The Hidden Heiress (7 page)

"It has nothing to do with her. She's unimportant," he said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

"Then what?"

"Your future!" Edward paced along the slate paving stones. "You know how things are in the government right now. Your reputation and associations
must
be impeccable if you ever hope to advance. You can't become involved with my governess and hope that it won't change anything. Remember Grant?"

Marshall cracked his knuckles against a garden pillar. "Of course I remember! What everyone seems to forget is the woman he married had a less than stellar reputation."

"Your dear Isabel is developing an interesting one as well."

Isabel shook her head. "We haven't done anything."

Edward raised his eyebrows, his gaze roamed down her body. "I find that hard to believe."

"Your implications are insulting," Marshall said. "Just as your concern is for naught."

"Deny it all you wish," Edward said, adjusting his cravat. "But I intend to stop it."

"Try it," Marshall replied, clenching his fists, "and I shall make sure you regret it."

With a scathing sneer, Edward spun around and stormed back to the house.

Marshall turned to Isabel, gritting his teeth at her wan, embittered expression. "I'm sorry, Miss Balfour. So terribly sorry . . ."

"Don't think of apologizing. I shouldn't have met you out here in the first place. I knew it was wrong."

Marshall cringed. "My brother's behavior was wrong."

Wisps of hair fluttered as she shook her head. "While Mr. Templeton's outburst was improper, he was right. You behaved in a manner unbecoming of a man in your position."

Marshall stared at her, waiting for the rest of the joke. He looked over his shoulder. Was somebody listening? Was she playing a part for an audience?

"I don't want to ruin your life. I can assure you I'm not worth it."

"Not worth it?" He laughed with disbelief. "Nothing could be farther from the truth, Miss Balfour."

Her eyes were downcast, her dark eyelashes making shadows against her pale skin. "We hardly know one another, Mr. Templeton. I'm afraid we allowed ourselves to be caught up in the moment. It should not happen again."

Marshall struggled to find the words. A sick feeling captured his midsection. He'd taken it for granted that he would be able to kiss her again. He should have made more of their first kiss . . . he should have lingered.

In desperation, Marshall seized her hand. "It was not a mere moment. Our courtship began the first time I laid eyes on you, the instant you told me that you would not be
my
governess."

"And you decided that I would indeed belong to you."

"I've never been one to run away from a challenge." Her artlessly flushed cheeks made his body throb with need. "Didn't you claim to be the same way?"

"Oh, you confound me, Marshall!" Isabel slipped her hand from his grasp and turned away, her gasping breaths audible in the serene garden.

But before he could move, Isabel had escaped down the garden path in a whirl of motion leaving Marshall wondering where he'd gone wrong.

Isabel crept up to the townhouse from the back alley, her gaze locked on the library window. The idea had come to her in her sleep. Between the usual nightmares and shadows, memories had returned of the day she'd been poisoned. Memories that had been pushed to the back of her overtaxed consciousness.

In the mess that came afterward, the entire house had been seard. The front door hadn't been tampered with, nor had the back. No one had seen any strangers in or near the house. Both lines of questioning had only turned up dead ends. But finally, they'd found the library window pried open.

Isabel briefly closed her eyes to the migraine that had been building since the night before. She had no other clues to what happened the day of her poisoning. Her desperate investigation was probably a waste of time. And after last night, Isabel didn't have any time to waste.

She peered into the library through the window's cloudy glass. She placed her hands at the bottom, then paused. She wondered how the culprit had been able to enter through the creaky window without notice. Shaking her head, she decided not to risk it and released the frame.

Isabel searched the windowsill. It was old pine and painted white, various knots and dents marred its surface. It was empty, so she turned around and scanned the small yard behind her. She jumped at a rustling sound nearby, and her full skirt scraped against the red brick house. Her eyes narrowed in on her target and in a few seconds she realized what she was looking at. Her only intruder was a crow.

Superstitious omens aside, she'd gotten all flustered over a foolish bird.
Pull yourself together.

