“What of Wexford?” Alistair asked.
“What of him?”
“How does he see you? Your marriage. He is a man with deeper pockets than Glenmore. He could help us. If he does not have reasons not to.”
Isla blinked.
Does Alistair know of our arguments? Of his suspicion?
“What reasons?” she asked.
He hesitated. Then sighed, defeated. “Because his mother sent word to half of London that you had ensnared him.”
Her heart constricted. “She … did what?”
“Said you were seen slipping into the stables like a lightskirt,” Alistair muttered. “Said your fall was staged. Said I encouraged it.”
Isla sat back on her heels, breath thin. “He believed her.”
“I think he would sooner trust a cannon than that woman,” Alistair said grimly, “but doubt planted is doubt grown. Edward is an honorable man, and honorable men fear deception most of all.”
Silence pooled between them. Isla closed her eyes.
For one stolen evening she had thought Edward trusted her. Not wholly, not foolishly but enough to sit with her in the warmth of that kitchen, to drink tea and laugh at her disdain for London lace. They had fallen asleep near one another, the faint heat of his shoulder grounding her. She had woken warm, hopeful and foolish. And he had left without a word.
Alistair watched her face tighten and muttered, softer, “You like him.”
“I do not,” she said at once and too quickly, “remember that I was forced into this marriage.”
Her brother’s mouth twitched. “Isla. You redden faster than a struck match.”
She rose, spine stiff. “Whether I like him or not is irrelevant.”
“That,” he said, “is precisely why it matters.”
She avoided his gaze and resumed collecting papers, stacking them with neat precision to hide the tremor in her fingers.
“Alistair,” she said calmly, “these debts, these threats, they did not appear from thin air.”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “They did not.”
“Then tell me what changed.”
Alistair leaned back, eyes weary. “What changed is Glenmore has patrons, wealthy ones. And one of his most tireless advocates is none other than the Dowager Duchess of Wexford.”
Isla’s head snapped up. “Edward’s mother?”
“Aye.” His voice roughened. “You asked about her prejudice. It is worse than you think. She tolerates one particular Scot because it lets her strike against others. Namely us. Glenmore funds half her charities.”
“And she believes,” Isla murmured, “that she can burn us first.”
The thought chilled her more deeply than the morning air.
Alistair nodded. “She knows the power of a whisper in the right parlor.”
“A weapon subtler than any blade,” Isla agreed.
She sank into the chair opposite him.
