Mmmm. If her entire family removed to California, Isolde mused, would the scandal with Jarvis haunt them there?
Though, even then, she would still have to live with the guilt and consequences of her heedless actions.
Her father was to have accompanied her this afternoon. An avidnaturalist himself, Hadley loved nothing more than talking botany with the likes of Sir William. But the clamor in Parliament and the crisis with Alderton kept Lord Hadley firmly chained to his desk.
The two-hour ride to Kew after luncheon—her maid, Fiona, asleep opposite her, the carriage jolting side to side—had given Isolde some much-needed time to think.
She had to arrive at a plan, anything to stem the current cataclysmic slide of her family’s fortunes. Or rather shehadformulated a plan, but trapping Kendall in an iron cage until he relented did present some logistical challenges.
Now, seated at the lecture, Fiona shifted restlessly at Isolde’s side—the poor girl likely counting down the minutes until she could renew her flirtation with Michael, the groom who waited with their carriage near the Old Palace. Had the maid’s presence not been needed to maintain propriety, Isolde would have sent Fiona back to the coach to wait.
As if echoing the girl’s restlessness, a hiss of whispered words flew between a group of society matrons and their young charges seated behind Isolde. She knew them all by sight, Lady Callagher in particular—the sort of gossiping ladies who necessitated Isolde keep a maid clamped to her side. Why were they here? A botanic lecture was hardly riveting entertainment.
Though, as Isolde scanned the room, she noted an unexpectedly-high number of young women in attendance.
The whispering behind her increased. Isolde couldn’t tell what had them so excited—of a surety it was not Sir William’s cedarwoods—but she was rather certain she heard one of them mutter Hadley’s name.
Botheration.
Fiona looked at her, askance.
Isolde gave a subtle shake of her head.
A slight glance to the right—four rows ahead and to the far end—enlightened her. The tall gray head and stern profile were unmistakable.
Kendall.
Of course, he would be here, listening to Sir William with rapt attention. Of course, a bevy of eager claimants for the title of Duchess of Kendall had trailed after him. And, of course, they would be gossiping about the vendetta between Kendall and Hadley.
As usual, the duke was pomaded and starched into a near parody of aristocratic nobility—stiff shirt collar and dark cravat under a black frock coat. Did his hair ever lay out of place?
The image of Kendall sprawled across the guest bedroom of Muirford House—hair mussed and tumbling across his brow, shirt unbuttoned and chest exposed—arrowed through her mind.
Isolde closed her eyes against the intrusion. Which helped not at all, as now she saw the scene in even clearer detail on the back of her eyelids.
Enough.
Yes, Kendall was empirically an attractive man. Any number of scientific tests could attest to that simple fact. But handsomeness alone—without kindness, honor, or good humor—was nothing more than an empty shell. Or in Kendall’s case, a shell filled with arrogance, conceit, and selfish ambition.
Isolde looked away from the duke and clasped her hands firmly in her lap.
She hadn’t a clue how to force the man to capitulate, though her imagination continued to supply creative ideas.
Could she push His Grace off an obliging bridge in the gardens? Was there a damaged tree she could fell atop him? Perhaps she could coax the stiff breeze outside into assisting her.
Unfortunately, Isolde knew she could not make a scene. Not here. Not with so many gossiping mouths in attendance.
Sir William finished his lecture to polite applause, Kendall included. The duke stood, frock coat flowing into neatly pressed lines to the back of his knees, and approached Sir William, obviously asking follow-up questions. Or, more likely, pointing out the flaws in Sir William’s lecture and how the mighty Duke of Kendall would see them corrected.
“Come.” Isolde motioned to Fiona before the other ladies could hail her or make deliberately barbed comments within her hearing.
Besides, Isolde wished to see the California cedarwoods before returning home.
She and Fiona exited the Palm House, bracing themselves against the wind. Though not precisely cold—it was summer after all—the breeze battered their skirts and bonnets. They turned left, following the pathtoward the old palace and the potted Great Sequoias. After a stretch of walking, they paused for Isolde to admire a largeginko bilobaotree and to permit Lady Callagheret al.to pass along the path.
Fortunately, Fiona found a stray cat to occupy herself as Isolde circled the trunk—hand holding her bonnet to her head—studying the unique bark and semi-circular leaves fanning along each branch, while also effectively hiding herself from prying eyes.
Once Isolde was sure the pack of title-hungry admirers had moved on, she motioned for Fiona to leave the cat be and continue with her toward the Old Palace.
