Isabella felt her heart drop. “Oh, it is doubtless the recipe I requested from Mrs. Palmer yesterday,” she said with what she hoped was a carefree laugh. “I’ll just take this up to my room and put it with my things.”
She was halfway up the stairs when she heard a voice call her name. Turning, she saw Trevor at the landing below her.
“Is aught amiss?” he asked. “Templeton said you’d received a letter.”
She tried to discern from Trevor’s tone and expression whether he knew who had sent the letter, but it was impossible to judge from this distance. Deciding to brazen the thing out, she said, “Oh, it is just a note from Mrs. Palmer about a freckle remedy we discussed at the dress shop in York. I tend to freckle quite badly when I spend any time in the sun and she was kind enough to offer me the recipe for her own remedy.”
Even from this distance, Isabella could see that the duke didn’t believe her one bit. Even so, he did not press her.
“I rather like freckles,” he said with a half smile. “I hope you won’t get rid of them all.”
He spoke as if he would have a chance to see her freckles up close, but Isabella knew that he would not. It was regrettable since she felt the pull of attraction between them, even now when she was annoyed at his curiosity.
“I’m afraid you are the only gentleman of my acquaintance who does,” she said wryly. “Most men seem to see them as a sign of a low nature.”
“I suspect I am the only gentleman of your acquaintance who does many things, Lady Isabella.” The duke paused at the foot of the stairs, his hand resting on the banister as if he were debating whether to follow her up.
And suddenly Isabella knew that they weren’t talking about freckles anymore.
Not wishing him to see the doubt in her eyes, she hastily excused herself and hurried up to her room.
* * *
After the dance lesson, the girls and Miss Nightingale had returned to the schoolroom and Lucien had gone home. Since Isabella had not returned, Trevor decided to do a bit of sleuthing.
It had been easy enough to ask Templeton whether her letter had indeed come from the Palmer house. When the butler affirmed that it had, there was little doubt in Trevor’s mind that it had come not from the lady of the house but from either her husband or her guest. The only question was, what could either Palmer or Thistleback need to correspond with Lady Isabella about?
Though he had no idea what the letter said, the duke knew in his gut that it was not a friendly missive. Though Thistleback had tried to give the appearance of a fond former acquaintance, there had been something in the man’s manner the other day in York—something lurking just beneath the surface—that set every protective instinct in Trevor’s body on high alert.
As for Palmer, the only reason Trevor could imagine his neighbor could have for contacting Isabella would be in an attempt to have her influence his own decision in the matter of Mr. Carson. Though Trevor had a hard time imagining Palmer would go out of his way for something like that. He seemed like the sort who would send a minion in his stead.
Isabella had taken a tray in her room for dinner, so Trevor had been unable to ask her any further questions about the letter. And, left to his own devices, he had retired to his study to brood. He had grown accustomed to having his orders obeyed, both as the head of his household and as a landowner. And part of him wanted to simply climb the stairs up to Isabella’s bedchamber and demand that she tell him who had sent the letter and what they wanted of her. But as she was a guest in his home and not one of his tenants or even a blood relation, he could do nothing of the sort.
It was a damned coil.
The mantle clock had just marked the hour of midnight, and he was ready to declare himself a suspicious fool and go to bed when he heard the squeak of the door leading from the drawing room to the garden. Grateful he’d let the candles burn themselves out, in the glow of the firelight he rose and stepped out into the darkness.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a female figure, doubtless Isabella, creep along the flagstone path toward the summerhouse.
It was simply too coincidental to imagine that she had been unable to sleep and decided to take a midnight stroll.
Isabella’s slippers made no sound as she moved across the garden path toward the small outbuilding, and Trevor was careful to tread softly as well. He had no intention of embarrassing her. He only wished to ensure that whoever she was meeting did nothing to physically harm her.
“You came,” Trevor heard a man say as Isabella neared the entrance. In the dim light, Trevor could see the man looming in the doorway, the white of his cravat gleaming in the darkness, though it was impossible to see his face.
