Isolde never cried.
And yet, knowing she had caused her father harm. That he might be suffering due to her poor judgment of character. That he could, right now, be exploring ways to save himself from a gaol sentence . . .
This man who had always been her hero and champion.
“Izzy?” Hadley rounded his desk, brows drawn down. “What the devil has happened?”
Without waiting for her reply, he pulled her into his arms.
And then she was crying in earnest, face pressed against his neckcloth, hands wrapping around his waist. His familiar smell—woodsmoke, sandalwood, and whisky—surrounded her. The scent of comfort and home.
“Izzy, ye must tell me what has happened,” he murmured, pressinga kiss to the top of her head. “I can’t recall the last time I saw ye have a goodgreit, and now I be properworrit.”
The rumble of his brogue only made Isolde’s tears fall harder.
“I f-failed ye,” she hiccupped in his chest. “Mac t-told me about Jarvis and the ch-charges against ye.”
Her father stilled, and then a soft laugh vibrated through his body. “Is that all then?”
“Is that all?!” She pulled back, expression surely aghast.
“The way ye weregreiting, I feared ye were hurt or possibly increasing.”
“Increasing? Papa!” Isolde pressed palms to her flaming cheeks. “I might be unconventional, but I’m hardly so senseless to propriety.”
Retrieving a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, Hadley wiped away her tears before handing her the handkerchief for her nose.
“How can ye be soblaséabout this situation with Lords and Jarvis?” she asked.
Hadley shrugged and turned toward a cabinet in the corner.
“Come.” He pointed to the pair of chairs before the fire. “Sit. I’ll pour us some whisky.”
“Ye ken we’ll need whisky for this conversation? How is itnotserious then?”
“Och, the whisky is less for the conversation and more for yourself.” He tilted amber liquor into two tumblers. “Ye could use a wee dram, I think.”
Isolde sat, still swiping at her damp cheeks.
Hadley brought her a tumbler with a finger of whisky.
For the record, Lady Hadley did not approve of her husband serving their daughters strong spirits. Which explained why Lady Hadley rarely learned of the frequency of its occurrence.
Her father settled himself into the leather armchair opposite Isolde with an audibleoofand took a healthy swallow of his own drink.
“Now, this business with Jarvis—”
“Is it as dire as Mac implied?”
“Perhaps. Time will tell,” Hadley hedged. “My adversaries in Lords feel the need tae make their voices heard. Every ten or twenty years, they bring trumped-up claims of some sort against a Scottish peer. It’spractically a rite of passage for us Scots. Lord Melville faced similar accusations years ago.”
Isolde had to wonder at her father’s presumed calm. Was it merely part of his attempt to reassure her? Surely the wrinkles stacked on his forehead hinted at deeper concerns.
“But the charges of fraud against ye . . .”
“False, as ye well know. I have had no part in Jarvis’s profiteering from others’ investments.”
“Yes, but if they bring articles of impeachment. If they force ye tae defend yourself on the floor of the House of Lords. To present evidence that ye didn’t know of Jarvis’s deception—”
