“Now, Isabel,” the Duchess intoned from her end of the table, “since we’re only family here, you simply must tell us the story of you and Percy.”
Again, the room’s ears perked up.
“Oh, yes, you simplymust.” Lucy sat with her chin propped on her hands, eyes wide and innocent and anything but.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Isabel floundered. “It’s, um, it’s quite a lively tale.”
Percy should cut in and help her concoct a story, one the people sitting at this table would believe—he really should—but he decided to wait. He wanted to see what stuff this woman was made of.
Lips trembly with a nervous smile, she delicately cleared her throat. She’d opened her mouth to begin the tale of their precipitous journey to true love and, instead, inhaled a shocked gasp, all the color draining from her face. Her mouth snapped shut, and her gaze fixed on a point in the distance.
Alarmed, Percy located the object of her distress. Every muscle in his body coiled with tension, and a thin sheen of cold sweat broke across his skin. There, strolling through the doorway and making their way toward the buffet, were Lord Bertrand Montfort and his wife, Lady Bertrand, the pair known affectionately by most as jolly Uncle Bertie, a man whose very presence took up all the space in a room, not due to the considerable height and girth of his body, but by dint of his forcible personality, and flighty Aunt Dot, with her signature puff of frizzy white hair vibrating about her head.
Percy’s heart thundered in his chest, and raw anger churned in his gut, each reaction beyond his control. Years ago, he’d vowed never to share a room with Bertrand Montfort again, for he couldn’t trust himself to hold his rage at bay and not do the man bodily harm.
Yet Percy understood how the man had come to be here, for Society connections and familial relations ran deep and wide in thehaut ton. Not only was Montfort the uncle of Olivia, therefore great-uncle of Lucy, his wife, Lady Bertrand, was the bosom friend of the Duchess.
How well-regarded was Montfort as he spoke his good-morning’s to the table—Percy’s father’s table, the table of a good man. It sickened Percy to his bones. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the resolve to expose this man for the fraud he was and see him disgraced, redoubled.
Some knew of Montfort’s diplomatic connections, others of his Whitehall network. But few knew him for the spider he was. It was only after one became ensnared in his web that one understood, and by then it was too late.
At Percy’s side, Isabel had the look of a woman whose house had been shaken to its foundations as she tracked Montfort with her eyes. He settled into the seat directly opposite her. “Now, what is this I hear about a new addition to the family?”
The question emerged all hale and hearty, jolly old England. No one could out-charm Montfort when he set his mind to it, which was, of course, half the reason he’d been such an effective operator for Whitehall over the years. The other half being his utter, dogged ruthlessness.
“You must meet my new step-mama, Aunt Dot,” Lucy said.
“Oh, dear,” Aunt Dot gasped, reaching for her silk fan. Known for her delicate constitution, the woman kept it on her person at all times.
“Oh, dear, indeed,” Lucy continued. “She was just about to regale us with the tale of how she and Lord Percival met, fell madly in love, and married in the same instant.”
“Oh, dearest dear,” Aunt Dot breathed. Her fan flapped open as Isabel’s fork clattered to her plate.
Percy well understood the cause of Isabel’s distress. She’d mucked up Montfort’s plans for the Earl of Pembroke last night. Percy knew from experience that Montfort didn’t suffer mistakes lightly. Isabel was in trouble. But was she in imminent danger?
A territorial instinct flared inside Percy. Isabel was under his protection. If Montfort thought to cause harm to Isabel here, he would have to go through Percy first.
Isabel’s chair gave a sudden scrape as she pushed away from the table. She shot to a stand and seemed to waver, as if her knees were composed of jelly. “It was lovely to make the acquaintance of my, um, husband’s family, but my megrim has returned, and I must lie down.”
“Of course, my dear,” said the Duke, his keen eye surely taking in the events of the last few minutes and drawing his own conclusions. Father missed nothing.
The Duchess’s eyebrows drew together in consternation. “Cook’s remedy always does the trick. Fear not, I shall blend a fresh batch myself, and add an extra clove of garlic.” With that, she made her imperious way out of the room.
Percy wasn’t sure if he felt more sympathy for Isabel, who might have to consume yet another round of the concoction, or for Cook, who was yet blissfully unaware of the storm heading her way.
For her part, Isabel had cleared half the room, evidently set on fleeing it altogether. Percy rose to follow. She wasn’t getting away that easily. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ll see to my—” The next word caught in his mouth.Wife.
“Actually, Percy.” The Duke came to his feet. “If Isabel can spare you, would you mind making a short detour with me to the stables?” It wasn’t a question. “A certain old girl could do with a moment of your time.”
“Not Lady Daisy?” Percy asked. The mare had to be . . . four and twenty. Could that possibly be true? “It would be my pleasure, Father.” A safe pleasure that could be permitted.
As he and the Duke walked to the stable, Percy’s mind couldn’t help but wander. All morning, he’d been chafing at the fact that Hortense was in London, investigating and doing all the intricate, most times dirty, work that he found so invigorating. Then, in the wink of an eye, fortune had smiled upon him, and the dirty work had seated himself directly across the table.
London, it seemed, had found Percy.
Chapter 8
Isabel wouldn’t run.
