Ashlyn Macnamara (9 page)

“The man’s clearly an overdressed idiot.” George
pushed his tankard aside. “What does it matter?” He smoothed out Leach’s crumpled marker to admire the amount. The man’s writing was just as flamboyant as his manner of speech and dress. “Soon as he pays me, you’ll have your loan back,” he added to Revelstoke.

Not only that, he’d be able to pay off that ape Padgett and still have enough left over—to invest in his strategy to bring down Redditch.

Revelstoke leaned forward in his seat. “You don’t have to pay me back. Keep what I gave you and apply it to Summersby’s debts.”

Highgate reached into his topcoat and tossed a leather pouch onto the table. “You can add my contribution.”

“And mine.” Enfield’s coin purse landed next to Highgate’s with a
thunk
.

George sat back, unable to respond for a moment. “This really isn’t necessary. I never intended to start up a charity.”

“Just shut up and take it,” Revelstoke said, gathering up the coin.

“But I have Leach’s marker.” Without a thought, he gathered the cards and put them in his pocket. “It’s a start.”

“Aren’t you assuming a bit much?”

George closed his fingers about the coin purses. “What’s that?”

“That he’s good for it.”

P
OCKETS
jingling, George strode across the lawn, his gaze fixed on the groups of young ladies dotted about the grass. Some of them had set up easels to capture in watercolor the neat ranks of flowers bordering the walkway. Others scribbled on sheaves of paper while their friends exchanged gossip behind their hands. Pastel-colored titmice twittering away, the entire lot of them.

Worse, neither of his sisters was anywhere in sight.

“There you are.” Mama’s fingers clutched George’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “You can’t spend the entire week hiding. I won’t have it.”

“Have you seen Henrietta? I require a word with her.” And more than a word. Revelstoke’s parting shot at the inn made George question whether Leach had told him the truth about not losing intentionally. If he indebted himself to Henrietta on purpose to lure her into a trap …

Mama’s grip tightened on his sleeve. “Henrietta is occupied at the moment, and you aren’t to disturb her.”

The insistence in Mama’s tone drew his gaze from the flocks. “Occupied how?”

“I’d never have believed it after all this time. She’s attracted a suitor, and she doesn’t seem set on turning him away.” Mama lowered her voice to a whisper, as if speaking the truth might frighten off said suitor.

Damn, he might have known. “That’s why I wish to speak to her. I don’t believe the gentleman in question is quite appropriate—”

“Nonsense! Next year, she’ll be six and twenty. Between her age and her past, I was beginning to think we’d never marry her off. Best to get the job done before she puts any more notions in Catherine’s head. And as for you—”

Her grip changed, putting a decided pressure on his wrist. She practically frog-marched him toward a group of giggling young girls. If they weren’t in company, she’d doubtless lead him by the ear like a recalcitrant schoolboy.

One girl stood slightly apart from the others, her hands folded in a perfect display of a demure miss, while another girl made sweeping stabs at a sheaf of sketch paper with a stick of charcoal. Their friends jabbered encouragement. The lot of them looked like they
still belonged in the schoolroom. And his mother thought one of them would be a suitable match?

“Mama, really,” he muttered.

“I am determined,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, giving his wrist a none-too-subtle jerk. If she had him by the ear, she’d have twisted it. “Ah, here we are. Miss Abercrombie, I don’t believe you’ve met my son. George, this is Miss Theodosia Abercrombie.”

Theodosia. Good Lord. George felt a stab of pity for the chit, being saddled with such an ungainly name.

Miss Abercrombie looked away from her work and smiled for a fleeting moment before narrowing her eyes into a penetrating glare. The others fell silent while her gaze sketched his face from brows to cheeks to chin.
Interesting subject
, that gaze said.

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” she murmured before ducking behind her sheaf of paper once more.

George bowed to the sheaf. “Likewise. Now, if you’ll—”

But Mama cut him off. “Who are your friends?”

Clearly the artist did not intend to let herself be disturbed in the midst of such creative energy, for the furrow between her dark brows deepened, and she went on swiping at the page.

Another girl stepped forward and dropped a curtsey. “I believe we were introduced at the Pendleton ball last Season?” Yes, Miss Prudence Wentworth of the unfortunate nose. “You’ve just met my cousin.” She nodded to the artist before rattling off a few more names. “And this is Miss Emily Marshall.”

George stiffened.

Mama dropped his arm. “Gracious. Would you be connected to the Earl of Redditch?”

“He is my uncle.” The girl’s tone was frosty, as if Mama were a servant. Hardly surprising coming from a family whose head thought nothing of ruining a man.

George studied the girl, while his mind whirled with possibilities. She stood, pale, blond, white-skinned, and white-gowned—she might as well be a ghost for all she was nearly translucent in her whiteness. Even her eyes were such a light shade of gray they faded into the blandness of the whole. Little to recommend in the realm of beauty, unless one fancied an untouched canvas.

But if he could break through the layer of ice that surrounded her, he might gain enough acceptance to permit him to call on her in Town. All he needed was an
entrée
. It would take all the charm he possessed to melt her. He held Miss Marshall’s gaze and thought of the sweet taste of victory when he paid off Summersby’s debts and exposed Redditch for the man he was.

There. That ought to make for a convincing smile. Successful, too, if the chorus of sighs from the surrounding young ladies was any indication.

“Finished!” Miss Abercrombie announced. The other girls flocked to admire her handiwork, but George stayed where he was. He’d seen enough young ladies’ efforts at art, and in this case, he was far more interested in the subject.

Thus, he was barely prepared when Miss Abercrombie declared, “Mr. Upperton shall stand for my next portrait.”

He held up his hands. “Ladies, I really don’t think—”

“Oh please,” they pleaded as one. Even Miss Marshall seemed to animate herself long enough to add her voice to the chorus.

