“Izzy will certainly never be boring,” Henry had said. “You deserve better, Ian.”
Ian violently disagreed, and since he had not yet come to regret his decision, the two cousins skirted around the issue by never mentioning it.
For his part, Henry had taken a different route, marrying early to a clergyman’s daughter. They and their growing family had initially lived in Stonywell, but moved out when Izzy arrived, and now lived contentedly in a cottage in the village, although they dined at Stonywell more often than not.
The two men worked diligently for an hour or so, then Henry went off about his own affairs, while Ian settled down with an inner glow of pleasure to the accounts. There was something extraordinarily satisfying about columns of numbers, some added and some subtracted, the totals in perfect alignment. And at the bottom of every page, the line that read‘To Savings’.Sometimes it was only a shilling or two, sometimes several pounds, but every week there was something left over to increase his wealth and stave off the terrifying possibility of debt and bankruptcy and the loss of everything.
As he worked, he was aware of the signs of Izzy’s imminent departure. In the hall, mysterious thumps and the mutterings ofthe footmen suggested that luggage was being assembled. Then Izzy’s carriage, an elegant affair in bright blue paint with yellow wheels, was brought round. That carriage always made him smile, with its jaunty colours and the blue velvet interior. A great extravagance, but Izzy loved it and it was so much in tune with her character that he loved it too.
Izzy was late, needless to say, so the luggage was loaded up and still the carriage waited. But then something else caught Ian’s eye as he glanced through the window — a rider, coming fast up the drive, although the horse looked close to exhaustion. The rider wore the livery of the Earl of Rennington, and Ian knew that the wondering was over, and the news from Corland was not good.
He went out himself to greet the rider on the drive as he slithered to the ground in ungainly fashion, stumbling and almost falling.
“Urgent message for Lord Farramont!” he called out, as Eastwood and two footmen rushed out.
Ian was there before them. “I am Farramont.”
Holding his hand out, he waited as the man prised off his gloves and reached into a deep pocket for the letter. It bore Lord Rennington’s wayward writing and his seal. Tearing it open, Ian scanned it quickly. It was as he thought.
Folding it neatly and tucking it into a pocket, he said, “You did well to get here so quickly. Thank you. John, show this fellow the way to the stables and see that he gets a decent meal inside him. He will need somewhere to sleep for a day or two.” He turned back to the house, his long legs taking the steps two at a time, then striding into the hall, as the butler struggled to keep up with him. “Eastwood, I need to talk to Lady Farramont. On no account is she to leave this house before I have seen her, is that understood? You have my permission to hold her forcibly if she tries. Tell Wycliffe to pack for me. A trip to London fora few days, personal business, so I shall need nothing formal. Ah, there you are, Henry. Library, if you please. Remember, Eastwood — bring Lady Farramont into the library as soon as she comes downstairs.”
“The letter has come then?” Henry said, closing the library door on the servants scurrying about the hall.
“Yes, and it is just as Rennington feared. I shall go straight up to town with Izzy — Ah, I hear her. Quick, man, move the porcelain.”
In the hall, Izzy was tapping her foot impatiently as her maid, Brandon, drew gloves over her slender, white fingers. Ian loved those delicate fingers, always in motion, always busy about something.
“Lady Farramont, I should like a word with you in the library, if you would be so good.”
“Not now. I am in the most almighty rush to get off. Comeon,Brandon! Do get a move on!”
“This cannot wait. There is news from Corland.”
“Grandmama?” she said, suddenly alert.
“No, everyone is well. It is a different matter entirely.”
“Then tell me here and now, while Brandon is dilly-dallying.”
“The library,” he said, in his most uncompromising tones.
Her eyes flashed angrily. “Really, Farramont! I truly cannot spare a moment. I shall be late for dinner as it is.”
“I am quite prepared to pick you up and carry you,” he said calmly.
The servants stood statue-like, pretending to ignore the argument. Ian gave them no thought. They were surely used to Izzy’s ways by now. He held the library door open just as Henry scuttled out. With an exasperated sigh, Izzy finally accepted the inevitable and strode through the door, swirling round to face Ian as he followed her into the room and quietly closed the door.
“This had better be good, Ian. If I have to spend a night on the road because of you—”
“It is not good. It is very bad, and when you have heard all, you may not wish to go to Somerton at all. Will you not sit down, Izzy?”
“Just tell me whatever it is and get it over with, for heaven’s sake.”
She paced up and down, and Ian automatically checked the room. The valuable porcelain was all on an unreachable shelf, the ink pots hidden away in the desk, important papers hastily tidied away. There were still books scattered everywhere, and the globes, not properly repaired since the last time, were vulnerable, but it would have to do.
“Your father writes with news of Nicholson.”
“Has his murderer been caught?”
