And now Isobel was given no choice but to feel affection for the girl. The universe would allow nothing else.
“Have you,” Isobel ventured, “another gentleman in mind, perhaps?”
Lady Wendy shook her head. “Not a man, avocation.” She lifted her hands like an archbishop on Easter. “Thestage.I’m destined to be an actress. It is my only dream, and I intend to realize it. I don’t care what my mother thinks.”
Isobel blinked at her, trying to swallow the irony of this revelation. Lady Wendy began to smooth the lines of her dress.
“The great unfairness is that my late father wouldhave allowed it,” Wendy declared, speaking to her skirt. “I am certain of this. But we lost him to a weak heart—may God rest his soul—and my brother is now earl, and my mother is atyrant, and neither can be made to see how very essential this is to me.
“It doesn’t matter,” she finished, tightening her gloves. “I’ll run away if I must. I need formal training despite being quite accomplished, even now. I’ll perish if I cannot perform.”
It was a mouthful of an admission, even without referencing their father.
Isobel thought she should feel something dark and spiteful, but she found only sympathy. Also, affection. Lady Wendy was too earnest and honest and impetuous not to like. And Isobel’s fondness for actors was far more deeply ingrained than her distrust of half sisters.
“Enjoyed various theatrical productions, have you?” Isobel asked.
“Oh loads,” assured Lady Wendy. “Whenever we are in Town. My brother ferries me to Drury Lane. We’ll see whatever’s on. Before that, my father and I were constant patrons.”
And now Isobel did feel a pulse of something heavy and uncomfortable in the area of her heart. Their father had delighted in the theater; it was how he and Georgiana met. The connections felt too tight to be comfortable.
Even so, Isobel could not help but ask, “By any chance have you had the opportunity to travel, Lady Wendy? To see theatrical performances in Paris or Vienna or St. Petersburg?”
“No,” breathed Wendy, “but I aspire to. I promised my mother I would participate in one London Seasonifshe would accompany me to the great opera houses of Europe. She agreed, and I slogged through that terrible Season, only to have her retract the offer when it was all said and done. She thought I would enter into a courtship and forget about Europe. But I have an excellent memory. Andno intentionof being courted by anyone.”
“Indeed,” said Isobel, impressed. This was no trifling vow for a debutante.
“Andthatis why I intend to run away,” Wendy continued. “Andthatis why I thank you. It’ll be far easier now that I don’t have topretendto care about the Duke of Northumberland for a week, or a fortnight, or even a night. Now I can move forward with my—Oh!”
She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Your intentions are safe with me, my lady,” said Isobel.
“Well, you have a kind face,” Wendy theorized. “And you remind me of someone. I have a very bad habit of sayingtoomuch... tofamiliarpeople... withkindfaces. Please, I beg you, tell no one? About my plans?”
“Never you fear,” said Isobel. “The duke should be along any moment. However... I’d like to invite you to call to my travel agency in Hammersmith. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Tinker’s Travel?”
The girl shook her head, blond curls bouncing.
“Right. Well, if you convince your mother that she does, indeed, owe you a holiday, my shop can assist with all the arrangements. I’ve secured front-row seats at the finest theaters in Europe for other girls. I can even get you backstage to meet the players.”
And now Lady Wendy was hopping up and down again.
“Consider it, perhaps, before you embark on any plan to run away.”
Isobel was just reciting the shop name and direction when Jason strode into the corridor.
“Go,” whispered Lady Wendy, frowning as she watched him approach. “Do us both this favor.”
The girl was already backing away. “I will call on you in Hammersmith. Thank you, Miss Tinker!”
Isobel may have said,Thank you, orPlease do, or she may have said nothing at all. Her eyes were fixed on the approaching duke, her insides filled with light.
“Where’s the box?” he asked, coming upon her.
“Oh,” said Isobel, fumbling in her pocket. “But what of your cousin?”
“Packed away in a carriage with his parents,” he said, snatching the box from her hands. “The Frenchman mollified—if you can imagine—by your mother.”
