Whether it was the coffee or the information dispensed, by the time he'd finished breakfast, Dermott found himself thoroughly discomposed and agitated. Leaving the King's Arms, he followed Mrs. Notkins's directions and walked down High Street to Miss Armistead's millinery shop. Staring into the window at the bonnets covered with muslin for the night, he wondered what Isabella was doing just then.
Was she just waking up beside Joe? Was it possible? Had he come so far both in terms of understanding and distance, only to find that Isabella had forgotten him and moved on to another man? Had he waited too long to recognize his heart? He turned from the shrouded display, from the shop, and walked away, plagued by jealousy and doubts.
Lost in his disconcerting thoughts, he walked the town with unseeing eyes, trying to reconcile the events described to him by the cook at the King's Arms with his own hopes and dreams. Wandering from street to street, he reflected on the possibilities open to him, on the course he should pursue in the wake of the new information he'd received.
Not least was concern for his mother. How would she deal with his return should he be unsuccessful in his suit? Would such a setback to her wishes harm the new equilibrium of her life?
He was personally capable of managing emotional pain. Hadn't he perfected the art in recent years? But he couldn't but be aware of the irony of his present situation, after having refused so many females. Perhaps Isabella would take pleasure in rejecting him. Would she even talk to him? he wondered. Or was she so involved with Joe Thurlow, she couldn't be bothered seeing him?
In time he became aware of the bustle of businesses opening their doors and shutters and setting up for another day of commerce. Checking his watch, he retraced his steps to the millinery shop on High Street, took up a vantage post across the street, and waited.
By ten, when she'd not arrived, he questioned the proprietress and was assured Isabella was expected.
By eleven, Miss Armistead thought perhaps Miss Leslie had had a change in plans.
By twelve, Dermott agreed and drove out to Tavora House to find her.
Miss Leslie had left that morning with Joe and Mike, he was told. But Henderson would reveal little else to the man who called himself Lord Bathurst. Whether it was because the entire household knew of the lordship's ill treatment of Isabella or whether Henderson questioned Dermott's identity after Joe's orders to treat all strangers with suspicion, no further information was forthcoming from Tavora House.
Frustrated, Dermott returned to Higham and offered Mrs. Notkins a substantial sum to discover Isabella's whereabouts. At first the cook feigned offense, but she could no more resist the lure of so much money than she could resist the delicious gossip she might uncover. The high-and-mighty London nobleman was used to getting his way. And Miss Leslie wasn't known for her submissiveness. There was the possibility of high drama in the offing.
But her inquiries revealed only that Isabella had traveled south. Even the staff at Tavora House knew little else. "They left in a great hurry, you see," she explained to Dermott later that afternoon. "Miss Leslie and her bodyguards took only a change of clothes. Right strange, isn't it," she murmured, watching the lordship's face. And after Dermott's departure, when she was relating her story to her friends, she said, "And he didn't look a speck happy with the fact Miss Leslie left with both them men. His nostrils flared considerably, they did, and the tick over his right fine cheekbones were a sight to see. But he paid me like a true gentleman regardless my news weren't to his liking. Mark my words, when he finds Miss Leslie, none o' us want to be in her shoes. Not for all the tea in China," she added dramatically.
There was no point in fruitlessly searching England for Isabella, Dermott decided, testy and bad tempered at the thought of Isabella with Joe. Particularly after all Mrs. Notkins's gossip. What was the point?
He was too late. She'd found someone new. And considering her ready passions, he couldn't honestly say he was surprised. Isabella was hardly the kind of woman to go through life celibate.
Perhaps she'd gone to London. The simple luggage they'd taken suggested a short journey. He could find her there if he wished. But after hearing all he'd heard in Higham, he wasn't inclined to proclaim his love to a woman who'd already transferred her affections to someone else, a man she'd been with for weeks. A man he well knew could satisfy her needs.
He stood outside the King's Arms, immune to the bustle of the village, to the passersby who looked at him with the curiosity his fine London tailoring and fashionable air attracted. He felt deflated, irritable, out of temper. The sun was already low in the sky, but despite the late hour, he wasn't about to spend another night in Higham. And in his current mood he didn't relish returning to London, the thought of any sort of company distasteful. Only the Isle of Wight offered him the seclusion he sought-his remote home distant from any memories of faithless women.
Although his mother must be told-which necessitated a detour to Alworth. He fervently hoped his explanation wouldn't compromise her renewed pleasure in life.
Dermott rode through the night, hardly taking notice of the rain when it began, oblivious of the physical world, completely absorbed in his discontent. With each unwanted reflection of Isabella and her new beau, his moodiness increased, a chafing resentment overlooking the critical part he played in their ruined relationship.
His Thoroughbred set his own pace, as though understanding his master's travail, and only at first light did the black turn his head and whinny-reminding Dermott of the need for rest. When they reached St. Albans shortly after, Dermott made his way to the White Hart, where an ostler led his Thoroughbred away to be dried and fed. After dismounting, Dermott suddenly realized he was soaked through, hungry, and so exhausted, he felt as though he could fall asleep on his feet. Perhaps, he decided, he'd do well to rest a few hours before setting out again. Threading his way through the congestion of vehicles and passengers in the courtyard, he made his way to the inn entrance, his sodden clothes cold on his skin.
Just short of the veranda that fronted the inn, he came to an abrupt stop, his gaze on a familiar figure lifting two leather satchels from the boot of a mud-stained phaeton.
Brushing his hand over his eyes, his first thought was that he must be mistaken. It couldn't be Joe Thurlow. He was tired, fatigue was obscuring his vision. Joe wouldn't be so far south.
But when the man turned from the phaeton with the satchels, Dermott went rigid. His pulse rate spiked as Joe strode toward him, a host of hotspur questions convulsing his brain, an explosive bitterness and jealousy inundating his senses.
A second later the two men came face-to-face in the light mist.
"I don't suppose you're traveling alone?" Dermott growled.
"Are you?" Joe's voice was cold. "You always have a woman close by, if I recall."
"Let's not fucking play games. Is she with you?"
"If she is," Joe curtly said, "I don't see that it's any business of yours."
"What if I make it my business." Challenge rang in every word.
"Haven't you hurt her enough, Bathurst? I recommend you leave her alone"-Joe smiled tightly-"and get out of my way."
"So you can have her for yourself? In Higham, it's said you two are damned friendly. Why don't we discuss that?" Dermott silkily murmured.
"Lonsdale nearly killed you, I hear. You wouldn't go your usual ten rounds from the looks of things. I'd suggest you walk away while you can."
"I'm going to see her, Thurlow, bloodied or not." Even at his peak, Dermott couldn't have lasted more than a few rounds with Joe Thurlow, who had taken on all contenders for eight years. "Either way, makes no difference to me."