Once breakfast was over, Mrs. Brendan led her on the tour of the house, taking her through the drawing room, library, and parlor before leading the way to a long hall lined with family portraits.
Isobel glanced toward a painting of a man at the end of the line, the one who looked most like the Duke of Foxdrey. “Is that the Duke’s father?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Brendan’s constant smile fell as she waved her hand limply toward the portrait of Robert, The Sixth Duke of Foxdrey.
“His Grace and his father didn’t quite get along much, though to be honest from what I’ve learned, that was true for most generations of the Pasley line. Each man wants to be better than his father was before him and oftentimes it has led to success. In the case of His Grace’s father, it brought them to the brink of ruin.”
“I’ve heard little about the Duke’s family beyond his father being a drunk.” Isobel tipped her head to the side and regarded the portrait of Andrew’s father with keen interest. “My own father enjoys his spirits a little too much, but it wasn’t the drink that led to his ruin.”
“His Grace’s father liked to gamble. He lost the fortune that had been built over generations.” Mrs. Brendan stared at the portrait with something Isobel thought resembled loathing. “He lost it all. For a good several years, I was the only employee they could keep. His Grace eventually rebuilt the Dukedom, but it was not without facing a good many difficulties along the way.”
Isobel stared at the portrait of the man with the cold blue eyes, his jaw set in a hard line. The expression on his face resembled the one her own father wore. It was the kind of look that said he could do whatever he liked regardless of who else got in his way.
“And what of Andrew’s mother?” Isobel twisted her head from side to side as she sought a glimpse of a frame that might contain a portrait of the last Duchess.
Mrs. Brendan did not reply. Instead, she shook her head gently, then continued with her tour of the house, making their way from one room to the next.
Isobel loved the feeling of the crisp morning air on her skin as she walked through the streets of London, making her way to her father’s house.
She knew, as a newlywed Duchess, that she ought to stay at home or, at the very least, take one of the carriages when she decided to leave the townhouse, but she rejected such expectations and restrictions.
I only need a moment or two with Joan to settle my soul.
And in that time, she could make sure that her sister didn’t suffer the consequences of taking their drunken father home yesterday.
Isobel turned onto Father’s street and walked past several houses before reaching the one she once called home. Looking at it now, it didn’t feel much like a home to her. The panes on the windows reminded her more of a prison.
As she approached, she heard Father's voice through an open window, cold and commanding.
"Joan! Where is my breakfast? Must I wait all morning?"
"I'm sorry, Father. The cook is almost done."
"I do not care about excuses. You will ensure my needs are met promptly. Is that understood?"
A pause, then Joan's quiet voice: "Yes, Father."
"And you will stop this ridiculous moping about your sister. She has made her choice. She is a duchess now and has no need of your tears or your letters. You have duties here. Focus on them."
Isobel's hands clenched into fists at her sides. The coldness in his voice, the way he dismissed Joan's feelings as though they were nothing—it was exactly why she had needed to escape. And exactly why she needed to help Joan do the same.
She straightened her shoulders and knocked firmly on the door.
The servant who answered barely met her eyes. No doubt, Isobel’s father had already told anyone who would listen how his pride had been insulted when he had been dismissed from his own daughter’s wedding breakfast.
She swept by the servant with her head held high and followed the sound of her father’s discontented squawking.
When she entered the breakfast room, Father was seated at the head of the table, newspaper spread before him as though nothing of consequence had occurred. Joan stood beside the table like a statue, her red-rimmed eyes fixed nothingness. At the sound of Isobel's entrance, her head snapped up.
"Isobel!" Joan's voice broke on her name, a mixture of relief and disbelief flooding her features.
"Isobel." Father's tone was flat, emotionless, though he did not lower his newspaper. "What brings you here? Should you not be attending to your husband?"
Joan took a half-step toward her, then stopped, glancing at their father as though to seek permission.
"I came to see my sister." Isobel moved to Joan's side, taking her hand. Joan's fingers trembled in hers, ice-cold despite the fire crackling in the hearth.
"How thoughtful." Father's words were devoid of warmth. He turned a page with deliberate slowness. "Though I hope you have not come to fill her head with romantic notions. Joan has responsibilities here. She cannot afford to indulge in fantasies of escape."
