If she wasn’t . . .
Where could she have gone? There was nowhere Emily could think of.
One thing at a time.
Before she came to any conclusions, she searched through the trunk that contained Isabella’s dresses. Almost all were gone, along with her chemises and stockings and shoes. Her brush, too, was missing, as well as what few cosmetic items Isabella possessed. Their mother’s pearl necklace—one of the few things they hadn’t sold—also gone.
So Isabella had packed before she left. And presumably, she didn’t intend to come back.
Emily pressed her fingers against her forehead. “Bella, you fool,” she muttered. “Where have you gone?”
“Emily!” Oliver’s voice, urgent, from the base of the stairs. “She left you a note.”
A note. Her knees went weak with relief. “Oh thank heavens,” she said, hurrying so fast that her candle flame flickered.
Oliver waited at the base of the stairs, a sheet of paper in one hand, the candle illuminating the bleak expression on his face with the other. “I’m sorry, Emily,” was all he said as he handed her the note.
By the looks of Isabella’s handwriting, the note had been scribbled in a rush, and there was a blot of ink at the bottom of the page.
Emily,the note ran.By the time you receive this, you are no doubt married to the gentleman I had intended to catch for myself. Do not think me ignorant of your scheming. No matter; I have found a greater prize, and one you failed to win. Are you not proud of me? You ought to be, considering the lengths you went to in order to steal Mr Beaumont.
When we next meet, you will have to curtsy and refer to me as ‘my lady’ for I will outrank you.
Isabella
“My lady,” Emily whispered, brushing the page as though she could summon her sister from it. “Oliver . . . Does she mean what I think she does?”
Oliver stared at the note, his mouth in a hard line, the candlelight gleaming in his eyes. “It’s possible another lord travelled to the area.”
“Possible, but likely? This week? Lord Marlbury is the only lord I have ever met in all my years living here. Which means—it has to mean—”
“She has run off with Lord Marlbury,” he said grimly.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Marlbury.
Of course it damn well was. Oliver had been the one to draw Marlbury’s attention to Isabella; after seducing Emily, Marlbury probably thought it would be amusing to seduce Isabella, too. Both sisters. A set.
He pinched his nose, trying to think through this mess.
“But how,” Emily said blankly. “Isabella didn’t evenknowMarlbury. I did everything I could to keep them separate.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Oliver said. “I told him about my intentions towards Isabella—as they had been at the time.”
“So what, he sought her out?”
“If he discovered I left with you, it’s a possibility.”
“For what reason?”
“Boredom? Spite? His father sent him to rusticate in the country because of his debts and bad behaviour in London. He’d become an embarrassment to his father—no doubt he was entertained by the prospect of causing havoc here, too.”
Emily merely stared at him. He should be thankful he wasn’t blaming him for this, but he wished she would. Marlbury was his friend, and he felt responsible. If he had never come to this part of the country, none of this would have happened.
“I expect they’ll be at Bidlington Hall, if that’s the case,” Oliver said. “We can go there now and bring her back.” And he would have the pleasure of confronting Marlbury, preferably with his fists. His sister, Annabelle, had married a lord with many a boxing ring under his belt, and Oliver had picked up a thing or two. He had never been especially physically minded, but he would enjoy this.
“If they are at Bidlington Hall,” Emily said, inhaling deeply as though to find her equilibrium, “then all the servants will know.”
