Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (9 page)

“Yet, you shall witness the splendor,” the girl insisted.

Isolde had spent little time as a lady’s companion in society because of Miss Satiné’s withdrawal from engagements with her confinement. “Yes, I shall watch the lords and ladies perform their rituals. I shall be privy to the best and worst of English Society.”

Sally gushed, “I would gladly trade places with you.” Isolde thought she would gratefully accept. Despite her girlish dreams of a London Season, she did not understand Lady Swenton’s fascination with Society. Isolde’s few interactions with aristocrats upon the Continent had left a bad taste in her mouth. Nor did she comprehend how a woman married to a kind and generous man would risk it all for a few moments of false glamour.

*

Recognizing the lady’s hand, John opened the letter to read what he already suspected: His baroness meant to defy him again. Despite her promises, Satiné had worked against his warnings. It pained him she cared so little for him. The letter revealed Miss Neville’s estimation: the duchess had not originally thought to attend many of the Season’s functions, but when reminded by Lady Swenton that Satiné had never experienced a Season event, the duchess had quickly relented. Even with his best efforts not to do so, John resented his wife’s presence in his life. He held no doubt she would rip his heart to shreds.

Selfishly, John ran his fingers over the slant of Miss Neville’s letters. When he had hired the woman to keep him informed of Miss Aldridge’s whereabouts, John had delighted in the familiar script for it had brought news of the woman he had so admired. Now, he relished the letter not for what it held but because it demonstrated he had earned an ally. Unfortunately, this letter brought unwelcomed news: The lady thought he would rush to London to put a halt to Satiné’s maneuverings, and it grieved him to disappoint Miss Neville.

The past week had shown itself as a trial to test his patience. With Pennington’s departure, John had thrown himself into the work he had neglected while serving with the Realm. There were lands to inspect, a new drainage ditch to be overseen, sheep to be collected from the moors, and cottagers to appease. In addition, there had been a mysterious fire at the small vicarage he supported. After assisting with extinguishing the blaze, John had rushed home to assure himself the fire had not been purposely set by Murhad Jamot. It was a familiar ploy of the Baloch warrior. The Realm’s long-standing enemy had used a fire as a distraction against Marcus Wellston and Aidan Kimbolt. However, no evidence of Jamot’s manipulations could be discovered.

John realized the Baloch would come for him soon. He had anticipated the tribal warrior’s attack as soon as word had arrived of Sir Carter’s proposal to Mrs. Warren. John was the last of the Realm unit present when Shaheed Mir’s emerald had gone missing. Mir had dispatched two of his tribesmen to search out the Realm and to recover the fist-sized jewel. During the past four years, Rahmat Talpur and Murhad Jamot had staged kidnappings, fires, and impossible rescues to frighten the Realm into admitting knowledge of the emerald.

Since Talpur’s death at James Kerrington’s hands, Jamot had acted alone. The Baloch had financed his extended stay in England with both smuggling and opium schemes. In many ways, John admired Jamot’s craftiness and the foreigner’s sense of loyalty. Despite their best efforts, the Realm had come close to catching Jamot only four times in as many years.

As to Jamot’s honor, the Baloch responded to an unspoken code. Jamot had taken his vengeance on Sir Louis Levering, Benjamin Talbot, and Hugues Monret, for each man had betrayed the Baloch; yet, he had shown compassion to Crowden, Kimbolt, and Lowery. The Realm’s old enemy had aided in several investigations, and in Crowden’s and Kimbolt’s behalves, the Baloch had saved the men’s ladyloves from those who would have injured the women.

“It appears the longer Jamot remains in England, the more he sees Mir’s edicts as unreasonable,” John told his empty room. “However, I doubt I will be so fortunate. It is a shame no emerald exists. God knows the Baloch has earned its return. If for no other reasons than the man’s ingenuity and his determination…”

Taking up the pen and foolscap, he set about writing to Sir Carter. He could not respond to Miss Neville’s message directly without drawing attention to his continued dependence upon the woman’s kindness. He would ask Sir Carter to explain to Miss Neville the difficulty of his immediate return, but also to plead for her continued correspondence. In addition, he would petition the baronet to assure Miss Neville that John meant to return to London soon.

