“Excellent,” she said, rising from her dressing table. “I’ll just go have a look at them before breakfast.”
Slipping from the room, she went down to the first floor and hummed a waltz as she made her way to the blue salon. Now that she was awake, she may as well make the most of it.
The paintings were set up on the easels that they’d used that day when they’d painted. Eleanor’s and Belinda’s were facing the door while Isabella’s faced out the window. Smiling, she stepped closer to see both girls’ work side by side. The paintings themselves were expressions of their artists. Belinda’s painting was marked by her large and expressive brushstrokes, while Eleanor’s reflected the young lady’s contained attention to detail.
Wanting to see her own work as well, Isabella walked around to the other side to see it. As she turned the corner, however, the flash of red on the canvas told her something was wrong. None of them had needed to use the vermillion pigment at all. Yet someone had.
The careful work she’d put into the painting was obliterated by red paint dripping down the canvas like blood.
I know what you did, BITCH!
Her scream was unintentional but heartfelt.
* * *
Trevor tried and failed to keep his mind on the estate books in front of him. But all he could think of was Isabella.
It had taken all of his willpower to stop himself from slipping into her bedchamber in the night. He’d even had his hand on the doorknob to do just that when his conscience got the better of him. What sort of example did it set for his sisters if he took advantage of a houseguest while they were in the house as well? Not that they would know about it, of course, but he would know it. And something about it just didn’t sit right with his conscience. A gentleman did not take advantage of a lady in distress. And she must be upset after her encounter with Thistleback the night before.
No, it was for the best that he hadn’t succumbed to passion last night. Or so he tried to tell his aching body, which he was not sure would ever forgive him. Trevor was not in the habit of keeping a mistress, though he did, on occasion, conduct a discreet liaison from time to time. But he could not recall a time in recent memory when he’d burned with passion for someone like he burned for Isabella. It was inconvenient as hell that she happened to be his houseguest—no matter how unwelcome she’d been at first—and his sisters’ friend. He liked to think that she was his friend now as well, though the complications of such a friendship had not gone unnoticed by him. But so long as she remained under his roof, and in danger to boot, he would simply have to keep his trousers fastened.
He was in the middle of calculating a column of numbers when he heard what sounded like a shriek from down the hall. Mindful of Thistleback’s threats the night before, Trevor raced down the hallway to the blue salon, where he found a pale Isabella lifting a canvas down from its perch against an easel.
“What is it?” he demanded, hurrying to her side to take the heavy painting from her. “What’s the—”
Trevor stopped in mid-sentence when he caught sight of the red paint marring her landscape scene. “Who did this?” he asked, wrenching the canvas from her hands, fighting the urge to throw it bodily across the room. Instead he set it down near the fireplace, facing the wall so that Isabella couldn’t see its foul message. “Was it Thistleback?”
Collapsing onto a nearby chair, Isabella shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He has no way of knowing about—” She paused, and Trevor was angered to see tears well in her eyes.
He went to her. He didn’t care if she was as strong as hell and wanted her space. He knelt beside her chair and handed her his handkerchief. “What does he have no way of knowing about?” Trevor asked, trying to keep his voice gentle.
Thanking him for the handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes and swallowed. There was obviously something she wanted to hide from him. He could see it in her troubled eyes.
“Tell me, Isabella,” he demanded, taking her hand in his. “Tell me what he’s talking about. He says he knows what you did. What did you do?”
She gave a strangled laugh. “Nothing. That’s just it. I did nothing and he’s punishing me for it.”
“Does this have something to do with your husband?” Trevor asked, clenching his jaw at the thought. “Talk to me, Isabella.”
“No, nothing like that,” she said, visibly composing herself and taking a deep breath. “I actually can’t think that this has anything to do with Thistleback. It has to be someone else.”
Rising, Trevor began to pace, stopping before the mantle to turn the painting out again to see the hateful words again. “What does this person think you did?” Trevor asked after a minute of studying the red paint.
“I don’t suppose you’d be content to simply forget this happened?”
