What Isabella Desires (3 page)

“Have you talked to Hildebrand?”

“No, but the officer said Hildebrand wanted us to report in early tomorrow,” James said.

“He must be going spare,” Stephen said. “Been a bit tetchy of late.”

Hildebrand was fairly new to the position, after the death of their last leader. Best not to think about that, though, Marcus told himself. Another mistake in a long list of them. Marcus had been asked to lead the office, and had seriously considered taking the position, but in the end chose to remain in the field.

He might not be able to express his emotions as freely as Stephen, but he didn’t want to end up as one of the wax museum figures from burning the desk work at both ends—politics and intrigue. He wouldn’t be able to do either for much longer anyway.

“Yes, Hildebrand would be a bit tetchy.”

Stephen looked past him, toward the terrace doors. “It’s getting late. Audrey and Calliope are waiting for us by the doors.”

“Off with you two,” Marcus said. “Go back to your doting wives.”

James cocked his head, and Marcus felt the stirrings of a headache. Not this again. Why did every bloody, happily married person feel the need to interfere in the lives of others?

He held up a hand to forestall the meddling. “Angelford, I’ll have your head on a platter if you say one more word about my private life.”

Stephen’s green eyes twinkled, but James must have seen something in Marcus’s face beyond the warning because he gave him a mock salute and pushed Stephen toward the doors.

Marcus felt the stirrings of a more severe headache as a wave of nausea broke over him. He swallowed and inhaled deeply. Damn. He looked around the terrace, pretending an interest in the foliage. Mentally he counted the steps to the doors just in case. The layout of the ballroom was clearly impressed in his mind, but the shifting bodies on and around the dance floor always presented a challenge.

His vision dimmed around the edges as he strode inside. It was past time for him to leave.

He deftly maneuvered around the dancers and headed for the door, hoping to get to the blessed darkness of his carriage before he became physically ill. Perhaps it was time to leave London for good. Finish up this last case and retire to the country.

Away from pushy, well-meaning friends, the work he loved, and all the things he preferred not to think about.

“My lady, one moment.”

Her maid tugged her bonnet forward and Isabella glared from beneath the laced fringe. “Bertie, my bonnet is just fine. Pull your own forth, if you must. I have nary a freckle, more’s the pity.”

Her maid gasped.

“It would serve you right if I did,” Isabella muttered, and picked up her spade. “You’re gasping as if London were ablaze.”

“It would be!”

“Lady Angelford has a few freckles, and I daresay they look quite attractive on her.”

Bertie started muttering to herself about difficult charges and placed the rest of Isabella’s gardening tools near her. Bertie might be a pain about some things, but was tireless in helping her when she needed it.

“Hand me the first of the white lilies, will you, Bertie?”

Her maid dutifully handed one over from the basket and started weeding some of the creepers near the left edge of the plot, using her own hand awl. The plot had doubled in size last year, and Isabella was grateful the man who managed the land, a somewhat cantankerous old codger, had finally allowed her to have more space. She didn’t know what finally convinced him to relinquish more ground. His disdain for flowers was evident. Perhaps Stephen had said something after she’d bemoaned it one night. The caretaker had been somewhat obsequious ever since.

They worked in silence until Isabella finished planting the patch of lilies. She brushed an arm across her eyes.

“The orange pansies now, I think. And then I’ll stake the delphiniums. No matter that lilies are appropriate, I don’t want the delphs flopping.”

Bertie’s pinched, concentrated expression softened a notch. “The delphiniums are beautiful, as are the others. We’ll be in the country soon. Your parents were talking about extending the gardens. Think of the possibilities.”

Isabella stared at the stone marker and the small memorial plot, then focused on the rows of crosses and markers extending over the grounds. Some with flowers, some decrepit from age and neglect. Since she could never get to them all, she planted a single flower on a different spot each visit, and tended her little plot near the middle of the cemetery—a place where she could come to remember everyone she had lost and feel them in the soil. No matter that most of her friends and loved ones were buried elsewhere. To her it wasn’t where the body lay. It was the spirit of the matter.

