Of a surety, she had dealt with jealous and vengeful female rivals in the past. Her first year at Broadhurst College had been particularly fraught. As the only member of the British aristocracy at the school, Isolde found herself ostracized, teased, and bullied at times for her differences. For example, she spent her entire freshman year being calledGinger Biscuitbecause fellow students found the quirkiness of her vocabulary amusing, particularly when it came to gingersnaps. One particularly unpleasant student had even crushed a handful of thecookies, as Americans called them, atop her sheets.
The problem now, of course, was that the enemy lived under Isolde’s own roof and was considered a member of the family.
Regardless, Isolde took countermeasures.
She ensured that all her staff knew to monitor Lady Lavinia’s whereabouts and actions every time the woman left her room. Furthermore, all occupied bed chambers were locked, and the keys were kept in the bedroom owners’ pockets and Mrs. Wilson’s châtelaine.
Most helpfully, Isolde had an important ally in her sister-in-law. Isolde wouldn’t enlist Tristan’s help, but his twin was another matter.
From her bedroom two stories up, Allie had witnessed Lady Lavinia deliberately dropPersuasioninto a puddle on the terrace flagstones and had raced to tell Isolde about it.
“Lady Lavinia is horrid,” Allie declared, looping her arm through Isolde’s. “She will rue the day she declared war on us.Rue!I declare. She hasn’t the slightest understanding of her enemy. We Gilberts do not take a brazen attack lightly.”
Isolde had hugged Allie, grateful to have a capable comrade-in-arms beside her in battle.
Allie had spent years as a revolutionary in Italy—performing clandestine operations, robbing wealthy nobles, and gathering intelligence through underhanded means. To say Tristan’s twin was cunning would be a gross understatement. She was a mistress of chaos—harboring nerves of steel, a penchant for mayhem, and a rather loose relationship with legality.
Consequently, not one but three frogs found their way into the pockets of Lady Lavinia’s favorite gowns. One made an appearance while Lady Lavinia was riding to visit her modiste. The coachman reported that her screeches could be heard for blocks, and a wee crowd gathered in alarm only to break into laughter when a warty toad leaped from Lady Lavinia’s pocket in a desperate bid for freedom.
Somehow, Allie ensured a tiny amount of tartar emetic was deposited in Lady Lavinia’s wine glass during a dinner with Lord and Lady Lockheade and Lord and Lady Hadley. In the middle of the dessert course, Lady Lavinia lurched from her seat and raced from the room, only for the entire party to hear the terrible sound of retching echoing beyond the dining room.
One day, as Cousin Aubrey and Lady Lavinia strolled the shops along Oxford Circus, a street performer followed them around for nearly an hour, making flatulent noises and gagging sounds, much to the delight of onlookers.
But Lady Lavinia proved a formidable opponent.
Slanderous rumors began to spread through theton, enlarging on the scant details of Jarvis and Isolde’s romance and even hinting that Isolde had borne an out-of-wedlock child.All false, of course, but Isolde had to tolerate hissing whispers during visiting hours and the occasional dinner party.
Allie had been so incensed on Isolde’s behalf that Lady Lavinia had found her favorite perfume bottle full of cat urine when next she applied the scent.
Isolde wasn’t sure she could bear more escalation in this wee war. The strain of constantly looking over her shoulder wore on her soul. Her stomach churned, and exhaustion rested heavily on her shoulders. Just the thought of having to attend the same event as Lady Lavinia left Isolde nervous and swallowing back tears.
“Stiff upper lip,” Allie said repeatedly. “Lady Lavinia intends to unpin the very fabric of your existence—to send you scurrying from public life entirely. That is her ultimate goal. She must not see even the slightest muscle twitch in your face.”
Isolde had nodded numbly in agreement, but truthfully, every muscle in her body twitched, not just those in her face.
Tristan continued his hunt for Ledger. His notice in theLondon Timeshad resulted in dozens of messages, sending him chasing across the city most days. But so far, every clue had been fraudulent. His secretary had vanished into thin air.
However, Isolde knew he sympathized with her trials. A taxidermied ferret appeared one morning on the mantel in the breakfast room. Tristan had glanced at it knowingly, a mischievous smile in his eyes, as he pulled a chair out for her to sit. The next afternoon, Isolde discovered the ferret had moved to the library mantel. Each day, she would find the ferret in a different post. The wee private joke between herself and Tristan lifted her spirits and gave her strength to stay the course.
The ball was now only two and a half weeks away, and Isolde was counting down the days. The date glowed in her mind, an enchanted door beyond which lay freedom.
She had finished addressing all the invitations and ensured they had been hand-delivered by trusted footmen. Thankfully, she could say that Lady Lavinia had not interfered with the invitations.
But what about the ball itself? With each passing day and every hour spent in preparations, Isolde fretted. Fredericks and Mrs. Wilson were on high alert, even going so far as to station a footman at the kitchen door to ensure that no one meddled in the preparation of foodstuffs.
At least Isolde’s performance on the ballroom floor would be better than she had anticipated, thanks to Tristan’s tutelage.
“We shall practice every morning after breakfast,” he had declared two days after the wood-chopping incident as they spent a welcome few minutes together in his private study.
“So often?” Isolde frowned. “Do you truly consider my dancing skills to be so lacking?”
“I cannot say, as you and I have never danced.” He leaned in on a chuckle. “But I am shameless in seizing any excuse to spend more time in your company.”
Isolde had smiled and kissed him thoroughly as a reward.
Fortunately, Tristan hadn’t lied about his dancing prowess. As requested, they began practicing in the ballroom, Mrs. Wilson accompanying them on the pianoforte.
Dancing was significantly easier under Tristan’s instruction. Isolde was starting to think that perhaps she hadn’t been properly motivated in the past. Suffering through lessons with Mac or James was a far cry from twirling in her husband’s strong arms. Granted, she still had to concentrate intently, counting the beat as sure as an orchestra conductor, but her feet and brain were slowly learning to cooperate with each other.
