As he cantered down the drive he was aware there was something odd about Newcomb but he couldn’t quite place it. He reined back and studied the huge edifice with interest. The main building was, as expected, shuttered and dark. But there was quite definitely smoke spiralling into the sky and it could only emanate from the east wing. Had the remaining staff moved in there for some reason?
He kicked Rufus and despite the length of the journey the stallion responded and he arrived outside the stable yard sending gravel in all directions. He vaulted from the saddle and pulled the reins over his mount’s ears in order to lead him through the archway.
To his astonishment several equine heads turned to view his arrival. The stables should be empty. Someone had taken up residence here in his absence.
Isobel was sitting contentedly in front of a roaring fire completing a small garment. She was not a skilled needle woman but was determined to make something for the baby. This was the least she could do if she managed to adhere to her plan to abandon the child soon after birth.
She looked up as door burst open and Ellen, the senior parlourmaid, came in. They stood on no ceremony here; this was a happy establishment. “Good heavens, Ellen, why are you in such a fuss?”
“He’s come. He’s just ridden into the stable yard. What shall we do, your grace?”
Isobel was on her feet, her sewing slipping unnoticed to the carpet. “Who’s come? Are you telling me the Duke of Rochester is here?”
The girl nodded her complexion pale. “He is, my lady, what shall we do? There’s nothing ready for him and Newcomb is abandoned and we all work for you here.”
Isobel was confident she could face Alexander with equanimity and not be bullied or browbeaten into making a permanent return. But her hands were damp and her stomach churned at the thought of seeing him again. He was terrifying when he was angry.
“You must tell Mrs Watkins to prepare a guest chamber for the duke. No doubt his man will be travelling separately and when he arrives can fetch whatever his grace requires from next door. Don’t look so worried, no one will suffer because of this.” She prayed she was speaking the truth. He was stronger than her; if he wished to abuse her there would be little she could do to stop him. The idea that she could use Sam and Bill to protect her was nonsensical—Alexander would see them on the gallows if they raised a hand to him.
She must make sure he did not vent his spleen on the staff that had deserted their posts in order to join her employ. His appearance was not really unexpected. He was bound to have noticed the discrepancies in his account eventually and come to investigate for himself. It was Mr Reynolds who would require protecting from Alexander’s wrath for the agent had withdrawn the money for the repairs and refurbishment.
She glanced around her cosy parlour. She would not receive him here—this was her domain as the study had been his. She would greet him in the grand salon. The fires were lit throughout the ancient edifice so it would be perfectly comfortable in there.
Mary met her in the corridor, her face anxious. “My lady, Ellen says we are to let him in. Are you sure this is wise?”
“I’ve no option, Mary. I’ve my people around me and he is by himself. He owns Newcomb so we can hardly leave him standing outside in the cold.”
“I shall prepare the blue room and Cook has instructions to make a more substantial dinner. Unfortunately it will be delayed an hour, but his grace never liked to eat early so I expect there will be no complaint on that score.”
“It is no matter to me, Mary, when I eat. It is my authority that matters; here I make the decisions and you answer to me. Please make sure all the staff are well aware of that.”
Her words were mere bravado. Alexander could do as he wished and there was nothing at all she could do about it. She checked in the over-mantel mirror that her cap was not askew, her velvet gown hung straight and that the bulge of her pregnancy would not be immediately apparent. The high-waisted gown dropped in tiny plates from under her bosom, the rich russet colour matching what little of her hair that could be seen. The emerald green sash and matching slippers completed her ensemble perfectly.
Her shorn locks were so much easier to manage than long hair. She’d never let it grow again. Now it curled into her neck, framing her face and emphasising her eyes. The baby fluttered and she placed a protective hand on her stomach. Five months had passed since that dreadful night; she had moved on. She no longer hated Alexander but she neither loved nor respected him.
He strode in without knocking. If she had not been braced against the back of a chair she would have swooned. She scarcely recognized this smiling man as the husband who had mistreated her. The love she saw in his eyes was genuine. Why did he finally love her when it was too late? However much he changed she could never trust him, would always fear he could lose his temper and turn on her as he had before.
“Isobel, I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you and looking so radiant. Though I am bewildered to find you living in the east wing. Why did you not send to me? I would have returned the staff to Newcomb.”
Even his voice was different, the edge had gone, his tone was soft and charming and there was no hint of the chilly aristocrat she had once known. He had changed in his appearance also, and somehow managed to look years younger than before. What could have happened to bring about this transformation?
“I had no need to bother you, sir. As you can see I am happily established here. I’ve no intention of returning to live as your wife next door.” She stared at him, daring him to disagree. His eyes flashed but he held his tongue. Emboldened by his restraint she continued. “My lord, you also look remarkably well. I believe you have lost weight and it suits you I must say. Would you care to be seated? Coffee is being fetched for you.”
She pointed to a chair on the other side of the hearth. Then not waiting to see if he complied she carefully arranged herself in an upright chair, making sure the folds of her gown concealed her pregnancy. She was certain her nervousness had not been apparent even to someone as sharp eyed as he was.
He moved to the chair she indicated allowing her time to compose herself. There was no doubt he was a different man. Her eyes filled as she thought of how things could have been—but he was five months too late. He had killed her love and nothing could rekindle it.
“What brings you down here at the start the season, Alexander? I did not expect to see you until May.”
He smiled lazily. “You know very well why I’m here, my dear. As soon as I saw you I realised that you must be behind the withdrawals from my account. Tell me, Isobel, how did you persuade a man of such probity as Mr Reynolds to steal from me?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Mr Reynolds has not been stealing from you. He has been doing what you should have done. On my instructions he has repaired all the cottages, farms and outbuildings that you have neglected these past years.”
Alexander swallowed a brief surge of anger. Isobel was quite right to castigate him. He stared at her and his spirits sunk to his boots. She had become someone else entirely, there was a rigidity about her person, a darkness in her eyes that had not been there before.
His brief flash of ill-humour vanished to be replaced by the all too familiar shame. His self-indulgence these past years had not only caused his darling wife to suffer but his unfortunate tenants also. His neck-cloth became unaccountably tight and he ran a finger around it. He cleared his throat for the first time in his life unsure of what to say. Perhaps now was the time to apologise—clear the air between them.