The cemetery was a resting place for working-class men and women. People who could afford a stone, cross, or other marker, but didn’t have the wherewithal for extravagant monoliths or tombs. She liked its simplicity, and its location in a bright section of town containing plenty of small wild-life—squirrels, songbirds and butterflies.

Two women in fading muslin gowns walked past and exchanged greetings with her. There were some places where station had no bearing, and never should. She attended and enjoyed the ton parties, but there was something simple and calming about her weekly routine here. It invigorated her and at the same time let her keep peace with her own demons. Usually.

Movement near the entrance caused her eyes to stray that way. A small procession came through. Pallbearers carried an unremarkable coffin toward the newly dug grave by the fountain of Demeter. She had thought to plant a flower on a grave near the fountain before seeing the freshly piled dirt. She still hadn’t chosen where her single white lily, already in bloom, would be planted. Maybe near the rolling hill graves by the cemetery crossroads.

An indrawn breath made her focus back on her maid.

Bertie was looking toward the procession, a strange look upon her face. “Isn’t that Lord Marston’s sister-in-law?”

Isabella turned and saw a woman in black. It was indeed Faye Kendrick, Audrey’s sister. Faye was a beautiful woman, with untamed red hair and sherry eyes. Her eyes were a different shade from Marcus’s, but both had the power to—

The spade slid from her grip and plunked into the dirt.

Marcus was walking beside Faye. Her hand was wrapped into the crook of his arm and he leaned down to hear something she was saying. Their heads, his dark and hers a bright flame, mixed together. They made a beautiful pair.

Isabella looked down at her dirty work gloves and soiled hem. Her lip slid between her teeth. Not even at her best could she compare to Faye. Still, it was silly of her to think such thoughts. She knew the two of them were just friends. If there had been any connection beyond friendship between Marcus and Faye, she would have observed it long ago at one of the smaller, more intimate gatherings. She reclaimed her spade and tapped it against a rock she had uprooted.

Just friends—much like Marcus and herself, she thought, chagrined. It was a poor position she was currently in, especially without the beauty or outrageousness that might garner a second glance.

The service started, though she was far enough away to overhear only the loudest of the pastor’s words. Bertie tried to gain her attention, but Isabella just patted her hand and kept watching.

She watched Marcus. Heads were bowed around him, eyes looking toward the uneven grass. But Marcus looked straight ahead. His lips pressed together and she could imagine the tight lines around his mouth. He looked straight forward as the prayer was read. Straight forward as a woman gave a tearful speech. Straight forward as the coffin was lowered into the ground.

She wondered who had died. She knew of no one who had passed. Viscount St. John, Stephen, and James were there as well, so it must have been someone in the government. Why Faye would be there too, she was unsure.

The service ended and most of the mourners left, Stephen, James, and Faye among them. St. John said something to Marcus, who shook his head in response and made a cutting motion with his hand.

“My lady?”

All of a sudden Marcus’s eyes fixed on her, pinning her to the spot where she knelt.

Isabella lifted the large white lily she had brought to plant on one of the grave sites, never looking away from Marcus.

“My lady?” Bertie said again.

“No worrying, Bertie. I’ll be back in a thrice.”

She stood, carrying the flower and her spade. She rolled her head and shoulders to get the immediate cricks out, then walked toward the crossroads. Marcus and Viscount St. John stood silently watching her.

“Good afternoon, my lords.”

“Lady Willoughby.”

“Isabella.”

St. John tipped his hat and walked through the exit she had seen Faye take.

Isabella looked at Marcus. “I’m sorry you are here.”

He raised a brow.

“Were you close?” She pointed to the grave that was now being filled.

Marcus lowered his voice. “Not close. But close enough.”

“I see.”

She didn’t see at all.

“Planting again?”

“I come every week.”

“I know you do.”

She started. “And how is that?”

A half smile worked its way across his mouth. “My, my, I should ply you with wine more often while we play. You told me last month. Besides, I heard you talking with Stephen about it last year.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

“You are almost as daft as he when it comes to crawling vines.”

Her spaded hand moved to her hip. “I see.”

He smiled. The kind of smile that made her heart flip. “Do you?”