Isabel took a deep breath and continued.

She peered into the bushes hugging the house, pushing aside dewy leaves to examine the soil. Something shiny flashed in the corner of her eye. She leaned into the foliage and reached for the object.

Cool and heavier than she'd expected, she brought it up to her face. It was a diamond broach. She gazed down at the attractive broach for a full minute before depositing it in her reticule. She knew she had seen it before, but couldn't quite place it.

Isabel checked the glass, ran her fingers beneath the sill, and looked in the corner of…

She gasped, unable to believe her eyes. Hanging on a sharp, rusty nail was a tiny piece of fabric. No one else would have been wandering on the back of the house but someone up to no good. The red silk swatch felt soft in her hand, but damp and discolored from being exposed to the elements.

Unlike her strong conviction that she'd seen the broach before, she had no hope in mentally placing the ripped silk. She put in her reticule and looked at the broach again. Encrusted with diamonds, she wondered who she knew that could afford such a pricey item. Of the hundreds of people she'd met at one time or another, only one had a motive.

Isabel backed away from the window, shaking her head and glaring at the broach in her hand. Cyril wouldn't try to kill her. He was her cousin . . . they'd grown up together on the estate. She knew he loved the estate, but enough to kill for it?

Isabel hurried away from the townhouse, and only exhaled when she was absorbed into the crush of people that crowded the London sidewalks. She walked quickly, keeping her head downcast and her direction clear. Cyril was a kind man and a close friend. He wasn't a murderer.

She hadn't accomplished anything. A piece of torn silk and a diamond broach were hardly enough to contact Scotland Yard. She couldn't even prove that whoever had poisoned her had entered the house through that specific window. And what of her bullet wound? Cyril had proven he'd been at the Cuckold Inn during her attack and subsequently Robert's murder.

Still, only one person would inherit everything if she died. Not Magda. Not Robert since the day he'd had a meeting with a bullet. Not the strange villain she'd hoped to discover or any of her myriad acquaintances.

Just Cyril.

Edward shoved Isabel's reticule in her face and grinned. "I found another
reason
, Miss Balfour."

Isabel stood up, her back ramrod straight. "Paige, would you excuse us?"

Paige eyes narrowed on her father. "I'll be waiting just next door."

Edward tapped his foot impatiently. "This won kill hke long."

As soon as the door shut behind Paige, Isabel snatched her reticule. "How dare you go through my belongings!"

"You're living under my roof."

"That doesn't mean I'm not entitled to my privacy."

He leaned against the schoolroom table. "How I discover your wrongdoing is unimportant."

"Wrongdoing?" She yanked open the bag, her eyes going wide when she saw what it contained. She'd only just found the pin yesterday!

"Yes," he said, "that broach is covered in diamonds and only available to members of the Red Letter Club."

She forced herself to breathe, her mind quickly ran over the possibilities. Was Cyril a member of that club? Edward had just given her a vital clue and all because he was too meddlesome to keep his nose out of her affairs. She casually deposited the bag on the table. "I haven't done anything wrong."

He scoffed as he waved the reticule in front of her. "You don't think stealing is wrong?"

Stealing? She should have known his implication from the start. "I didn't steal that broach."

"This broach belongs to Mrs. Templeton. She lost it around the time you moved in."

"I didn't steal from Mrs. Templeton." Isabel fiddled with the jet beads on her bracelet, the only shiny, attractive portion of her dark attire. "Did you say that broach is from the Red Letter Club? Is that an establishment only for women?"

Edward wrinkled his nose and squinted down at her. "What are you talking about?"

Isabel stared back at him. "I merely wondered if one had to be a woman to be in the Red Letter Club."

"No. But only the dandy boys with too much time on their hands are involved."

A description that fit Cyril like a glove. Isabel fell back toward the table and moaned. "That doesn't narrow it down at all."

"Narrow what down?" Edward shook his head. "You're trying to change the subject and I won't allow it. Tell me where you got the broach, Miss Balfour."

"I found it."