“Well, if you insist. As long as you don’t require me to stand like some statue, that is. The exercise will be far more enjoyable if I’m allowed conversation.”

Miss Abercrombie jerked her head in assent. Thank God. If he had to stand there and think about how assessing her gaze was, he might well go mad. He took up
his position where she indicated and tried to put her unnerving eyes out of his mind.

“Marshall, Marshall.” He tapped his chin. “I seem to recall someone by that name a form or two below me at Eton. You wouldn’t happen to have an older brother, by any chance?”

Miss Marshall peered at him frostily. “I regret that I do not.”

He had to strain his ears to catch her murmured reply. “Pity that. A cousin, then?”

“No, sir.” As she muttered the words, a trace of something—her eyes were too nondescript to call it a spark—passed through her glance. A flutter of a shadow. So the chit had something to hide, did she?

So did many members of the
ton
, but her family in particular was adept at hiding their foibles. Perhaps that’s why she worked so hard at blending into the scenery. Under his scrutiny, she seemed to whither.

“Marshall, yes. It’s coming back to me now. Henry, his name was. Always in some scrape or another. Almost as often as I was.” He paused for the series of giggles that erupted from his audience. “Come to think of it, he favored you. Or you favor him.”

She angled her head to one side, as if she was trying to make heads or tails of him. “I cannot possibly.”

“Of course you do.” Of course she didn’t because Henry Marshall, her purported cousin, did not exist. “I see it now. His nose tilted the same as yours, and he was fair. With a bit ruddier complexion.”

Her shoulders rose as she drew in a breath. Ghostly pale brows lowered. Two pinkish spots stained her cheeks—doubtless this was as ruddy as she ever got. Inside, she must be seething. “I’m afraid you are mistaken. I know of no Henry Marshall, not even among my acquaintances, much less any family connections.”

The more she spoke, the more he became certain he’d
hit close to some mark. She was hiding something. Or perhaps not her, but a larger scandal within the family. But what? George sifted through his memory, but he’d never been one to attend to gossip, at least as long as he couldn’t hear anything to his advantage. If the
ton
was abuzz over some lord losing big at the gaming table, he might lend an ear. If a man had earned a reputation for ruining young misses, he might pay enough attention to know who to warn away from his sisters.

But he’d never paid the Earl of Redditch the slightest heed before becoming aware of Summersby’s difficulties. Well, here was his chance. He only needed to convince her to meet him under more favorable circumstances to see if he could draw her out.

That would require meeting with her. Alone.

P
ETER
Weston would be all right, surely. Isabelle told herself as much as she left the vicarage. His mother was too indulgent. An overabundance of sweets would give any boy a bellyache.

A salt-laden breeze kicked up swirls of dust along the road through the village. She clapped a hand to her head to secure her bonnet as she made her way home. Coins jingled in her pocket, the very sound of security, or at least a full stomach tonight.

Two matrons, shopping baskets swinging from their elbows, emerged from the butcher shop. For form’s sake, Isabelle nodded to them. They returned her acknowledgment with barely perceptible inclinations of their heads, as close to a cut as they could go without committing themselves to blatant rudeness.

She was far too accustomed to their reaction to let it bother her. When she first arrived here, heavy with child, she’d been appalled and hurt. Now she merely smiled a bit more broadly and suppressed a giggle when
the two increased their pace. Heaven forbid she take their acknowledgment as an excuse to speak to them. How dare she possess the gall to comment on the weather?

She strode toward her cottage, suspecting without looking that the pair had their heads together. The whitewashed walls of her dwelling rose in a neat frame about the oaken front door. Not much, but she retained enough pride from her former life to keep the place as tidy as possible. A tangle of flowers trailed along either side of the path beneath the shuttered windows, their vivid colors bright in the sunshine.

As she came in the door, Biggles held out a folded square of paper. “I think this must be yers.”

Isabelle blinked. “What’s this?” A stupid question. Biggles could barely read.

“A note, it looks like. I found it there on the floor jus’ waiting when I came in.” She pointed to a space just over the threshold.

Isabelle lowered her brows. The only person she could think of with the audacity to slip notes under her door had no business doing so. As if her set-down earlier hadn’t been enough. “We’ll see about that.”

She snatched the paper from Biggles and unfolded it.

Meet me in the garden at Shoreford House. Midnight. Come alone. I know something important about your son
.

Isabelle scanned the elaborate scrawl twice in utter disbelief, but the words read just as terse and ominous the second time. She closed her fist about the note to stop her hand from shaking. Could Mr. Upperton have sent her the message? But that made no sense. Before yesterday, Mr. Upperton had known nothing of Jack’s existence. What important information could he possibly possess?

Nor could it be anyone from the village. None of her neighbors would resort to cryptic notes. But that only
left someone from her past. How could anyone have found her after all these years? And what could they know?

“What is it, dear?” Biggles laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Ye’ve gone all pasty.”

“It’s nothing. Just some foolishness.”

Somehow she managed to hold her voice steady. She strode to the hearth and tossed the note into the flames, watching the paper twist and blacken to ash. She’d just told Biggles half a lie—because anything to do with Jack might be at once nothing and everything.

CHAPTER SIX

G
EORGE PULLED
in a final drag on the cheroot and tossed the stub into the hedge. The chit wasn’t coming. Naturally she wasn’t, and why should he expect her just because he slipped her a note? Far too much of a risk for the upright Miss Marshall to meet a rake in the gardens without a chaperone. At any rate, he’d do better worming gossip out of one of the older ladies. One way or another, he’d charm the truth out of someone. Then, when he had the blunt to pay off Summersby’s markers, he’d come armed—in more than one fashion.