Isabella nodded and muttered a weak “yes.” It was impossible for her to look her mother in the eye after what she’d done, and yet she felt the need to say something—to offer some sort of explanation in the hope that she might understand. “I’m sorry I betrayed you, Mama. It’s just ... I’ve always dreamed of attending that ball, and once I marry Mr. Roberts it’s unlikely that I’ll ever—”
“You should hope and pray that he never finds out about this, Isabella.” There was a note of impending doom in her mother’s voice that sent shivers down Isabella’s spine. “After all of our efforts to steer his attention in your direction, all will be for naught if he ever discovers that you’re the sort of woman who enjoys midnight escapades. He’ll never stand for it, and you know it.”
Isabella did.
“He’s your best chance at a happy future,” her mother went on, relentlessly hammering on as she always did whenever Isabella showed the slightest sign of disapproval toward Mr. Roberts. “A man who’s not only wealthy but also keenly aware of the importance of dressing properly, he’ll be sure to supply you with however much money you need to fill a new wardrobe.”
“He doesn’t desire me for me, Mama. He wants me only because I’m convenient and because you’ve assured him how easily I can be molded into the trophy he truly wants—one that he can parade about town when need be and then return to the shelf as soon as we arrive home.”
Her mother’s nostrils flared. “Not only is that untrue but it is also an unkind thing to say about a man who is willing to pluck you out of the gutter and turn you into a swan.”
It was Isabella’s turn to get angry. “We may not be very well off, Mama, but we certainly don’t live in a gutter. Papa works very hard to support us, and there’s nothing shameful about his profession either, so don’t you dare belittle his efforts!”
“I meant no disrespect toward your father, Isabella,” her mother said, walking wearily toward the sofa and sitting down with a loud sigh. “I just don’t think that you fully realize how difficult life can be. Why do you think I work so diligently at my embroidery every day? Because I enjoy it?” She shook her head. “Necessity can steal the joy from any task, but I have no choice—we need the extra bit of money the embroidery can fetch.
“Even so, it’s not as if we’re the poorest people in England, and it’s true that we do have Marjorie in our employ, but I want more than that for you, Isabella, for Jamie too when the time comes for her to marry. I want you to have beautiful gowns to wear and to ride in a magnificent carriage—to live in comfort and without having to worry about whether or not you’ll have to cut back on a few things in order to have enough money for food. I know what that’s like. The first few years with your father were a desperate struggle for survival—one that I wish to protect you from.”
“But you love each other, Mama,” Isabella said softly.
“Yes, we do. And I have every confidence that you will grow to love Mr. Roberts too. He’s a good man, Isabella. You mustn’t be too hard on him.” Reaching for Isabella’s hand, she took it in her own as she met her gaze. “This is part of the reason why I object to all of these fairy-tale romances that you like to read. I believe you’ve long since conjured an image of the ideal man; a man who doesn’t exist, except in your own imagination—a man that nobody else can possibly compete with.”
It was true, except for the startling fact that he did exist. Isabella had met him that very evening, had spoken to him and danced with him. Her mother was right. Nobody would ever hold a candle to him—least of all Mr. Roberts.
Chapter 10
“I’m sorry about the way the evening turned out, Mama,” Anthony said as he stood by the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy. He raised an empty glass toward Winston and Huntley, who were each occupying their own armchairs while their wives sat next to Anthony’s mother on the sofa. “Would you care for some?”
Both gentlemen nodded, so Anthony proceeded to pour for them as well.
“It wasn’t your fault,” his mother said, her voice sounding tired. “Not unless it was your idea to have Lady Rebecca shot on my lawn in front of everyone.”
“What a thing to say,” Louise gasped. She looked at Anthony. “Pour her a sherry, will you? And while you’re at it, Sarah and I would like one too.”
Anthony hid a smile. He loved his sister dearly and knew that she meant well, which was part of the reason why he rarely asserted himself whenever she tried to take charge. Not unless she was being unreasonable. Stubborn and willful best described her—traits that had resulted in her marrying Huntley when the alternative would probably have been a deep depression. Anthony knew she’d left not because she hadn’t cared but because she’d cared too much. Watching their father’s daily digression would have killed her—Huntley had offered her the excuse for escape, and as far as Anthony could tell, the two were getting along well enough, for which he was both grateful and relieved.
“The Griftons didn’t look very happy,” Winston muttered. “But then I suppose that’s to be expected. To believe that Lady Rebecca had remained behind at Roselyn Castle, locked away in her chamber, only to find her here, the center of a dramatic event.”
“For someone declared to be as mad as a March hare, she did sound rather succinct when I spoke to her,” Anthony said, handing the ladies their drinks.
“Neville sounded shocked when her condition was mentioned—as if he’d realized no such thing,” Winston said, accepting the glass that Anthony gave to him.
“All things considered,” Huntley remarked, “it would probably have taken a great deal for Neville to notice whether or not Lady Rebecca had a few bats loose in the belfry. He’s not very levelheaded himself.”
“That’s true,” Anthony heard his mother say as he strode back to fetch the final glass for Huntley. “He’s always been too carefree for his own good—much worse than Anthony and Mr. Goodard ever were, and that’s saying something.”
“I still can’t imagine who would do such a terrible thing,” Sarah said as she took a careful sip of her drink. Anthony watched her with the same sense of wonder he’d always reserved for his sister-in-law. Everything she did, from the way in which she moved to the way in which she spoke, was done with the same amount of care that one might apply to a piece of artwork. It was most peculiar.
“It’s very strange,” Anthony’s mother said, her brow knit in a tight frown.
“She can’t possibly have any enemies,” Louise said, looking to her husband, then to Winston and finally to Anthony for an answer.
Huntley shrugged. “It does seem unlikely. Perhaps it was an accident.”
“An accident?” Louise’s voice pitched. “One doesnotbring a loaded pistol to a ball and then proceed to fire it by accident.”
“Huntley’s right,” Anthony said. All eyes turned to him in surprise and, he surmised, expectation. “What if the bullet wasn’t meant for Lady Rebecca but for someone else entirely?”
“She was dancing with Neville at the time,” Winston said, following his statement with a large gulp of brandy.