Her breath caught, but she managed to shake her spade at him. “Don’t think I don’t remember who trampled through my first garden.”

He raised a brow. “You can hardly blame me. That monster dog was trying to bite me.”

A vision rose of the dignified boy he had been, poised on the verge of manhood, chasing through the grass with an Afghan hound nipping at his heels.

“He was not. Bartholemew did not bite,” she said witheringly.

“Bartholemew, my foot. That dog’s name was Cerberus.”

“You dare!” she gasped. The darkness lifted from his eyes for a moment, and she forgot to breathe.

He smirked. “How old were you, six? You barely knew what a rose was.”

“I was seven and a half,” she said primly. “And you trampled my sainfoin conicals. Someday I will have my revenge.”

His eyes turned shadowy. “You’ll have to wait your turn, Bella.”

“Pardon me?” She didn’t like the darkness beneath his tone. She wished she could take back her words, though how was she to know? In some ways she knew him so well, and in others not at all.

“I wonder what flower you will plant for me in your memorial plot,” he said.

“That’s a little morbid, don’t you think?”

“And your visits here aren’t?”

She stiffened. “Not in the least.”

He fingered a petal on the lily in her hand. “George again?”

She looked at him sharply, trying to discern his meaning. But there was only curiosity and a deep weariness in his gaze. “’Tis not only George for whom I visit.”

He looked off to the distance. “Yes.”

“Are you unwell, Marcus?” She scrutinized him.

He turned back to her and smiled blithely. “I’m as well as can be.”

“I see. I’m not sure I believe you.”

“It is at once as hard to believe as it is to disbelieve.”

“That makes as little sense to me now as it did when you spouted it at the Pettigrews’ house party.”

“A house party where you should never have stepped foot. He looked down his attractive nose.

“I was mature enough to have chosen to attend.” She lifted her chin.

“Were you?” He looked amused.

“Yes. And as I told you then, there was—there is—no need to nag after me like a wayward child.”

“Little Isabella, sprouted up and charging the breeze, instead of the other way around.”

He patted her shoulder. She didn’t know whether to growl or groan.

“I’ll see you at the Capley tea, little warrior. I hope you find a nice home for that flowery sprig. Don’t stay too long in the morbid midday sun.”

He tweaked a petal and strode away. His jacket snapped and swayed around him in a feral caress.

It couldn’t have been worse if he had patted her on the head.

Blast. It was time to do something drastic.

“Lady Angelford told me to direct you to the back salon when you arrived. She will be with you in a moment, Lady Willoughby.”

“Thank you, Templeton.” She followed the severely dressed man through the hall to a cozy room overlooking the rear gardens.

Calliope breezed in a few minutes later wearing a bright green muslin dress that set off her stylish blond hair. “Isabella! We didn’t get a chance to speak at the Ferdot crush. How have you been?”

Isabella smiled and accepted a cup of tea from the embellished silver service Templeton had placed before her. “Very well, Calliope. My parents are leaving for the country soon, but I’m not sure when I’m going to join them.” She blew gently across the top of her cup.

“Excellent. We aren’t retiring for another two weeks. James has some things he needs to take care of at the Office.”

The office was another term for the Foreign Office, where James, Stephen, and Marcus helped the government. They contended that their work consisted of mostly diplomatic matters. But she had heard whispers of missions and secrets, and shared looks that bespoke of something more than finding out whether the emperor from one country liked cheese or if the ambassador from another had a proclivity for less reputable social pursuits.

“How are the twins?” Isabella asked and looked around, hoping to see a small mop of hair peeking around one of the chairs.

“Still growing like weeds. Deirdre took them to the theater for the day. Said she needed more time with her niece and nephew. And believe me, as much as I love the termagants, I take every chance offered to share them with someone else for an hour or two ‘adventure.’ In the house it is different, of course. Even with the nanny, I don’t want them to feel pushed to the side.”

Calliope spread her hands down the fine weave of her dress skirt and then picked up her tea. Isabella knew enough of Calliope’s history to know where those feelings had been spawned.

“And, of course, I have to save the nanny,” she said. “She’s already on a two glass a day gin ration in response to their antics. I can only imagine what it will be like in a few years. Someday I may take you up on your offer.”

