“One day, when I was nine or ten, he’d sent for us to meet him in Brighton. We’d been there two days and he took us in his carriage to a beautiful café in the high street. He’d promised the chef did delectable lemon ices and peach tarts. Papa—”
She stopped herself, cleared her throat, and began again.
“The earlordered a sampling of everything, the most extravagant tea, including champagne. The summer sun shone on a glistening sea, visitors milled in the street, and the three of us were enjoying the most delightful meal when, out of the blue, the earl caught sight of something out the café window.
“I’ll never forget,” she went on. “He was scooping up a dollop of cream, and he simply stopped, his spoon halfway to his mouth. His pink face went white; he dropped the spoon and splattered the cream all over his waistcoat. Mama was reaching for a napkin when he leapt up from the table. If my mother had not caught hold of his chair, it would have toppled.
“I remember laughing a little—he had an amusing manner, and his large gestures and wild stories delighted me—and I thought he was putting on a show. When I spun to see what he would do next, he’d turned his back. He was walking away—actually, he was bolting away—from our table.
“I opened my mouth to call him back, but my mother pounced and fastened her hand over my mouth.”
“Oh God,” Jason whispered under his breath.
“She was strong enough to keep me in my chair, but not to prevent me from craning around. And do you know what had happened?”
Jason did not want to guess.
“A family had entered the café. A fine lady, children, servants. Quality and money and manners emanated from the lot of them like the soft trill of a trumpet. Their movements were restrained but also smooth. I remember thinking they looked as if they rolled into the café on an invisible cart. There were three little boys, and they came to a stop before a glass counter of pastries and puddings. The café had beautiful confections; the display would’ve delighted any child. But these children simply stood near the glass, not touching or pointing.
“The lady was a substantial presence, tall and upright, with a subtle dress in a forgettable tone and a pursed frown. The servants stood on the periphery, fastidiously balancing armfuls of parasols and pails and toy boats. Beside the woman stood a little girl who looked to be five or six. She wore a white dress and a frown just like her mother’s.
“Cranford hurried to the group,” she went on. “At first I thought this family had displeased him—the caféwas small and their sheer number would overwhelm the room. If nothing else, we’d been having the most delightful tea and they all looked miserable.
“But Cranford was not displeased. He was scrambling to exonerate himself from the illusion—nay, the reality—of taking a meal, in public, with his mistress and his bastard daughter.”
“Bloody hell, Isobel,” Jason exclaimed, his voice echoing off the canyon wall. The lingering heat in his blood began to percolate with a new passion: loathing for the Earl of Cranford.
“The family that entered was his own,” Isobel went on, ignoring his outburst. “Hisrealfamily. The woman was the Countess of Cranford. The oldest boy was his heir, the next—now current—earl.
“And the little girl was his daughter. His actual, legitimate daughter. Lady Wendy Bask.”
“No,” said Jason, as if he could refuse the story. He stopped walking and turned to face her. He caught her other hand and pulled their joined hands to his chest, hiking her skirt.
“I struggled,” she said, speaking to their hands, “trying to break free of my mother, but Georgiana kept her hand sealed firmly over my mouth and didn’t budge.”
Isobel looked up. “Was she restraining me to save my pride, orherpride, orhisneck?” A shrug. “I don’t know. She leaned down and whispered in my ear. ‘Papa does not belong to us, Bell. He has another family. These people are his family and he belongs to them. We must allow him to go.’ ”
“Isobel,” Jason hissed.
“I didn’t understand,” she said, “but at the same time, perhaps I did. Maybe I had always known but hadn’treckoned with it. Certainly I was unprepared to face the reality in that moment. This had beenourtime.Ourholiday. And he wasmypapa.”
“This story is unbearable,” Jason said. “I can’t believe you never pounced on the earl in a dark alley and choked him with the bloody compass.”
It was a joke, but she didn’t laugh. She stared up at him.
“How did it end?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, no, itisan unbearable story.”
“It’s not obviously, because you have survived. You have borne it.”
“Well, I have not perished. Yet. Is this surviving?”
“Yes. Indeed it is. And anyway, you’ve done more than ‘not perish.’ You are thriving, Isobel. You are a businesswoman in your own right. You are clever and beautiful and afraid of nothing apparently. Besides, the Story of Isobel Tinker is not yet finished. And perhaps I know how it ends.”
She cocked her head, gazing at him. “You don’t.”
He gave a shrug. He wasn’t sure why he’d said it, but it didn’t have to be untrue. The tragedy that had marked Isobel’s life would not follow her forever. Not if he had any power over it. He was, after all, a bloody duke.
