“Alternatively, you can persuade Sydney to back away.”
“I have already jilted him, and he seems undeterred. He told my father just before dinner that he regards himself as bound, and he will marry whichever of us arrives at church on Friday.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! That man is hopeless! Well, then, only one course remains open to you. You must do what I always do in times of difficulty — run away.”
“What?How can I possibly do that?”
Izzy stood up, too irritated to sit still any longer. “Then I wash my hands of you, Ruth Plowman. You will marry Sydneyon Friday to spare your sister, and you will all three of you spend the rest of your lives wondering if you made the right choice, and believe me, that is like living constantly under clouds, knowing that in a different life you might have walked in perpetual sunshine. I do not wish that for anyone.”
“No,” Ruth said slowly. “I don’t mean that I don’t want to run away. I mean how can I? How can it be done?”
“Ah,” Izzy said, smiling. “In that case, you may leave everything to me.”
***
Ian gazed at Harringdon Hall, so starkly modern, with its stately tree-lined drive and fashionable landscaped parkland, complete with an extensive lake. The two wings to either side of the house gave it an imposing frontage, and extra accommodation. Perhaps Izzy would like something of the sort at Stonywell? If he could ever get her back there, of course.
The brightly-painted carriage with the coat of arms on the door attracted immediate attention. A footman rushed out first, then a second, and finally the butler.
“Rumble, is it not? I remember you from Bruton Street. How are you keeping? And Mrs Rumble?”
“Very well, my lord. Both of us very fortunate as to health. Most gracious of you to enquire. Ah, such happy days in town! I well remember you and the young master going off to balls and such like. The family has not made the journey south for some years now. Are you staying with us, my lord?” he added, eyeing the boxes on the back of the carriage.
“I cannot say at present. Is Mr Sydney Davenport at home? Or if not, perhaps Mr or Mrs Davenport would see me.”
“I shall enquire, my lord. Please step into the hall out of this wind.”
The hall was the usual affair, with modern tiling and some statuary that Ian thought inferior to that at Stonywell. There were a couple of good paintings in niches, however. He was examining one of them closely when he heard steps behind him.
“Do you like it?”
He turned to see Sydney Davenport’s smiling face. “I do, yes. Someone has excellent taste.”
“My father. Heavens, Farramont, it is good to see you!” He caught sight of the carriage through the window. “That is a very… er, smart carriage. Not your usual restrained style at all.”
“It is Izzy’s, which she abandoned in Durham. I thought she might like to have it back whenever she tires of hired post chaises.”
“You have just missed her. She left on Wednesday.”
Ah. So that was one question answered, and Ian could not decide whether it was good news or bad. If she had left, then she had not reached an understanding with Davenport, but that could only mean she had set her hopes on Osborn. He had always been the greatest threat.
Davenport went on, “She has gone to Lochmaben. Her mother is there, so it will be quite a family reunion.”
“Lady Rennington is there? That is excellent news. Perhaps she and the duchess between them can exercise a calming influence on Izzy. But she was travelling with Mrs Hearle and a Mr O Bayton. Did they go with her?”
“Izzy arrived with Sophie Hearle, it is true, but she is still here.” Davenport frowned. “I think you must be mistaken about Bayton. Sophie’s brother is recovering from illness somewhere.”
Ah, Sophie Hearle’sbrother. That was why the name was so familiar — she was Miss Bayton before her marriage. He had a vague memory of a colourless girl trailing in Izzy’s wake five years ago, but then they were all colourless beside Izzy.
“That was the name in the inn register.”
“There was a manservant with them, a rough-looking fellow by the name of Barty. Perhaps you misread the name. He accompanied them to Lochmaben and returned on Thursday. No, Izzy went off with Miss Plowman and Miss Marion Plowman.”
Ian gazed at him, stunned. “Who?”
Davenport laughed. “Come into my book room and I shall tell you all about it. You find us as agitated as a stirred anthill, and all because of your wife. Are you staying? You will not go on to Lochmaben tonight, surely?”
He could perhaps reach there before dinner, but he would need a change of horses. “How far is it? And where is the next posting inn on the road north?”