“You gave me little choice,” Isabella said coolly from the bottom of the steps. “I could hardly ignore your summons when you hold such a revelation over my head.”
As Trevor watched, the figure bowed and gestured for his quarry to enter the summerhouse. Trevor was reminded of the spider and the fly.
“Come now, Lady Isabella,” the man said. “We are old friends, are we not? We’ve shared such
intimate
times together. You know that I would never do anything that would truly harm you.” The fellow’s tone made Trevor’s skin crawl.
“I know nothing of the sort,” Isabella said as Trevor, making sure to keep out of their lines of sight, slipped forward and crouched beneath the open window of the little retreat.
“We are not friends, Thistleback. Nor have we ever been such.” Trevor heard the note of revulsion in her voice and wanted more than anything to comfort her. But he had to hear the swine’s demands first. “You were my husband’s crony and were witness to some of the most humiliating scenes of my existence. I do not mind telling you that I had hoped never to see you again.”
“Tsk-tsk, Lady,” the baronet chided. “There’s no need for harsh words. I feel sure that you and I can come to some sort of understanding. After all, I would not wish for you, the widow of my dear friend, to come to any harm.”
Trevor had little doubt that as a boy Thistleback had plucked the wings from flies just to watch them suffer. But to Trevor’s great admiration, Isabella was not cowed. Or if she was, she didn’t let it show. “Cut line,” she snapped. “I wish to spend as little time in your company as possible. Tell me what you want so that I may get back to my bed.”
“Ah yes.” Thistleback’s tone was ugly. “I have little doubt that he is wondering where you’ve wandered off to. Poor old Ralph is barely cold in his grave and you’ve already found a replacement for him. But then, I suppose you consider the duke a reward for enduring all those years with your husband. I wonder if he realized you were simply biding your time, waiting for him to die. Certainly he must have guessed as much while he was employing the lash.”
When she did not respond, Thistleback sighed and said, “Very well, if you are going to be like that, I suppose that I will get to the point. You, my lady, are like the proverbial cat, always landing on your feet. And as your old friend, I think that you would be willing to share that good fortune with me. As you know, my father is a tightfisted old fool and I could do with a bit of the ready to keep me afloat. You understand, do you not?”
But Isabella had clearly decided that the least she said to the blackmailing worm the better. “How much?”
The flatness of her tone made Trevor curse the darkness. There was something frightening about the degree to which she’d removed all emotion from her tone. Thistleback clearly did not notice the change, however, or he didn’t care, because he responded in a pleasant tone, “I think five hundred should cover things.” He sounded like a dinner companion settling a small wager.
“Pounds?” Isabella demanded, aghast. “You do know that Wharton left me with only my widow’s portion, do you not? It is hardly enough to keep my household running. And certainly not so great as to allow me to give you five hundred pounds.”
Thistleback, it seemed, did not give a hang. “I also know that you are very close to your dear sister, Ormonde’s widow, who is rich as Croesus. She would not have let you come away on your little adventure in the north without plenty of pin money.”
“I hardly expected to need five hundred pounds for the journey,” she pointed out. “It’s Yorkshire, not Paris.”
“How much do you have then?” Thistleback’s voice sounded peevish.
“I will give you fifty pounds and you’ll be happy to have it.” Trevor was pleased to hear the finality in her tone.
“I suppose I can live with that,” Thistleback agreed grudgingly.
“And I expect you to be gone from here as soon as you receive the money,” Isabella continued, her voice hard.
Thistleback’s laugh was ugly. “Fifty pounds is not nearly enough to buy my departure, my dear.” Gone was the friendly, forced joviality. “I rather like it here in Yorkshire. So many old friends.”
“I’ll get the fifty pounds to you tomorrow,” Isabella said brusquely. “I will try to get more from my sister, but I warn you that if you cause harm to me or to the members of this household, I will not pay you a cent.”
“Excellent,” Thistleback agreed. “Such a pleasure doing business with you, Lady Isabella. I hope you won’t let this sour our previous acquaintance. After all, we share such happy memories.”
