A small explosion of gunpowder left a puff of smoke in the air, and her second ball took out the target's eye.
"Remind me to keep on your good side," Joe teased.
"And now I have to reload," Isabella grumbled, the procedure lengthy.
"I'll do it for you this time." Joe took her weapon from her and bent to the task.
Dropping onto the grass, Isabella leaned back on her arms and gazed up at the sun-filled sky. "It seems so peaceful out here, it's hard to fathom my uncles' malevolence."
Joe looked up from his task. "It's just about money, miss. You have it and they want it."
"It's hard for me to fathom such greed when they have enormous wealth of their own."
"People like them don't never have enough. I'd suggest you think of their fat, evil faces when you're aiming-"
She quickly shook her head. "I couldn't, Joe. Not ever… even this target is disturbing for me, though I understand your reasoning. But I don't want to think of them at all if I can help it." She briefly shut her eyes, as though she could erase the memory of her relatives with so simple a gesture. "Let's not talk about anything distressing," she suggested. "Especially on such a lovely day."
It warmed Joe's heart to see her able to enjoy the fine weather, when she'd been so wretched their first week at Tavora House. Part of the reason he'd suggested teaching her to shoot was to deliver her from the prison of her room. She'd not stepped outside her apartments the first week in the country; she'd barely eaten, and whenever he'd spoken to her concerning some matter of guarding the estate, her eyes had been red from crying. He'd almost welcomed the Leslie spies, for it gave him the opportunity to lure her outside and attempt to distract her from her melancholy. The lessons had served to focus on something other than her loss of Dermott. And her constant fear that he was dead.
As an added advantage, the shooting practice gave Joe another opportunity to be near her.
That night after Joe and his brother had patrolled the grounds before trading shifts outside Isabella's door, the two men stood in the kitchen garden and smoked their evening cigars.
"It wouldn't do for you to fall in love with our employer." Mike's tone was mild. "Just a cautionary word."
Joe didn't immediately answer.
"I see how you look at her."
Joe blew out a cloud of smoke. "It doesn't hurt to look."
"It will eventually. You can't have her."
Joe half smiled at his younger brother. "Allow me my pleasures."
"She's very trusting."
"She's been protected all her life. And I intend to see that she continues to be. Fat Leslie isn't going to have her."
Mike chuckled. "At least she'd have a wide target if he shows up."
Joe's brows rose faintly. "Or I would."
In the following days, Isabella made a conscious effort to keep busy, filling her time with numerous activities that would enhance her tenants' lives. She began planning a new schoolhouse for her tenants' children as well as an addition to the small lying-in hospital on the estate. She oversaw the enlargement of the south gardens and agreed to judge the yearly flower show in the village. She met with her steward and listened to his reports on the state of the crops. She even invited the neighbor ladies over for tea-an experience that required a feigned rendition of cheerfulness that would have done any actress proud.
But when evening came, her tenants returned to their hearths, neighbors went home, stewards must be allowed rest from their duties, and an immense loneliness stretched like an interminable void. She slept poorly if she slept at all, her melancholy crushing in the quiet of night, and she despaired of enduring a life without Dermott. She still yearned for him every minute, every second, with such a raw, aching sadness, she'd long before run out of tears.
She'd often lie awake at night, praying he lived-praying to any god who'd listen-to spare his life. And each morning she'd impatiently wait for the mail, hoping for word from Molly-for the blessed message that he'd survived.
But days passed and then weeks, and no one heard a whisper.
The afternoon Harold Leslie was announced, Isabella glanced at Joe, lounging on a chair in her office.
"You're not home," he said, coming to his feet in one lithe movement. "I'll tell him."
"No, wait." She held up her hand and pushed away her account book. "He might know something of Dermott. Surely the Leslies are concerned with his whereabouts more than anyone."
"Regardless, I'm not sure it's safe."
"Is my cousin alone?" Isabella's gaze turned to the footman who waited in the doorway for her instructions.
"Yes, miss."
She set down her pen. "Is anyone outside in his carriage?"
"He rode up on a bit of new horseflesh he bought at Newmarket." The young flunky grinned. "And he couldn't control that high-spirited animal. He were sweating mightily, miss."
"Perhaps he's looking for a ride back to Newmarket in one of my carriages." Isabella couldn't help but smile at the thought of Harold's corpulent body astride a temperamental steed. "Show him into the Chinese saloon and bring tea."
"You're not going in there alone," Joe declared.
"Heavens no. I wouldn't think of it. You have tea with us."
"I'd rather throw his fat ass back up on that horse and whip him down the drive."
"He's here for a reason though." Stacking the papers on her desk into a neat pile, she rose from her chair. "Let's go and see what Harold wants."
"We know what he wants," Joe muttered.
"But he might have news we want as well." Isabella moved toward the door, "And don't be surprised at what I might say. I intend to make it clear, he needn't call again."
"I could do that."
She smiled faintly. "I believe I can do it without bloodshed, however."
Harold was scrutinizing the stylish Chinese wallpaper, the hand-painted designs portraying colorful vignettes of Canton.
"Do you like the scenes, cousin?" Isabella inquired as she entered the room, keeping her voice intentionally bland. "Grandpapa preferred this room above all the others. He said it reminded him of his youth in the China trade."
Harold spun around and immediately frowned at Joe, who stood directly behind Isabella. "I'd prefer a private audience, cousin."
"I'm so sorry," she said with artificial sweetness. "I've become attached to Joe."
Harold's face flushed a vivid crimson. "In what way-er-that is… I say, cousin, don't know that's all the thing-with an employee-"
"Oh, dear. You misunderstand. I meant Joe is the ideal bodyguard. He never leaves my side. I confess," she murmured, "it makes me feel delightfully safe." Let Harold take that titillating bit of misleading information back to his father. They might think twice about any base plans. "Could we interest you in a cup of tea," she pleasantly added. "Joe particularly likes Grandpapa's special blend, don't you, Joe." She smiled at him over her shoulder.
If Joe weren't a head taller and solid muscle, Harold would have answered differently. As it was, he consoled himself with shooting the ex-pugilist a black look and answering Isabella with as much politesse as he could muster. "I'd be pleased to stay for tea."
"Isn't that nice. Joe, isn't that nice?" She touched Joe's hand lightly, intent on giving Harold every impression that she and her bodyguard were very close. "Do sit down, cousin. And if you'd ring for Henderson, Joe, we'll all sit and chat. Tell him to add a little brandy for you men with the tea," she added, smiling at her bodyguard. "What brings you to Suffolk, Harold?" She turned back to her guest.
"Came for the Newmarket races." As he sat, the points of his shirt collar pushed up into his heavy jowls, his lofty neckcloth crushed between his tightly waistcoated stomach and his chin. His plump thighs stretched the fabric of his fawn-colored pantaloons, his weight tested the strength of the fine Sheraton chair, his red-faced corpulence an anomaly in the saloon's refined decor.