*

They had been in London for less than a week, but the duchess had been besieged with invitations to a variety of venues. However, Her Grace had accepted only a few afternoon teas, using the excuse that both she and her sister required new gowns before being seen in Society. The duke had spoken to several merchants, setting up accounts in Baron Swenton’s name by guaranteeing them with both Thornhill’s word and signature.

Satisfied by the gesture, Lady Swenton had ordered a dozen new ball gowns, as well as numerous day dresses, a riding habit, and accessories. The first of the gowns had arrived earlier in the day, and this evening Thornhill meant to escort his wife and the baroness to the theatre. Notwithstanding her disappointment to the lack of response from the baron to her letter, Isolde had looked forward to the opportunity to visit London’s Drury Lane.

Even though she appeared the drab sparrow as she followed the brilliant plumes of both the duchess and the baroness, Isolde had not a care. She would permit Lady Swenton the illusion of wealth–a stylish gown and a hired companion, for the prospect of experiencing London’s culture. She held no interest in fashion and gossip, but Isolde could never know enough of politics and societal interactions. Her father always said she was a “people watcher.” Deep into the splendor of the moment, she initially did not hear Lady Lowery calling her name.

Isolde looked up to smile at the approaching baronet and his wife. It was a relief to acknowledge a familiar countenance. Neither Thornhill nor his duchess treated her poorly: They simply did not see her. Like many of the working class, Isolde had become invisible. To Lady Swenton, she was as much an accessory as the diamond and emerald necklace about the baroness’s neck. Isolde spent the majority of her days since debarking at Dover in quiet contemplation, while sitting in the darkened shadows of a drawing room or keeping company with Thornhill’s housekeeper and Mrs. Carruthers, Sonali Fowler’s governess.

“Lady Lowery,” she murmured as she dropped a curtsy. “Sir Carter, I am pleased for the renewed acquaintance.”

Lady Lowery caught Isolde’s gloved hand and gave it a squeeze of familiarity. “As am I. When I learned you were to attend tonight’s performance, I insisted we should seek you out.”

Isolde glanced to the baronet for confirmation, and he nodded his agreement. “My wife is quite persuasive he said with an easy smile.”

“Men, Miss Neville,” Lady Lowery declared in a teasing tone, “complain if their ladies harp or sing. A woman cannot win.”

The baronet brought the back of his wife’s hand to his lips. “I have told you repeatedly, my Dear, I cannot live without your harping. It speaks to your deepest devotion, and as to your sweet voice, I could listen to it all day without a regret.”

Inside, Isolde sighed deeply. She doubted she would ever know such comforting intimacy. She glanced to where Thornhill introduced the baroness to a variety of the
ton
. Thankfully, Sir Carter followed her gaze. He said quietly, “I agreed to Lady Lowery’s request for I meant to call upon you tomorrow. I have recovered what one survivor of Lusiceri’s ship claims to be your father’s belongings. This report is in sharp contrast to your statement that Mr. Neville never boarded the ship.”

The air rushed from Isolde’s lungs. “You think my father drowned at sea?”

Lady Lowery slipped an arm about Isolde’s waist while the baronet explained, “I am more inclined to believe your source. Did you not say you spoke to your father’s assistant?”

Uncomprehendingly, Isolde nodded in the affirmative. Her heart raced with dread. “Yes. I discovered Mr. Callaham in Constantinople. He swore neither he nor my father boarded the ship. He claimed they had arrived too late; the ship had departed without them.”

The baronet kept his voice soft. “That explanation makes more since than the unsubstantiated report on my desk; yet, I would prefer you examine the items to confirm whether they were once Mr. Neville’s.”

Lady Lowery spoke reasonably. “Likely your father had placed his equipment onboard in anticipation of his departure. Even if the items were part of what was salvaged from the wreck, it does not mean Mr. Neville perished in the accident.”

Isolde felt the tension in her shoulders slacken. “You are correct, Lady Lowery. I must hope for the best until the worst can be confirmed.” She nodded to the look of concern upon the baronet’s countenance. “You do me a great service, Sir Carter. When might you wish me to call upon you?”

Before her husband could respond, Lady Lowery said, “I shall call for you tomorrow at one and escort you to the Home Office. You should not be alone in the task, and I doubt Lady Swenton would think to accompany you.”

Isolde glanced to her mistress, who had accepted the arm of a brightly clad gentleman. “Lady Swenton means to call upon her modiste tomorrow. I suspect the baron’s purse will know additional expenses.”