Had the woman not spent the past week in his company? “Not remotely.”
She sighed. “I thought not.” Rising from her chair, she went to peer out the window. He was unsure whether she was looking for something in particular or just trying to collect her thoughts.
Finally, she turned and stepped over to the bellpull and tugged. “I, for one, would like to have some tea before I begin my story.”
Twelve
Once the tea tray had been brought and Isabella was alone again with Trevor, she busied herself with pouring for them both, the ritual of the tea table giving her some solace while her mind raced.
To his credit, Trevor did not press her to speak before she was ready. Though she could see well enough that he was chomping at the bit for an explanation. That patience was one of the things that she most admired about him. He would sooner gnaw off his own arm than make her talk before she was ready.
Finally, realizing that she must say something or risk their tentative friendship, she said, “I do not think that this threat came from Thistleback. Though I would just as soon ascribe it to him if it meant that I was only being terrorized by one person instead of two.”
“So you have received other threats?” Trevor asked, settling his teacup into its saucer.
Isabella nodded. “I had hoped that the other notes I received were from Thistleback, but it occurred to me this morning that he has no way of knowing what happened the night that Gervase died.”
“And that was?”
In an expressionless voice, Isabella told Trevor about what had happened that night at Ormonde House. How Gervase had put his knife to Perdita’s throat and how he’d ended up with both a gunshot and a knife wound. When Isabella was finished, the room was quiet, except for the sound of her heartbeat, which she knew Trevor must be able to hear as well.
“And you think that someone knows the truth about what happened and is using it to punish you?” Trevor leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees.
“I can think of no other reason for the notes and the carriage accident—you yourself said that the carriage must have been tampered with. And there is no possible way for Thistleback to know of any of this. He was not there that night, and if I recall correctly he wasn’t even in London on the night Gervase died. Unless he has a spy in Ormonde House there is no way for him to know of it, or my presence there that night.”
“It does seem unlikely,” Trevor agreed. “But what are the chances that you could have attracted not one but two blackmailers?”
“Three if you count the dowager,” Isabella muttered, knowing it sounded ridiculous even as she spoke the words. “I am not such an unpleasant person,” she said. “Am I? Do I truly deserve to be so persecuted?”
“Of course you don’t,” he said. “And the dowager doesn’t count because she is a bane to everyone. Not just you. As for Thistleback, the blame for him may be laid firmly at your late husband’s door.”
“But who is it?” she asked, frustrated beyond all care.
“Someone with entry into this house,” Trevor said with a frown. “I will instruct Templeton to make sure that the doors and windows are all locked. In fact, I’ll have him see to it this afternoon.”
The notion that someone had simply walked into the house and defaced Isabella’s painting had not occurred to her. Because she had only been thinking of what the bloodred paint had made her feel. But now, knowing that someone had been in the same house as Eleanor and Belinda and Trevor, Isabella felt a tremor run through her body.
“Oh god,” she whispered. “What if he tried to come to my bedchamber while Belinda was there this morning? What if she were harmed because of my presence here? I have to leave at once. Go back to London.”
Returning to London would ruin Perdita’s chances of a happy match with Lord Coniston, but Isabella would have to do what she could to ensure that the dowager’s campaign against her did not work. She knew that Perdita would agree with her that the safety of her young cousins would matter more.
“You will do no such thing,” Trevor said, standing and taking her hands in his. “Whoever this is wants you to give up and to leave. And I for one have no intention of giving him what he wants.”
“Why aren’t you jumping for joy?” Isabella demanded. “From the moment I first arrived you’ve dreamed of nothing but putting me on the first stage back to London. Now that I finally declare myself willing to do just that, you’re against the notion?”
Twin flags of color appeared on Trevor’s cheeks. “If you haven’t noticed, I have not said anything of the sort for at least three days now.”
“Oh yes,” she said wryly. “And what has wrought this change in your wishes, Your Grace?”
He said nothing, but the single raised brow he directed at her spoke volumes.
Isabella felt her own blush rising. “Well, I suppose there is that,” she said, not willing to make eye contact.
