Sarah guided her from the aisle and toward a pair of chairs Mattigan had placed before the fire in the back of his shop. They sat there together, Sarah searching her face. “You told me he hated you.”
Isabel shrugged. “I thought he did. Maybe he still does, he’s just too…toogooda man to show it. Because it isn’t right or fair to be cruel to a lady. Even one who deserves such censure.”
“You don’t deserve cruelty,” Sarah said softly. “You sought out passion. Perhaps that isn’t accepted in our society, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. And he gave it, freely, accepting that he would not know your identity. What happened after, the connection you two shared even before you knew that you shared a common link in Angelica…that is unfortunate. But you were no more party to that than he was.”
“Yes, I was,” Isabel moaned as she placed her head in her hands. “I knew who he was and I still went back. I went back and let him…let myself…”
Sarah blushed scarlet. “Yes. I know. I know.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter now. He was polite and I appreciated that. But it doesn’t change anything. He knows who I am and he wants nothing to do with me. I must accept that and move on. My uncle will demand that I do so, at any rate.”
Sarah reached out and took her hand. “I wish I could make it different. For both of us.”
Isabel glanced toward the door, where Matthew had departed moments ago. Her heart ached, though it shouldn’t. “So do I. But it isn’t. And somehow we will both find a way to endure it.”
Isabel’s body felt heavy as she trudged through the front door into her uncle’s foyer. Hicks appeared within a flash and took her gloves before he motioned down the hall.
“Mr. Winter is in the blue parlor, Mrs. Hayes,” he said. “About to have tea.”
Isabel let out a sigh. At present, she did not wish to see her uncle. He had been so very odd since that night at the Callis party, muttering to himself, getting up and just wandering from rooms without warning. His moods made her nervous and she was already nervous enough about Matthew.
And since she’d seen the duke today, that was all so much sharper. She feared, in some deep part of her, that her uncle might see it. See that connection with a man he despised and suspected.
What horrors would come from that knowledge, she didn’t even want to consider, truthfully.
Still, the man was her blood and her…guardian, she supposed was the best descriptor. She couldn’t avoid him. It wasn’t fair.
She moved down the hall to the parlor and found him standing at the sideboard, picking through a tray of biscuits, a steaming cup of tea already at hand beside him.
“Good afternoon, Uncle Fenton,” she said, as brightly as she could muster when her conversation with Matthew still seemed to ring in her ears.
He turned and his gaze flitted over her before he smiled. “Isabel, you have good timing, for you can see tea is served. And I think Mrs. Gooding has your favorite biscuits in the pile. You like the little chocolate ones, do you not?”
Isabel nodded. “I do, indeed. I couldn’t have planned it better.”
He took his plate and his cup and stepped away from the sideboard. As she poured herself tea, he cleared his throat. “How was your excursion? The bookstore, yes?”
“Mattigan’s,” she said, adding milk to her cup before she took two of the chocolate biscuits he had suggested. She took a place across from him with a smile. “And it was successful. I left my new book on the sideboard.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Something I’d like?”
She shrugged. “You’ve never been one for the gothic romances. This one was recommended by a…” She trailed off and shook her head. “By a friend.”
He arched a brow, and something in his demeanor shifted. His lips thinned and his gaze flitted to his tea while his brow furrowed. “Hmmm,” he grumbled.
She took a deep breath as she examined him closely. She knew that look. He was brooding now, though she had no idea why her talk about Mattigan’s would cause him to do so. It wasn’t like he had any clue about Matthew’s presence there.
“Uncle,” she began, and steeled herself for the question she had wanted to ask for months but hadn’t had the nerve. Now she steadied it within herself. “Are you…are you well?”
He gave her a look. “Well?” he repeated, like he didn’t understand the question.
“Yes.” She set her tea aside and scooted to the front of her chair. She hesitated a fraction, but then took his hand in hers. “You’ve been so troubled these past few years. With very good reason, of course, but it worries me. And in the days since the Callis ball, you’ve been even more distant and disconnected. Is there something I can do for you?”
For a brief moment, his expression softened. But then that look faded, hardened. He tugged his hand from hers. “I have been thinking a great deal lately about my life. About what and who destroyed it.”
Her heart sank. This was an old song. She knew every word to it even before he began. “Oh, uncle,” she whispered.
He ignored her. “He did this.”
