"You're damned easy to please," Joe said with a chuckle.
"Someone else once said that to me," she murmured.
He could hear the poignancy in her voice. "Probably not just like that."
"No."
"Bathurst might not be dead," he offered, trying to console her. "There's been no announcement in the papers. While Lonsdale's obituary and will were both published."
"That lack of information does make me hopeful."
"Do you want me to try and discover what happened to him?"
She shook her head. "No. It doesn't matter, because he didn't want me in his life."
"The man's a fool."
She smiled. "I agree."
The dowager countess's letter arrived a short time later, having been delayed by the necessary rerouting from Isabella's London house.
Isabella was in her boudoir, selecting a bonnet for a drive with Joe, when her lady's maid answered a knock on the door, took the letter from a footman, and carried it to her. One glance at the name of the sender and Isabella felt a moment of unsteadiness. Forcing her voice to a calmness she didn't feel, she instructed her maid to tell Joe she'd be down in five minutes, shut the door on her maid's back, and sank into a chair before her legs gave way.
Visibly shaking, she held the letter for a few moments, terrified of its contents, fearful it was news of Dermott's death, not sure it wasn't easier not knowing. But she had to read it, she knew, so offering up a prayer of hope, she eased the seal apart, spread the sheet of paper open, and swiftly perused the brief sentences for the word "death."
None.
Inhaling with relief, she then began to read from the beginning.
Dear Miss Leslie,
Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I wanted to inform you of my son's feelings for you. As you may know, he's been severely wounded [Isabella's heart caught for a moment before the next phrase came into focus] but is now recovering at our home on the Isle of Wight. He feels you may harbor ill will toward him, and I'm very much hoping you don't. He's a good boy who's suffered a great sadness in his past. If you didn't know of this suffering, I was hoping that knowledge might excuse some of his conduct. He tells me his behavior has been less than chivalrous. Do come and see us. I'd very much like to meet the woman Dermott loves.
She'd signed her Christian name as though they were already friends.
Isabella gently traced the word love with her fingertip, happiness flooding her senses. He was alive! And blissfully, he loved her!
Every tear she'd shed in the past weeks was suddenly irrelevant, all her misgivings and uncertainties, her anger and resentment, wiped away by a single word. Paradise was hers, the entire world was hers, never had the sun shone so gloriously, nor the air felt so pure. Carefully folding the precious letter and placing it in her reticule, she ran from her suite and raced down the stairs, screaming for Joe.
Waiting with her phaeton in the drive, he accepted her joyful news with good grace, careful to mask his feelings, well aware of where her heart lay. And when Isabella said "I want to leave immediately," he only asked where.
"To the Isle of Wight. We'll have a change of clothes packed for us. I'd like to leave in ten minutes," she added, intent on departing with all haste.
Joe only insisted that Mike accompany them, and within the allotted time they were on the road south, carrying only light baggage. And early the next morning, after a long, grueling night on the road, just as the sun began to rise, they came to the ferry that would take them to the island.
They found Dermott's house closed except for a small staff of retainers, and Isabella's spirits, sustained at soaring levels during their journey south, abruptly plummeted.
"I'm sorry, miss, but his lordship went up to London and the countess be at Alworth," the housekeeper informed her, taking in the dust-covered state of the visitors' clothing. "If you'd care to clean up, miss, you're most welcome, considering the countess called you here."
"I must have misunderstood," Isabella said, flushed with embarrassment, thinking herself the world's biggest fool for hying south on the merest insinuation Dermott might care. "And thank you, but we have rooms on the mainland," she fabricated, not about to leave herself open to further embarrassment. What if Dermott were to return and find her there? Whatever his mother's motives, apparently he hadn't been informed. And if he were in London, no doubt his health was sufficiently restored that he was back in his old haunts. Having renewed hopes after the countess's letter that her love was returned, the pain of rejection was now doubly hurtful. And Isabella suppressed her tears only with supreme effort.
Joe and Mike were politely silent as they returned to the ferry, but they knew she felt as jilted as though she'd been left at the altar.
Dermott had spent the night in Higham at the King's Arms, having arrived in the area too late to make a social call. He'd barely slept, and by four, he'd given up even trying. Rising, he dressed himself, not wishing to wake Charles so early, and descending to the public rooms downstairs, he surprised the scullery maids who were just lighting the kitchen fires. Asking for coffee, he sat down in the kitchen and waited, making them extremely nervous. Although, as it turned out, he made the coffee himself. Neither of the young girls was familiar with more than her menial chores, while he'd made many a pot of coffee while out on campaign.
He was just pouring himself a steaming cup of fresh brew, when the cook came bustling out of her parlor, having quickly dressed when one of the maids came to warn her that a fine lord was making coffee in her kitchen.
"Good morning, sir," she said, sweeping a hand over her disordered hair. "Would you like something more with your coffee?"
"If it's not too much bother." Dermott couldn't possibly call at Tavora House at four-thirty in the morning, so he might as well eat. A bit of fortification for the coming ordeal probably wouldn't be out of order.
"Are you here for the races?" the cook inquired as she set about her cooking.
"Actually, no. I'm visiting."
"You have friends in the neighborhood?"
"Yes."
"Where might that be?" Mrs. Notkins wasn't known as the most knowledgeable gossip in Higham without reason. She stood looking at him in expectation of an answer.
Amused at her catechism, he debated briefly whether his visit required secrecy. And deciding it didn't, he said, "Tavora House."
"Ah. The beautiful Miss Leslie. Such a shame about her poor dear grandfather, but she seems to have company now in her sorrow. A bodyguard," she reported in a confidential whisper. "Some says it's her relatives she fears. You're not one of them, are you?" Mouth pursed, she studied him and then shook her head. "You don't favor them Leslie men at all. Fat, every one of them, and no one can accuse you o' that."
"She's often with her bodyguard?" The hair on the back of his neck had risen like hackles.
"Of course. Why wouldn't she be? He's there to guard her, and that he does, right and tight. It's her money, you know," she added in the same conspiratorial whisper. "Them Leslies want it."
And by the time his breakfast had been prepared, he was completely informed of the activities at Tavora House during Miss Leslie's residence. Mrs. Notkins had a number of relatives on the staff there. Her extended family, native to the area since before the Conquest, she proudly explained, also included several local tradesmen, who added considerably to her knowledge of Miss Leslie's activities in Higham. In fact, her niece, who owned the milliner's shop on High Street, was expecting Miss Leslie later that morning for a bonnet fitting.
"So you might as well wait until she comes into town. That way you won't meet her on the road. Both herself and that there bodyguard of hers drive at a right fine clip-dangerous, some say. Wouldn't want you to have no accident coming around a curve on that narrow road."