Sir Carter’s frown lines deepened. “I should send Swenton word of the changes in his financial obligations.” He smiled kindly upon Isolde. “The baron speaks highly of you. When you call upon me tomorrow, I will share his last letter with you.”

Isolde said with disappointment, “The baron does not mean soon to return?”

Sir Carter placed his wife’s hand upon his arm before offering Isolde his other elbow. It was a defining moment to be recognized by such a fine gentleman. He continued to speak privately. “Lord Swenton is grateful for your loyalty, but he means to permit his wife the opportunity to procure an honest assessment of her actions.”

Isolde knew she had no right to ask, but she could not stifle her question. “And what if the baroness ignores her conscience?”

“Then the baron means to permit the lady enough rope for him to petition Parliament for a neatly-tied divorce.”

When she had returned to Briar House the following afternoon, Isolde’s tattered spirits had been repaired by Lady Lowery’s extreme kindness. Not only had the woman called in her fine coach for Isolde, but also the baronet’s lady had kept her word. She had honorably delivered Isolde to the baronet’s office and had stayed by Isolde’s side throughout Isolde’s examining the fragments of a compass, a water-soaked journal, and a knife. Isolde recognized the carving on the handle of the weapon as being her father’s name spelled in Gaelic symbols. The realization had ripped at her heart, but she had listened carefully to Lady Lowery’s words. “I have always been of the persuasion that when someone you love passes unexpectedly, your heart knows immediately. Does your heart announce your father’s demise, Miss Neville?”

Isolde shook her head in denial. “Although my head recognizes the possibility,” she confessed, “my heart denies the suggestion as a falsehood.”

“Then permit Sir Carter to learn the truth of Mr. Neville. If there is a man in England who possesses the skill and the resources to name the why and the wherefore of your father’s disappearance, it is my husband. There is none finer in the King’s service.”

With that, Isolde had turned over her hopes to Sir Carter Lowery. No matter what the outcome, she knew the baronet would act earnestly upon her behalf.

After reading the baron’s letter and the renewal of his promise to her, she had thought to return to the duke’s residence, but Lady Lowery had insisted upon on a flavored ice from Gunthers before providing Isolde a quick tour of the Blakehell’s town house. Lucinda Lowery and the baronet used his father’s residence when they were in Town, which was often. “The Baron and Baroness Blakehell,” Lady Lowery explained, “are rarely in London, and even when everyone is in attendance, there is plenty of room. I do so wish Lady Hellsman and Sir Carter’s older brother, Lawrence, would return to Town, but as their son Nicholas is but six months of age, I do not expect them any time soon. I miss Arabella terribly. Call me selfish,” she admitted, “it is why I have claimed your loyalty so quickly. You remind me very much of my sister in marriage.” Lady Lowery laughed easily, “Of course, you do not resemble Arabella in looks. She is barely taller than I.”

Isolde admitted in self-chastisement, “I often think myself taller than the remaining female race.”

Lady Lowery poured them a second cup of tea. “I assure you, the Marquise of Godown is equally as tall and Lady Worthing is taller.”

“That is two,” Isolde teased.

Lady Lowery had countered, “And Sir Carter’s sister Maria is three.” To prove her point, Lady Lowery had shown Isolde some of the gowns still hanging in the former Maria Lowery’s wardrobe. When Isolde had commented on the fine cloth and cut of one of the gowns, Lady Lowery had insisted upon giving Isolde three of her sister’s gowns for Isolde to make over for her own use. “It is a tradition,” Lady Lowery had said with a chuckle. “The Baroness Blakehell had permitted Arabella the use of Delia Lowery’s wardrobe when Bella’s items were destroyed during a storm. Much later, Arabella did the same for me when I returned to England after following the drum, and I now mean to assist you.”

“Will not the baronet object?” Isolde had asked in awe. “I am a stranger.”

“You are my newest acquaintance, and my husband will be pleased the garments have done more than to collect dust.”

Upon her return to Briar House, Isolde had been carefully placed the new items away in her quarters before retrieving her embroidery and then make her way to the small drawing room. Expecting to find the duchess entertaining her son, as was the lady’s habit at this time each day, Isolde was shocked to discover Lady Swenton “holding court” with Lord Morse and Mr. Curtlyn in attendance. One of the duke’s young maids sat in the shadows, looking on in great wonderment, but the two gentlemen were incautiously close and openly vying for Lady Swenton’s approval. Infuriated by her mistress’s actions, Isolde purposely cleared her throat in dissatisfaction upon her entrance.