Though he longed to beat the man to a bloody pulp, Trevor held back while Thistleback bounded down the stairs, whistling quietly as he went.
Trevor listened to the sounds of the night birds and the wind in the trees, thinking that Isabella would come out and go back into the house. But when he heard a muffled gasp, followed by a soft sob, he realized that she was weeping.
Damn it.
He was angry as hell with her for not telling him about this nonsense. What if Thistleback had decided to assault her? Or worse? All of this raced through Trevor’s mind, even as he stepped loudly up the summerhouse stairs and walked in to see her huddled alone on the banquette seat.
He wanted to scold her, but what he wanted more was to take her in his arms and offer comfort.
* * *
The sound of boots on the stairs gave Isabella a start. Worried that Thistleback had returned, she stood, her back ramrod straight, but realized almost at once that the man who entered the summerhouse was Trevor.
Which, to her horror, made her feel worse.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice hoarse from tears. She cleared her throat and tried to sound normal. “I’m afraid I could not sleep.”
But he was not so easily duped. Pressing his handkerchief, still warm from where it had been in his coat pocket, into her hand, he led her back to the bench. “Do not dissemble,” he said curtly. “I heard it all.”
Oh god. He’d heard it all.
To Isabella’s surprise, however, she was not quite as mortified as she’d once thought she’d be.
There was no doubt that she hated for Trevor, who seemed to be so utterly decent, to know how her husband had humiliated her. But mixed in with the distress was relief. She had kept this secret so close to her for so long that finally having someone else—someone besides her sister—know the truth lessened her burden somehow.
“Then you know what my husband did to me,” she said aloud, needing to hear the words. “You know that he beat me. What you don’t know is that he sometimes did worse. And sometimes he did it in front of his good friend Thistleback.”
Her voice was oddly calm. She would have thought saying these things—to Trevor of all people—would be painful, but all she felt was numb.
She felt the bench sink a little as he took a seat beside her. She was grateful, but also worried, that he didn’t sit too close.
“If there were a way to bring your husband back to life so that I might kill him again, I would do it,” he said quietly. “I’m of half a mind to kill Thistleback in his stead. Certainly he deserves it for what he said to you tonight.”
Isabella had expected anger but not the threat of violence. Trevor was the last man she’d expect would resort to violence on her behalf. But she’d misjudged men before. Why not this one as well?
Hoping to lighten the mood, she said, “If such a thing were possible—resurrection, I mean—you’d be forced to wait your turn in the queue. I fear that Wharton was not as well loved as he thought he was.”
But Trevor did not laugh. Instead anger seemed to radiate from him. “Why didn’t you tell me Thistleback was threatening you?” he demanded, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Damn it, Isabella, how can you have been so foolish?”
“Because it is none of your affair,” she said, feeling cornered. “The more attention we pay him, the better he likes it. And that’s just what he wants.”
“He wants more than attention, Isabella,” Trevor said curtly. “He wants your fear as well. He enjoys seeing you flinch at his every word, never knowing if this will be the day that he reveals your secret to the world. He’s a sick bastard who should not be allowed to walk freely about the countryside.”
“How do
you
know what a man like that feels?” she demanded angrily. “You, who have lived here in Yorkshire all these years with your loving family and lovely, supportive neighborhood. You don’t know what sort of things a man like that thrives on. You are too decent to know. Too noble.”
“You make me sound like a cross between a milksop and a simpleton, madam,” Trevor said, affronted. “Just because I have lived for most of my life in the country does not mean that I have no notion of how men behave. I have been to university; I am not as wet behind the ears as you seem to think me. And unfortunately, evil is the same no matter where it lives.”
Isabella bit her lip. He was right. She did make him sound like less than a man. But she’d been so accustomed to thinking men were either all good or all bad that she’d forgotten that there were any number of men who were a bit of both. Who were aware that evil existed but weren’t drawn into its cloying web.
“Perhaps that is true,” she acceded, “but you cannot deny that the Thistlebacks of the world seem to thrive in the city.”
“Do they, Isabella?” he asked. “Or is that simply where
you
have encountered them?”