled moments, Isabel frowned and said, "One of my cousin's recently passed away."

"I'm terribly sorry to hear that." Marshall pushed the heavy, mahogany chair closer to her. "How did it happen? Was it unexpected?"

"Quite unexpected . . ." Isabel stared into space. It was doubtful she even realized she hadn't answered his entire question.

"Does this have something to do with Cyril?"

"No," she quickly replied. A little too quickly.

As usual, the thought that Cyril was a former lover of hers made him queasy. He leaned back in the chair and it creaked in protest. "I'm sorry I asked."

"It was a strange question. How could Cyril be involved? Does he look like a murderer to you?" she demanded, her voice oddly high-pitched.

"Of course not. I meant nothing like that."

Isabel's gaze jumped around the library. She pushed back her chair. "I really should get to bed."

He couldn't agree more. Unfortunately, she probably didn't agree that they should go to that place together. Marshall rose to his feet. "Shall I walk you to your bedroom?"

"Please don't," she replied. "I wouldn't want anyone to think anything amiss."

It was too late for that.

Isabel hurried out of the library without once looking back.

Marshall stared out the open door, determining one thing for certain; by the end of the ball, she would be his.

Chapter 12

Isabel was floating.

She entered the ballroom bedecked in scarlet, from low-cut bodice and cinched waist to black velvet piping circling the hem of her magnificently full skirt. Her raven hair was arranged in elaborate curls, all pinned strategically at the base of her neck.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man watch her, his mouth hanging wide open. She knew her dress would garner notice. That was the idea.

She had a plan for everyone that evening. Marshall wasn't excluded. He would see how far from a simple, dull governess she was, even before she told him the truth. Though after tonight, she wouldn't have to tell him. He'd know.

She spun around, a precarious feeling tickling her senses. In the corner, a man watched her. A pirate. He wore a flowing black cape and dark eye patch. His lips turned up in a scurrilous leer as he beckoned her over.

Mesmerized, Isabel started to glide across the parquet floor. She didn't even question his demand. And why would she? He was just the man she'd been dying to see.

"Marshall," she whispered when she reached his side.

He shook his head. "Who is Marshall? I am Captain Marco."