“Pardon?”
“Those letters are from Mr. Stephen Jarvis, are they not? Lord Jarvis’s second son?”
Blood drained from Isolde’s face so quickly, she nearly swooned.
“Ye read my letters?” she whispered on a gasp.
“I did.”
“A gentleman would not have read them.”
Kendall ignored her comment. “My valet was surprised to find them in a drawer allocated to me. A reading was required to ensure they were returned to their rightful owner.”
“Allof the letters? How gentlemanly of ye.” She didn’t even attempt to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“Jarvis is a bad egg.”
“Truly? And ye ken that . . . how? Or is your understanding merely a case of like recognizing like?”
NowIsolde knew that Stephen Jarvis was a rake of the first order. But nothing about the man had struck her as devious when first they met.
No. In fact, he had been charming and refreshingly self-deprecating.
Kendall let out a quiet huff. “I attended Oxford with Jarvis and witnessed his behavior firsthand.” He flipped a hand toward the letters and then grimaced as the quick motion likely twinged his stitched shoulder. “’Tis obvious that he misled you as to his marital status and merely sought your company in order to ingratiate himself with your father. Though you really should have known better than to kiss him. A married man, no less.”A true lady would not have done so, his tone clearly added.
Blood returned to Isolde’s head, scalding her cheeks and neck.
How she hated Kendall in this moment.
Almostas much as she hated Stephen Jarvis.
Because His Grace was entirely correct, damn him.
Mr. Stephen Jarvis, an English gentleman who ran in the same social circles as herself, had been a welcome bit of home in Massachusetts. As the only British lady attending Broadhurst College, Isolde had been admitted into the upper echelons of Boston society.
Last summer, she had met Jarvis at an evening soirée. An aristocratic bachelor out to explore the world—or so he claimed—he had been polite and kind. And she had enjoyed discussing familiar places and common acquaintances. He had made her laugh during formal dinners and had been eager to discuss books and ideas. Over weeks and months, their friendship had deepened. They walked together, danced, and eventually, more than once, Mr. Jarvis had kissed her.
Isolde had been smitten. Jarvis appeared to revel in her bluestocking tendencies and celebrated the scientific bent of her mind—two things no high-born gentleman had ever done. It had been a balm to her ego, to think that she might make a match after all. Over the years, marriage had become less and less likely for herself. But Jarvis had reawakened the hope.
He was in the process of forming a company to build a railroad from Penrith to Glasgow and had begged her to entreat Lord Hadley to financially back the project. Lost in her affection for him, Isolde had agreed, and after much nagging on her part, Hadley had invested a nominal sum.
It was at that point, once Jarvis had achieved his true purpose of securing funding for his railroad, that Isolde learned the truth—Mr. Stephen Jarvis was already married to the daughter of a wealthy banker from Bristol. He had left his pregnant bride to languish in a townhouse in Bath while wooing Isolde for her father’s deep pockets.
To say she had been devastated would be an understatement. She had returned home—an ashamed dog, tail wagging between its legs—desperate for the love and support of her family.
Fortunately, no one knew of Isolde’s courtship and stolen kisses with a married man. However, if evidence of her behavior was uncovered, she would be ruined.
To be safe, Isolde had requested her letters back from Jarvis, correspondence which the blackguard had returned only last week. She should have burned the lot on the spot. Instead, she had stashed them here—a bedchamber used only for august visitors—until she had time to properly assess their severity, mourn her own stupidity, and confess the whole sorry tale to her parents.
Unfortunately, as Fate would have it, the letters had now fallen into the hands of the one person she would never wish to be privy to their contents.
To describe the feeling ashumiliatingwas a vast understatement. If Kendall weren’t already lying wounded in bed, Isolde would be tempted to put him there herself.
The situation also underscored the necessity of involving her parents immediately, much as it pained her to admit to her own indiscretions.
Her fingers curled around the packet. “And what will ye do, Your Grace, now that ye have uncovered this information? Ruin me? Sell me out to a gossip rag like the blackguard I consider ye tae be?” Isolde was proud her voice didn’t quiver with the question. Her knees were already trembling enough.
He smiled at that—wide, gleaming, and terrifying. “Now . . . why would I tell you of my plans?”