Lady Satiné looked up in annoyance. “I see you have returned.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Isolde said smartly. She had thought to use “Madam,” but she took the lesser of the offensive words. Satiné Swenton preferred Isolde regularly to use “Lady” in speaking to her. Observing the baroness openly courting the gentlemen’s favors, Isolde could think of more vile names to address her mistress. The girl meant to play the baron a fool, and the thought brought forth Isolde’s ire. “I apologize for the delay. Sir Carter had pressing business, and I was asked to wait.”

Her mistress glanced to the maid. “You are excused, Edith. Miss Neville shall remain with us.”

In reality, as a married woman, Lady Swenton required no chaperone. Isolde supposed she should be thankful for the position, but other than the hope of Baron Swenton’s return to Briar House, she would miss none of those within the duke’s household. If they were still in Vienna, Isolde would attempt to reason with Lady Satiné; unfortunately, under London’s influence, the girl meant to know all of the
haut ton’s
depravity.

She assumed the seat vacated by the maid, but she did not take up her needle. Instead, she closely observed the baroness’s acceptance of the gentlemen’s overtures. Lord Morse’s presence was not a total surprise. From the beginning of their residence at Briar House, Isolde had expected the man’s appearance in Thornhill’s drawing rooms. However, the popinjay known as Mr. Curtlyn was more questionable. The gentleman had come to Isolde’s notice when he had escorted the baroness about the theatre the previous evening. From what Isolde had discovered through careful eavesdropping, Curtlyn held no title, although he was reported to be quite wealthy. “Part of the
noveau riche
,” Lady Lowery had explained while they had shared their ices when Isolde had mentioned the man to the baronet’s wife. Curtlyn was not of the nature of those Lady Satiné usually tolerated.

“Yet, he is an easy diversion,” her mind screamed the obvious. “My mistress can disguise Lord Morse’s attentions by convincing the duke and duchess Falkenberry’s heir meant nothing more to the baroness than did Mr. Curtlyn.” The realization fired Isolde’s contempt. She did not think she could serve such a devious woman for long.

Onboard ship, she had told Baron Swenton she meant to depart for Dublin, but she had resisted when she had discovered the baron’s pain. Somehow, she thought she might protect Lord Swenton. However, Isolde’s resolve to know Ireland again had returned. It was too much for her to play a role in the deception Lady Swenton practiced.

*

Initially, the duchess appeared to enjoy the
beau monde
’s entertainments as much as had Lady Swenton. She and the duke spent long hours staring lovingly into each other’s eyes. They danced often, and the duchess and Thornhill sought only the other’s company. Although Isolde could not say she particularly enjoyed the duchess’s company, she did admire how the couple conducted themselves in public. The Thornhills were fiercely loyal mates, and Isolde believed one day the duke and duchess would prove stalwarts of Society.

Lady Swenton, on the other hand, represented all that was wrong in English Society. For more than three weeks, Isolde’s mistress had openly flaunted her situation. It bothered Isolde beyond reason when she overheard the baroness making disparaging remarks regarding her husband’s absence. During the tedious hours of watching a disaster develop, Isolde’s only moments of enjoyment had been the periodic appearance of Sir Carter and Lady Lowery at the evening events. Sir Carter always made it a point of claiming Isolde’s hand for one of the sets, and even Thornhill had taken up the cause. It was glorious to know the recognition of such distinguished gentlemen.

Of course, the baroness never took note of Isolde’s solitary state. Lady Swenton danced often and held the attentions of several “suitors,” which had created quite a stir among the
ton’s
gossips. Isolde overheard Thornhill telling Sir Carter, “I am prepared to escort my wife and her sister to Kent. Lady Swenton’s actions are beyond the pale.”

“Although he wrote to say otherwise, I had thought Swenton would rush his return to his wife’s side,” the baronet admitted.

Thornhill growled, “Bloody hell! Morse means to claim Satiné’s hand again. He is determined to have my wife’s sister in his bed.”

Sir Carter leaned closer for privacy, but Isolde heard enough to know the gist of the baronet’s words. “To hear the
ton
…Morse has already…Lady Swenton.”

Thornhill argued, "That fact cannot…the baron’s wife is rarely…according to the duchess.”