Isabella smiled into her cup. She loved the twins and had threatened to steal them away in the night. A strong wave of longing broke over her, but she resolutely pushed it away.

She gathered her courage for a different line of questioning. “You will be here for another two weeks? Then you plan to attend the after season parties?”

A twinkle appeared in Calliope’s eyes. “Why, Isabella—” She put a hand to her chest. “—certainly you aren’t saying what it is I think you are saying?”

Suddenly, Isabella was assailed with doubts. This was not her brightest idea. She had never stayed for the racier parties that occurred on the cusp of the season—the last bit of wildness that allowed members of the ton to indulge before rusticating in the peaceful countryside for several months, months in the country that afforded them an opportunity to live down any spawned rumors.

But those parties were for the most daring of the fashionable. A group of which she was not a part. And she could only imagine the reaction she would receive were she to attend, the orchestra pulling to a screeching halt as she pushed through the doors and tried to act as if she belonged.

“Well—”

Calliope put a hand out to cover hers, which was grasping the china cup more tightly than necessary. “I’m merely having a bit of fun. I think it would be wonderful if you joined the madness. A proper blossoming into the ranks of the questionable and notorious.”

Isabella smiled at her sardonic tone. The Angelfords were known to attend some of the racier parties, but while there, they only had eyes for each other.

Calliope clapped her hands together. “Now, then. The Grenstridge masquerade is in two days. It’s the perfect opportunity to introduce you, then the invitations will start pouring in.” She cast a critical eye over Isabella’s high white and gray chintz gown. “We’ll need to pay a visit to Madame Giselle’s, however.”

Isabella smiled wryly. She knew she had made a good decision in coming to Calliope. She’d barely said two sentences and her friend had taken them and run. “I know. I scheduled a consultation with her this afternoon.”

“You did?” Calliope perked up. “Do you mind if I come with you? Deirdre and the twins won’t be back for another few hours.”

“Of course. I was hoping you might.”

“Excellent. You finish your tea while I grab a few sketches I’ve been meaning to drop off at the modiste.”

Isabella smiled and sipped her tea as Calliope practically skipped from the room. If she knew her friend, Calliope would bring multiple designs for Madame Giselle to go through in order to create something marvelous to keep her husband’s eyes glued to her all night. Not that his eyes ever strayed from her regardless of what she wore.

Soon enough they were in the Angelford carriage heading toward the shopping district.

Madame Giselle welcomed them, after giving Calliope a strict reprimand for not scheduling an appointment.

“Oh, I’m here for Lady Willoughby. I have brought some designs that might suit her.”

Madame Giselle’s brow smoothed.

“And one small one for me too, if you get the chance.”

The seamstress sniffed as she ushered the women into a spectacular sitting room. She studied the designs, instructed Isabella to undress, then evaluated her from all angles. “Deep blue, I should think. And perhaps dark mauve.”

The seamstress went to work. After several hours of pokes and tucks from her girls, and comments from Calliope, four dresses were chosen. An already created gown and day dress that needed few alterations, and two new designs from Calliope’s stack.

Calliope seemed pleased and ordered a dress for herself.

Madame might sniff, Isabella mused, but the Angelfords were one of her best customers, and no matter how busy she might be, she would no doubt always make time for Calliope. By association, she had been taken under Madame’s wing, but had always shied away from the smarter styles of her friend, sticking instead to the strictly fashionable but ordinary forms.

“I am glad to see the lady has finally decided to try more flair,” the seamstress said as she made some last minute adjustments.

“I thought that perhaps it was time for a small change.”

“Indeed, Lady Willoughby. With these new dresses you will make a splash. Enough to catch the interest of the gentlemen.”

Isabella felt a blush rise. “Oh, no, I’m not trying to catch the interest of the gentlemen.”

Madame tutted. “You are too young to waste away against the walls. I’m sure many nice gentlemen would be glad to peel you away.”

Madame Giselle always had a way with words.

“Or just that one special gentleman,” a soft voice said.

Isabella met Calliope’s eyes in the mirror. They were gentle and understanding. Isabella’s breath caught. Isabella wondered how long she’d known.

