The Duchess must have had the same thought, for she stood. “Good evening, might I inquire who you are?”
Eva’s eyes lit upon Isabel, and a smile transformed her face. “Sister!” She all but flew across the room and gathered Isabel into an effusive embrace. Or, at least, as much of an embrace as she could muster with one arm, the other cradling a sleeping Ariel.
Isabel was slow to respond to her sister’s enthusiasm. They’d seen each other not three hours ago after having spent the afternoon together. What exactly was Eva playing at?
“There’s a sister?” Lady Bertrand asked, breathless at a development that might hold a hint of scandal.
Eva took a step back and gave Isabel a reproving shake of her head. “You didn’t tell them about me?”
“Well,” Isabel began, thinking fast, “you were so”—oh, what could she say?—“sick”—yes—“with”—with what?—“influenza—”
“Influenza?” Lady Bertrand’s white linen handkerchief flew to her nose and mouth. A muffled, “Oh, dear,” emerged.
“I can assure you that I’m quite cured of what ailed me.” Eva’s tone was so persuasive that Isabel could almost believe her. “Tonight, however, I found myself in dire need of company. So, when I learned about all the guests in the manor house—you know how servants like to talk—I had to meet everyone for myself.”
How exceptionally bright Eva’s gaze was. Her eyes had always been a luminous brown, the defining feature of her face, but tonight they flashed and shone. She’d gone from being a shell of herself to too much herself in the span of a few hours. For a terrified instant, Isabel thought Eva had found laudanum. But, no, they had discarded it all months ago.
Isabel glanced around to find the Duchess and Lady Bertrand staring at her expectantly. Oh. “Duchess, may I introduce my sister Miss Eva—”
The Duchess’ eyebrows drew together, and she stopped twirling the bangles on her wrist. “Miss?” She dropped a meaningful glance toward the baby in Eva’s arms.
“Oh, dearest dear,” Lady Bertrand whispered, the handkerchief falling from her face in light of this development. Isabel’s mouth went dry.
“Querida,” Eva began, her tone light and airy, “you never did accustom yourself to my marriage. But, really, how could you? It lasted but a pair of months, and the only remainder I have of the wonderful Captain Gardiner is our sweet babe.” Her eyes welled with convincing tears.
“Oh, you poor gel, Mrs. Gardiner.” The Duchess reached for the long strand of pearls that hung about her neck, which she began winding and twirling. “I, too, know what it is to wear widow’s weeds. But at such a young age? And with a babe?”
Eva nodded as if too emotionally affected to speak. She might have missed out on her true calling of a career on the stage.
Isabel continued the introductions. “And, Lady Bertrand, may I present—”
Eva’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Bertrand Montfort?”
Isabel understood in an instant what her sister had heard from the servants and why she was here.
“Who else would I be?” Lady Bertrand asked, outrage in her tone. The woman did possess an exceptional talent for finding offense in every little matter.
“Oh, it is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Bertrand,” Eva gushed. “Isabel speaks of nothing but your incomparable intelligence that is surpassed only by your supreme wisdom.”
The Duchess’s eyebrows lifted to the ceiling, even as Lady Bertrand visibly warmed to the flattery, the blush of a debutante pinking her sallow cheeks. She patted the cushion next to her on the yellow damask sofa. “You may sit beside me.”
“Oh, thank you, ma’am.” Eva crossed the short distance in a rush, all obsequious obeisance.
“Now, I haven’t the faintest notion of how things are done where you come from—” Lady Bertrand stopped abruptly. She’d flummoxed herself. “And where is that precisely?”
“Madrid,” Isabel answered for Eva. She didn’t want her sister to lie on this point. She’d told so many already. Lady Bertrand as intelligent and wise? Two words which surely had never been applied to the lady once in her life. Until now. Until Eva.
“Well, in England, you must leave the babe in the nursery in the evening. Haven’t you a nurse?”
“Yes, ma’am, but I can’t bear to leave him.” Eva swiped at her eyes with her free hand. “He is all that remains of Mr. Gardiner.”
This seemed to mollify Lady Bertrand as she leaned in for a closer inspection of the babe. “And does this handsome boy have a name?”
“He is called Ariel.”
“What an unusual name,” said the Duchess.
“He is named for my and Isabel’s father.”
Lady Bertrand tapped a considering finger to her lips. “I know I’ve heard that name somewhere. It sounds so, so, oh, what is the word I’m searching for?”
“Jewish?” Eva asked, cutting Isabel a quick glance. She detected mischief there. More of the old Eva. Too much.
Lady Bertrand startled back, and her face took on the cast of a woman who had just swallowed a pickle, whole. “Oh, dear.”
“Ariel means lion in Hebrew,” Eva continued, relentless, even as Lady Bertrand appeared on the precipice of apoplexy.
“What a strong name to give your son,” the Duchess said, smoothness in her tone, steel in her eyes. “Wonderful.”
“But, but,” Lady Bertrand sputtered, “that means you”—she pointed at Isabel—“are a, a, a Jewess.”
The Duchess’s face went stony, and the steel in her eyes tempered. “Dot, it’s best if you lower your finger.”
Lady Bertrand’s hand fell to her lap—one didn’t disobey the directive of a duchess—only to return to her mouth in horror. “Don’t you see? She is Lord Percival’s bride. A Jewess is now in the family of a duke of the realm. And their future issue . . .” She trailed, overcome.
“Aunt Dot,” Miss Bretagne called out, “you’ve learned maths!”
Isabel glanced about the room. It seemed the exchange had commanded every last eye.