“I fear the baron will…Lord Morse to a duel.”

“Heaven forbid!” Thornhill exclaimed louder. “Falkenberry’s heir is an excellent swordsman.”

Isolde’s eyes instinctively searched the dance floor for where Lord Morse waltzed Lady Swenton about the room. The man’s hand rested too intimately upon the baroness’s back, and his eyes devoured Lady Swenton’s décolletage. She wished for some means to convince her mistress of the disservice the baroness executed against the one man who had offered Lady Satiné true affection, but the girl appeared set upon destroying both hers and Lord Swenton’s reputations.

When the music ended, Morse directed Lady Swenton’s steps toward the open patio doors and the dark privacy of the balcony. Isolde gathered her fan to follow, but Sir Carter caught her arm. “Wait,” he whispered in her ear.

“But…” she began her protest, but a slight shake of the baronet’s head stilled her.

“Watch,” he cautioned. “The game has changed.”

*

Satiné slid her hand about Lord Morse’s proffered arm, but she had taken less than a half dozen steps before an opposing figure blocked her way. “Pardon me, Morse,” a familiar voice said authoritatively, “but my niece does not require fresh air. Lady Swenton will join her family instead.”

“Uncle Charles!” she hissed in protest.

“None of that now, Child,” her uncle declared. “We have not seen each other in many months. A reunion is in order.”

Lord Morse’s hand remained upon her lower back, which gave Satiné the courage to respond. “I am no longer a child, Sir,” she argued. “I am a married woman.”

Her uncle’s eyes darkened in that way she rarely encountered as his ward, but in a manner Satiné recognized as his rising ire. He leaned closer to speak in private. “From what I have witnessed this evening you treat your husband with disrespect,” he whispered sharply. “Remove your hand from Lord Morse’s arm, bid the gentleman a good evening, and walk proudly with me across the dance floor to where your sister and Thornhill await.”

“And if I refuse?” she ventured.

“Then know I am not above bringing more scandal to your door by throwing you over my shoulder to carry you from the room.”

Pointedly, Satiné hesitated. She knew her uncle would act upon his threat: Her Uncle Charles made no false claims. Petulantly, she released Lord Morse’s arm. “Thank you for the company, my Lord.” Satiné reached for her uncle’s arm.

“May I call upon you tomorrow, Lady Swenton?” Morse said defiantly.

“Yes,” she answered in the same breath as her uncle said “No.”

Ashton bowed to Morse. “My niece will see to my company,” he said in explanation. Then he led her away from the man. Satiné dared not turn for a parting glance to Lord Morse: She could not risk Charles Morton’s indignation further. He would likely jerk her forcibly into place. She thought,
At least, he can no longer ignore me
.

Thornhill and Velvet watched their approach and Satiné knew a twinge of regret at having disappointed her uncle. Ashton bowed to the duke and duchess, before extending his hand to Thornhill. “It feels a lifetime since I have last seen you. You appear well.”

“As do you, Sir. Please say you will join us at Briar House. My duchess is most anxious for you to observe how much young Edward has grown.”

“I gratefully accept,” Ashton said good-naturedly. He caught Velvet’s hand to draw her closer before placing a kiss upon the duchess’s forehead. “You are beaming with happiness,” Uncle Charles declared. “No one who looks upon your countenance could doubt how marriage to the duke suits you. You are magnificently beautiful.”

Satiné bit the inside of her jaw rather than to protest her uncle’s words. Charles Morton was
her
guardian. He should be praising
her
, not Velvet. Even
though
her marriage was not a brilliant success,
she
was not a failure.

Velvet caressed their uncle’s cheek. “You appear tired, Baron. Have you assumed too much in service to Mr. Pennington? I shall not have you taking to your bed with exhaustion.”

“My employment with the Home Office is most satisfying,” he assured. “It has kept my thoughts from more trying matters.”

Satiné snarled, “Meaning me.”

Uncles Charles refused to release her hand when Satiné attempted to pull away. “Yes,” he said coldly. “You have brought several gray hairs to my head.”

Before Satiné could respond, Thornhill suggested, “Perhaps you and Lady Swenton wish some time alone. The duchess and I will remain until after the supper hour. Miss Neville will remain with us.”

“But I…” Satiné began.

However, her uncle spoke over her. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness. Satiné and I have much to learn of each other’s recent past.”