“Well, yes, of course that special one,” Madame said, glaring at Calliope. “What do you take me for, Lady Angelford? A wicked woman trying to pawn off my ways?”

Isabella was glad to have Calliope’s attention diverted as the two exchanged barbs. Soon it was Calliope’s turn on the stool, and Isabella happily trailed over to the window and drew back the curtain to peer outside. The street was bustling with activity. Carriages and peddlers clogged the road and shoppers ducked in and out of the storefronts.

A herd of children moved in time with a nanny and housemaid, alternately fanning out and closing together like a flock of birds in flight. A man argued with a street vendor and barely missed hitting a woman with his flailing arms. The woman hustled past, pushing her two children, a girl and boy, so that they were on the inside of her as they walked along the pavement.

Isabella watched the little girl, her eyes wide as she took in her surroundings, her dark curls bobbing as she swung her head from side to side. Just as the threesome reached the shop window, the little girl stumbled and fell to her knees, her curls bouncing as she caught herself on her hands.

The girl’s lower lip trembled as she raised her head, and their eyes met. The glass was slick against Isabella’s palm as her hand slid down the pane. The wide blue eyes shimmered with tears, an entreaty in their depths.

Isabella’s hand dropped from the window. She stepped back, prepared to run outside and comfort the little girl, but paused when the mother turned and knelt beside her fallen child.

The mother’s movement broke their connection, and the girl wobbly nodded at whatever her mother was saying. Then the woman’s arms wrapped around her daughter, the little girl leaning into her.

Eyes aching, the scene blurred, and Isabella put a hand on the rough wall next to the thick glass. She leaned her forehead against the cold, hard surface and blinked. The scene sharpened into focus. The woman was saying something to her daughter, and the son was awkwardly patting the little girl on the shoulder.

The woman tugged the children back into motion. The girl turned, and Isabella’s last thought was of blue eyes replaced with warm brown eyes tinged with gold.

“Isabella?”

She took a breath before turning. “My apologies, Calliope.” She swallowed. “I seem to have wandered.”

Calliope didn’t look convinced, but if she had borne witness, she was kind enough to say nothing.

They thanked Madame Giselle, gathered the two modified dresses for Isabella, and called for the carriage.

Golden eyes haunted her. Eyes that were. Eyes that could be.

On the way home, Isabella worked up the nerve to ask Calliope, “How long have you known?”

“That you were in love with Roth? Since we met at the Pettigrews’ house party.”

Her heart tightened and she found it difficult to breathe. That had been two years ago. “Does Lord Angelford know?”

Calliope shrugged lightly, as if they were merely discussing the weather instead of the world-rocking event that Isabella felt. “James is very observant, as are Stephen and Audrey. I would be surprised if any of them are unaware.”

She swallowed, her mouth gone dry. “And Marcus?” Her voice caught.

Calliope’s eyes were sympathetic and then thoughtful. “I don’t know what Roth thinks even a quarter of the time. He’s very perceptive, but he holds his cards close to his chest.”

So foolish. Had she been pining so obviously? Had he been feeling sorry for her all this time?

“Don’t look that way, Isabella. Roth would never use your feelings against you. He can be harsh and judgmental, but he cares for you.”

“As a friend,” she whispered.

Calliope didn’t argue. “Yes. It is up to you whether you will take the chance on more. From the looks of this trip, I would hasten to say you have decided to?”

Isabella nodded, and Calliope’s hopeful look curved into satisfaction. They turned onto her street.

“Excellent.” She patted her hand and smiled. “And, Isabella, if anyone can pierce Roth’s shell, I think it will be you. I can share some general tips and experiences, if you’d like to drop by tomorrow.”

Mortification turned easily into nervous excitement. But could she pull it off? Could she turn Marcus’s friendly interest into the romantic? Could she capture a man who had slipped past every other woman—the beautiful and witty alike? “Yes. Please.”

Calliope smiled reassuringly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Call around two?”

Isabella nodded and accepted a hand from the servant who opened the door. She moistened her lips, threw back her shoulders and readied herself for a foray that might well turn into a siege.