"You must give us the news from London. We're sadly behind in the latest gossip here. Has the Prince of Wales tired of Lady Hertford or has her husband tired of the Prince?"
"Neither, apparently-according to the news sheets."
"And does the Princess still languish at Blackheath?"
"I believe so."
Isabella asked several more frivolous questions concerning the ton before casually saying, "And is my Lord Bathurst back in town after his misfortune? Or did we miss his funeral?"
Harold's mouth tightened into a grim line, his jealousy of Bathurst's claim on Isabella intense. "There's been no word," he muttered.
Isabella felt such relief, she unconsciously offered Harold a warm smile. "Did you enjoy your ride from Newmarket? It's such a lovely day." More so now that there was no news of Dermott's burial. She almost felt sorry for poor Harold, who was quite out of his depth on this mission for his family.
"My new mount's a bit high-spirited-frisky… got him from the racecourse-needs some training, I don't doubt."
"Would you like Joe to take you back in my phaeton?"
So the damned guard was driving her phaeton. Not suitable at all. Harold's flush deepened at the injustice. "Wouldn't mind a hand at that phaeton myself," he bluntly said. "Might just take you up on your offer."
"Joe knows my team so well though, cousin. I'm afraid the horses might balk at your handling. They're too temperamental, I'm afraid. Didn't you just say that to me the other day, Joe?" She glanced at him walking back from conferring with Henderson, and smiling, patted the settee, indicating he sit beside her. "I'm afraid Joe does most of the driving here," she murmured, fluttering her lashes in a parody of female submission.
Joe kept from laughing only with supreme effort, Isabella's driving skills the equal of any Corinthian whip.
"I say… I say, Isabella," her cousin stammered, his expression one of dismay. "Can't think it's altogether proper-I mean-"
"Oh, there you are, Henderson." Her majordomo was carrying a salver with two brandies. "We don't worry about propriety so far out in the country. We're quite informal. Aren't we, Henderson?" she cheerfully maintained as he waved in a footman carrying the tea tray.
"Yes, miss, very informal," her majordomo replied, humoring her when he ran her establishment of two hundred servants and laborers, putting the fact that Joe was sitting much closer than usual to his mistress to the unwanted presence of Harold Leslie. Bets below stairs were that Joe would throw Cousin Harold out within the half hour. Personally, he'd placed his money on twenty minutes, but his face was expressionless as he set a brandy before each gentleman.
"I do adore those pink cakes. Thank Mrs. Parker for me, Henderson." Isabella picked up the teapot from the tray that had been placed before her and began pouring tea. "Milk or lemon, cousin?"
With Joe a bulwark at her side, Isabella took a measure of revenge for the indignities she'd suffered at her Leslie relatives' hands. Flaunting her simulated relationship with Joe, she would glance at him as they conversed or smile affectionately at something he said, while he played his role of stalwart companion with aplomb. He spoke little, but when he did, Isabella always listened and agreed.
Increasingly ill-tempered and petulant, Harold couldn't long suffer the insolence and presumption of a man of Joe Thurlow's station behaving toward his cousin with such disgusting familiarity. Faced with the limited options of challenging Joe or departing, he chose the more prudent. Abruptly coming to his feet, he took his leave with a stiff bow and a tight smile.
"I wish you good-day, cousin," he said with constraint, ignoring Joe.
"It was so nice of you to visit us. We get so little company. You must come again, mustn't he, Joe?"
Joe had risen when Harold did, and his towering height required Isabella look up a great distance.
"It's a mighty long way from Newmarket. I doubt Leslie will care to ride so far again."
"Oh, pooh, Joe, when Cousin Harold has that wonderful new mount? He won't mind riding to see us at all, will you, cousin?"
"I won't be long in Newmarket," Harold curtly said, thinking Isabella was going to require a very strong hand once they were married.
Isabella made a small moue. "Dear, what a shame. And when I was so hoping you might come for tea again. I fear we weren't good enough company." Her smile was dazzling. "Would you like Joe to see you out, cousin?"
"No need, no need," Harold quickly replied, not inclined to be alone with Joe Thurlow, whose dislike was patent despite his quiet forbearance.
"Well, we wish you good journey, cousin," Isabella cheerfully declared. "And give our regards to your family."
"Isabella said 'our regards' about Joe Thurlow, damn her wantonness. And Bathurst not even cold in his grave." Harold Leslie pursed his fleshy lips, his eyes snapping with indignation. "I tell you, Thurlow was sitting so close to her, you couldn't have supped a piece of paper between them."
"Interesting," his father murmured. "She seems to have found her calling. Who would think Uncle George's sweet granddaughter, the apple of his eye, would turn out to be a trollop?"
"Like mother like daughter," Abigail tartly observed. "That Frenchy mother of hers walked out of that convent school and took off around the world. Blue blood or not, that's a hussy. As is Isabella with her latest paramour. If your father insists you marry her, and I'm on the record as opposed-"
"But not opposed to having her money," Herbert interjected.
Abigail sighed dramatically. "A shame the lawyers seem to think George's will is incontestible."
"But since it is," Herbert smoothly noted, "we must consider our options now that Thurlow is in such proximity to her. We'll need more men."
"Harold, I want you to promise to keep that woman locked up somewhere once you're married," his mother insisted. "I don't want her contaminating your sisters. She is completely without morals. And while I understand men's beastly natures and perhaps your interest in her, I don't want any of her licentious ways to taint the girls. Is that clear? Herbert, you tell him I'm quite resolute on that point."
Her husband looked at their son. "You heard your mother."
"Yes, Papa. She can stay at Tavora House. There's no need for her to come into the City."
"And it goes without saying, you'll want some brats off her, to insure the inheritance."
"Herbert, really!" Abigail affected a shocked look.
"Hush, Abby. You know as well as I that we need heirs to keep the fortune, should she die."
"This is all so revolting," his wife murmured.
"But not her millions," her husband pithily noted. "We'll have to put a larger team of men together, Harold." His mouth set in a grim line. "One capable of handling the Thurlow brothers."
Chapter Twenty
THE DOWAGER'S PRESENCE at the house by the sea had a calming effect on her son, and shortly after her arrival, Dermott opened his eyes and for the first time surveyed the room with an unclouded gaze. Recognizing his mother seated in a chair beside the bed, he managed a small smile.
"I'm here, darling," she murmured, leaning over him and kissing his cheek. "And I insist you get better."
His chuckle turned into a groan as the slight movement jarred his afflicted body. And when he found his breath again, he whispered, "I'm hungry."
"You have your choice this morning, dear. Betty and the cook have been busy since dawn."
His gaze flickered around the room again. "My shirt."
The countess looked to Shelby, unsure what her son wanted.
"I have it, sir."
"Go and fetch it, Shelby," his mother ordered, intent on giving her son whatever he wished.
When Shelby returned with a wrinkled shirt in his hands, she raised her brows in surprise, but she kept her peace, and when Dermott tried to lift his hand to take it from Shelby, she saw that it was slipped into his grasp. The scent of perfume clung to it, the fragrance sweet on the air. And she came to her own conclusions.