“There is also the fact that my sisters adore you,” he replied, pulling her toward him. “And that if I were to send you back to London before you are able to witness Eleanor’s success tonight at the Palmer ball, I would find myself drummed out of my own home.”
Remembering Belinda’s enthusiasm that morning over her sister’s mini-debut, Isabella nodded. “That is very likely true,” she said gravely, allowing him to pull her up against his strong chest.
“Stay,” he whispered against her ear, even as he slipped his arms around her waist. “Come to the ball tonight. I’ll keep Thistleback away from you and tomorrow he’ll be on his way back to town. And I’ll do some digging to figure out who is trying to frighten you over Gervase’s death.”
“
You
will?” she asked, leaning her head against his shoulder and allowing herself just the briefest moment to experience the comfort of leaning on someone else.
“
We
will,” he amended, kissing the top of her head. “Though I will be eternally grateful if you will still perform the heavy lifting when it comes to assisting Eleanor in her preparations for the ball tonight.”
At the mention of the ball Isabella pulled back from him. “I almost forgot! I promised Belinda that I would help her make this afternoon special for Eleanor.”
Isabella patted at her hair and stepped over to the pier glass to examine her eyes for puffiness. “Do I look as if I’ve been crying?” she asked, turning back to look at Trevor.
“Not at all,” he assured her. “Go help Belinda. I will see you this evening.”
Before she stepped out the door, Isabella turned back one last time. “Trevor, thank you. For your help. I…” She tried to find the words to tell him just what it meant to have a man on her side that she could rely on. It was a far cry from what she’d come to expect from Wharton. “Just,” she said, finally, “thank you. For everything.”
Not wanting to linger lest she began to weep again, Isabella stepped out into the hall and closed the salon door firmly behind her.
* * *
That evening found Trevor in his dressing room under the not-so-tender ministrations of his valet, Jennings, who was thrilled at the opportunity to finally use his not-inconsiderable skills to dress his master as his station demanded.
Standing before the glass while Jennings put the finishing touches on his pristine white cravat, Trevor could not help but admit that he’d done well to hire the fellow. Not only was Trevor’s hair arranged in what could only be called a stylish fashion, but also his evening attire was bang up to the mark, if he said so himself.
“There, Your Grace,” Jennings pronounced, stepping aside so that his master could see his stylishly tied cravat, a sapphire winking from its folds. “You look every inch the duke, if I do say so myself.”
Trevor couldn’t argue with that. Though he still had no wish to take up the title he’d never wanted. Even so, Isabella had made a convincing case for his taking up his duty to his family. Not his grandmother, whom he still held in contempt for her treatment of his parents, but certainly for his late cousin’s wife—Isabella’s sister—and the army of other cousins, aunts, uncles, and various other relatives who had had no hand in his father’s banishment. Trevor had done his best to keep the estates running and the tenants well cared for, but from his experience at Nettlefield he’d seen how some estate matters could only be properly attended to by the master of the house. And though the estate manager at the Ormonde country estate seemed competent enough in his correspondence, who was to say the fellow was equally as reliable in person?
Trevor was not quite certain when his mind had begun to change on the matter, but he was slowly but surely beginning to see that by refusing to take the reins of the dukedom he’d done a disservice to all the servants and tenants and distant relatives who relied upon the estate for their keep.
“Thank you, Jennings,” Trevor told the other man. “You’ve done an excellent job of turning this sow’s ear into a silk purse.”
To Trevor’s amusement, the valet puffed out his chest like a bantam rooster. Inclining his head, Jennings said, “It is my pleasure, Your Grace. And may I say that I do not believe you to be so much of a sow’s ear as a diamond in the rough, so to speak.”
His lips twitching in amusement, Trevor nodded, dismissing the man.
Now Trevor had another errand to attend to. He crossed the dressing room and into his bedchamber to the small desk by the window. Picking up the velvet bag there, he opened the strings to make sure that the contents were undisturbed and made his way to his sister Eleanor’s bedchamber.