He shook his head. "Where? In Mrs. Templeton's bedroom?"

Isabel organized the items on the table. "You're being ridiculous, Mr. Templeton."

Edward wound his fingers around her wrist and pulled her toward him. "Then tell me how you got the broach, if not from this house. Was it a gift? Are you a prostitute?"

"No! I told you, I found it."

He squeezed, and the pressure made her hand go numb. "Liar. I thought your manipulation of Mr. Templeton was bad enough. I didn't realize until now that you are a true gold digger."

She struggled to get away, the nerves in her wrist cried out in protest. "You're a nasty man."

"That's not the proper way to speak to your betters."

Isabel shook with rage. She tried to slap him with her other hand, but he seized it too. "I am not a . . . what you accuse me of. Let go of me this instant!"

He leered down at her. "If you're not a loose woman, then you stole that broach from Mrs. Templeton. Either way, I've found you out."

She regained her composure and met his stony gaze. "I found the broach on the street, on one of my personal days."

"Fibbing again. You won't get away with this, Miss Balfour!"

She blinked, then squeezed her eyes shut. "What do you want from me?"

"Need you even ask? If I have to sit here and watch you destroy Mr. Templeton's life, you might at least reassure me with your favors."

"I would rather lose my job."

"Then start packing," he replied. He released her and gave her a gentle push away from him.

Isabel stumbled into the table. "You can't prove I've done anything wrong."

He shrugged. "Proof is not as important as evidence. Just as I have, Mrs. Templeton will assume the pin belongs to her and dismiss you without a second thought."

Isabel rubbed her aching wrists and glanced at the door. "If I leave, won't you be disappointed that you no longer have anyone to torment?"

"Don't tempt me, Miss Balfour. I could do far worse than fire you."

She frowned. "When I leave, I'll be sure to tell your wife how I felit proper to decline your suggestion of how I might keep my post."

He leapt across the tiny room and grabbed her shoulders. His thick fingers dug into her skin. "You'll do no such thing!"

Though he had no way of knowing it, his hands probed her bullet wound. Her eyes burned with tears. "I won't say anything."

"Why should I believe you?"

"I swear!" she sobbed. "Please, let me go."

Edward complied, looking at her as though she were a disgusting sight. "Good-bye, Miss Balfour. Find some other rich man to manipulate. Mr. Templeton is out of your league."

Tears ran down Isabel's face. It wasn't right that such a man should get his way. If only she had the power to refute him . . .

It was pointless. She was powerless. She might never see Marshall again, all to save a career that his brother thought was his responsibility to protect.

Edward snorted with disgust then stomped out of the room.

Isabel slammed the door behind him, shaking with rage. She wiped her tears with her sleeve and wondered how much Paige might have heard. She stared at the connecting door, not wanting to witness her student's smug satisfaction in seeing things get worse for her governess.

Paige came into the room without being called. "He's gone?"

Isabel nodded but didn't meet her gaze. "I am going to cut our lessons short today."

"I didn't realize it was a holiday," Paige replied.

"Thank you, Paige, for making this easier for me," Isabel replied.

She opened the door to the hallway and stood there for a moment, looking up and down the hall, frozen. She didn't even know where Marshall's bedroom was located, though it was doubtful he'd be there at that hour. He was the only one who could help her and she didn't know where to find him.

"Miss Balfour?"

Isabel looked over her shoulder, surprised at the meekness in Paige's tone. "Yes?"

"I don't know what my father said to you, but--"

"But what?"

Paige shuffled her feet, staring down at the floor. "I'm sorry if you thought he was in love with you. My last governess was heartbroken when Papa rejected her."

Isabel took a deep breath. "I know you mean well, Paige, but you assume too much. As I told you before, I am not having an affair with your father."

Paige shrugged, the familiar indifference returning to her expression. "I was only trying to help."

Isabel sighed and wished she would have been able to stay long enough to help the confused girl.

"Look, here he is now. We're down here, Mr. Templeton," Jane said as she walked into the hall. "You're right on time."