“When?”
“Oh… let me see… a week ago. Yes, exactly a week ago, and I told her precisely what you said, my lord, and gave her the letter but—”
A week ago! He was not gaining on her at all. He sighed. Lord, but he was so tired of chasing her around the country, and never catching up with her. At least he knew where she was going now. Surely he would be bound to gain on her soon?
“She smiled at you, I suppose, and you crumbled,” Ian said, sadly.
“No, my lord, no! I followed your instructions, even though it distressed her ladyship. One does not like to disoblige a lady. But Garthwaite next door—”
“Garthwaite? The jeweller?”
“The very same, my lord. He knew nothing of the circumstances, and so… when she offered him an item of jewellery… He was mortified when he learnt of your wishes, my lord. She left a letter to be handed to you, in the event that you should happen to call in.”
He withdrew a sealed letter from a drawer, and Ian unfolded it.
‘Farramont, You are a clever man, but not quite clever enough. If you call at the premises of Garthwaite and Sons, you may redeem my diamond pendant for me, the one you gave me as a betrothal present, for the sum of five hundred pounds. Isabel Farramont.’
Ian laughed. “You had better give me an extra five hundred.”
***
Izzy found a footman to show her where the Rose Room was. It was still alive with maids bearing clean sheets and towels and soap, other maids hastily packing, and footmen humping boxes about, so she retreated to a quieter part of the house. Finding a winding staircase off the long gallery, she descended to the ground floor again, found the hall, and slipped out of the open front door and down the drive, past an empty carriage awaiting some departing guests. It did not take her long to find the lake with its elegant bridge, but that would be too quick for her. She had anger-fuelled energy to dissipate, so she set out to walk all the way round the lake.
Finally, clean country air away from the dust of the road and the stench of the town, and somewhere to stretch her legs. Thelake was larger than she had supposed, so by the time she had made her way round to the elegant little temple, she was ready to sit and admire the view for a while. The lake was fringed with reeds at this end, almost hiding a small jetty where a rowing boat was tied up.
The thought of it made her smile, remembering a time when Ian had taken her rowing. They had not been married for more than a few weeks, and had been at Stonywell for a fortnight or so. He had brought her breakfast in bed, for she was already troubled by nausea because of Helena, and he had sat on the window seat in her room, munching his way through a mountain of ham and bread and fruit, while she nibbled at a piece of toast.
“It is a glorious day,” he had said. “Should you care to go out on the lake? A restful day will do you good, I am sure. We could take a picnic to the island.”
The lake at Stonywell was not very large, but unlike the Harringdon one, it boasted a small island with a marble pavilion, perfectly designed for languid summer days. So they had taken the boat out, and Ian had removed his coat and rowed her round and round for what seemed like hours, as she lay on cushions and trailed one hand in the water.
He never seemed to tire, his muscles straining under the linen of his shirt. He had always seemed so comfortingly masculine to her, a big man like her father and her oldest brother, Walter. When she had had enough of the boat, he had lifted her onto the island as if she weighed nothing at all. They had spent hours there, eating and drinking a little, talking a lot… Or rather, she had talked a lot, while he had said little. He had always been a man of few words.
Eventually, when the sun was already low in the sky, he had rowed her back to the shore, still not tired. In fact, she was the one who had yawned all evening and gone to bed early. Such a happy day, when neither of them had had anything moreimportant to do than potter about on the water. A time before reality had intruded. Before she had discovered that the babe growing inside her was not the hoped-for son. Before he had remembered his account books needed attention. Before she had grown restless and in need of… something.
What was it she had looked for, that Ian and Stonywell and her daughters could not give her? She could not say, but there was something missing, all the same, some emptiness inside her that would not be filled.
If she had had a son… but she had not.
If she had married someone else… but she had not.
She ached inside for the loss of those halcyon days, when everything seemed to be perfect, her happy future mapped out in front of her like a page from Paterson’s Itinerary, the road unfurling onwards forever. Somehow, the promise of those early months and years had drained away. She loved her daughters but she was not fulfilled by motherhood, as Josie was. Nor by her marriage to Ian… but there was nothing wrong with Ian. He was the steady, reliable husband she had settled for. Yet she yearned for something more.
For love, perhaps?
She had been offered love, once. Not the practical honesty of Ian Farramont. Not the acquisitive desire of Godfrey Marsden. Not the romantic flourishes of Sydney Davenport. No. It was Robert Osborn who had offered her a deep, abiding love, and she had loved him too. Five years ago, he had had nothing but that love and his own charm to recommend him. But now… now he was the Earl of Kiltarlity, and a man of wealth and power. Now he was eligible.
And she was free.
***
Izzy was the last to enter the saloon before dinner, finding it full, as she had expected. The Davenports themselves were enough to fill it, but she was surprised to see the Plowman family still in residence.
It was less of a surprise to find herself on the receiving end of a multitude of disapproving looks. She had, after all, arrived out of nowhere into the middle of a gathering for a family wedding. The son and heir — the only son, in fact — was on the brink of an advantageous match, and she had well and truly sunk it. She had barely begun a circuit of the room looking for the most amusing dinner companion, when Mr Plowman intercepted her, glaring belligerently.
“I reckon you’ve a lot answer for, missy,” he said without preamble, in a strong northern accent. “Everything agreed and signed and sealed, everybody happy, and you have to poke your nose in, and muck everything up.”
“I am notmissyto you, sir. I am Viscountess Farramont.”
