“You are close to him now. It is repugnant, but we can use it.” His eyes lit up.
Isabel stared. “Use it to what, exactly?”
“Spy on him. Force him to reveal his secrets.”
She turned away, pacing to the window, where she gripped her fists at her sides and tried to regain a fraction of control over herself. Emotions bubbled up in her: pain and empathy, anger and defensiveness, and loss. So much loss, because it felt like she would never have her uncle back again. This man left in the wake of his grief was…not him.
She slowly faced him. “I want you to hear me, Uncle Fenton. Truly hear me. I understand your drive to avenge your daughter. I understand you believe, in your deepest heart, in the very corners of your soul, that Matthew is at fault for her loss. But that does not mean it’s accurate. And I will not now, nor will I ever be party to causing him harm. Do I make myself clear?”
He stared at her, unspeaking, for what felt like an eternity. His gaze went blank at last and he got up. “Then you are of no use. I must only help myself. And I do not think we shall see each other again.”
She caught her breath as renewed pain ripped through her. She had loved her uncle all her life. Nothing he had done or said had erased the kindnesses he had once shown her, or eliminated the many things they had in common. But he looked at her now like she was a stranger. And in turn, he was a stranger to her, too.
“If you cannot see reason, then perhaps that is best,” she whispered. “I’ll leave you now. Goodbye.”
He hesitated, his frown deepening. Then he nodded. “Goodbye, Isabel. Goodbye.”
She threw her shoulders back, trying to keep her dignity as she walked from the room. But when she had climbed back into her carriage, when she had started on her way back home, she couldn’t help but slide down in the seat and cry.
Matthew heard Isabel enter the foyer and looked up from his book in surprise. She had been going to call on Sarah and told him to expect her to be gone for the afternoon. But it had been less than an hour since her departure.
Not that he minded her return. He was beginning to miss her when she wasn’t there.
He set his book aside and stepped into the hall. “You are early,” he said. “Come have tea with me.”
She glanced away from Portman and toward him, and his stomach dropped. She had been crying. It was clear on her face as she trudged toward him.
“I may need something stronger than tea,” she said as she lifted to her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
He wrinkled his brow and followed her into the parlor, shutting the door behind them so they could have privacy. She sank onto the settee with a long, ragged sigh and covered her eyes with her hand. A thousand questions raced through his mind. What had happened? Why had she come home? What could he do to ease the pain that was so obvious in every fiber of her being?
He wanted to do so desperately.
So he started with a drink and poured her a sherry from the sideboard. When he handed it over to her, she laughed briefly. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to drink.”
She took a sip and winced before she set the glass aside. He took a place next to her and took her hand, lifting it to his lips as he searched her unhappy face. “What happened?”
She flinched and her gaze darted away. He knew that look. He’d seen it so many times on her face. It was an expression of guilt, and his stomach clenched at the sight of it. He pushed the reaction aside.
“Did you quarrel with Sarah?” he asked, already knowing that wasn’t the truth. Needing her to confess it regardless. Needing to know that she would.
She didn’t disappoint. “I didn’t go to see Sarah,” she admitted as she dropped her head. “I-I lied to you.”
He gritted his teeth. “I thought we were past lies, Isabel. Are we not?”
“I know,” she whispered, and her voice trembled with real pain that touched his heart even as he tried to close it off because she’d been untrue, yet again. “I was foolish. I thought I was protecting you.”
He shook his head. “Protecting me? Where did you go?” She glanced at him and he sucked in a breath. “Your uncle. You went to see Winter.”
She nodded slowly. “I received a summons from him yesterday, while we were away at Ewan and Charlotte’s. In the excitement you didn’t see it. I didn’t want to upset you, and I didn’t want you to interfere and have everything be worse. So I hid it and lied to you about where I was going.”
He pushed to his feet and paced away. He was angry at the deception, of course, especially considering their history. But he also understood her motives in some way.
“You went alone to see him,” he said at last. “I don’t like that, Isabel. He is…”
“Unhinged,” she finished for him, and it was on a sob.
He pivoted, and his heart softened. Her head was in her hands and she struggled with what was obviously great grief. Whatever he thought of Fenton Winter, whatever he had suffered at the blunt end of his accusations, he knew without a doubt that Isabel loved the man. She didn’t agree with him or his terrible methods, but she did love him.
