“But the bloodline, Lucretia.” Desperation persisted in every syllable Lady Bertrand spoke. “The family line will be taint—”
“As usual, Dot, you’ve struck the nail squarely on the head,” said the Duchess, cool and determined. All the breath left Isabel’s body. “That is exactly who Isabel is, family. This isn’t the first time a member of the Israelite tribe has married into the English aristocracy, and it won’t be the last.”
This proved too great a trial for Lady Bertrand, and she wilted back into the sofa cushions, all the bracing ire and outrage from moments ago having deserted her. Eva sat, not twelve inches from her, a tiny smile curling about her mouth, utterly unflustered. The Duchess gave Isabel a warm wink, and she could breathe again as gratitude flooded her. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard views such as Lady Bertrand’s expressed.
A movement caught at the periphery of Isabel’s vision. There, in the open doorway at the far end of the room, stood Lord Percival, his intense gaze trained upon her. The assessing cant of his head told her he’d witnessed the entire exchange.
The Duchess called out, “Lord Percival, how charming of you to join our little gathering.”
If the prospect of an evening spent pretending to be Lord Percival’s enamored bride didn’t scare Isabel so, she might experience a mean satisfaction as the look of a trapped wild animal hung about the man.
“I would be delighted, ma’am.” He looked anything but.
“Join us over here, my boy,” the Duke called out. “We’re having a civil discussion about the government needing more parity between the parties, and I could use an ally.”
Lord Percival’s features softened, and his feet began moving. “I welcome any opportunity to set Michael straight on his bloody-minded views.”
The family took his words in stride. They were spoken with a smile and received with one, even by the dour Lord Exeter, who scoffed. Isabel had never seen Lord Percival like this, relaxed. She hadn’t thought him capable of it, yet here was proof.
Miss Bretagne shot to her feet. “Well, Mina and I shall be off.” She began folding the maps strewn about the long rectangular table before her.
Lord Percival’s ease vanished. “Off? Where?”
“On our hike.” Miss Bretagne didn’t bother to glance up. “Well, more of a scientific expedition.”
“But, Lucinda,” the Duchess said, “it is night.”
“That is rather the point,” Miss Bretagne breezed, matter-of-fact.
Miss Radclyffe stood and joined the conversation. “You see there’s a rather exciting confluence of events happening tonight that we would be remiss to ignore.” She held up her hand and began ticking items off a list. “A clear night. A full moon. The summer solstice. And a druidic ruin.”
“A druidic ruin?” asked the Duchess.
“On Mercy Island,” Lord Percival provided.
Miss Radclyffe beamed her approval. “You know of it, Lord Percival?”
“Quite well.”
“Then you must appreciate our mission. We must be there before midnight, for that is when the event will take place. That is, if the correct stones are still standing.”
Before Lord Percival could respond, the Duchess cut in. “Any number of brigands could be brandishing about, Miss Radclyffe.”
“According to the map, we’re only two miles from the coast, and we shan’t be leaving the estate’s lands.”
“My dear, you’ll be out all night. And if you happen upon a poacher? What then?”
A dark storm clouded Lord Percival’s features. “I forbid it,” he spoke low and clear.
The room went dead still.
The tempest clouding Miss Bretagne’s face matched her father’s. “You forbid it?” She emitted a humorless guffaw. “You forbid it?”
The way Miss Bretagne spoke that last you confirmed something for Isabel: the girl despised her father.
Lord Percival’s jaw clenched, and he seemed to dig in. “Yes.”
Lord Avendon unfolded his youthful, lanky form and rose to a stand. “Uncle, if I may be so bold, I believe I can provide a solution to the present difficulty.”
Lord Percival dragged his thunderous gaze away from his daughter and pinned Lord Avendon with it. “Yes, Hugh?”
“I shall accompany and protect the girls.” He drew himself up to his tallest, lankiest height. “With my life, if necessary.” So self-serious. So earnest.
Lord Percival was having none of it. “Hugh, you’re little more than a boy.”
“With all due respect, Uncle, I was eighteen on my last name day. I shall start my first term at Cambridge this autumn.”
Without acknowledging his nephew’s words, Lord Percival addressed his father. “Were you allowing her to go with no chaperone?”
The Duke shrugged. “The girl’s mind is quite made up. I doubt there’s any stopping her.”
“True,” Miss Bretagne piped up.
“But to answer your question, yes. I see no harm in it,” the Duke continued. “Now that you mention it, how fortuitous her father is here to tend the matter.”
Lord Percival cut his gaze toward his daughter. “If you go, I go.”
“That’s hardly nec—”
Lord Percival held up his hand and silenced her mid-word. “If you go, I go,” he repeated on a note of forged steel that ran the length of his words. Only a fool wouldn’t believe him.
It was obvious his daughter wanted to stomp in frustration. “Very well.”
“We shall meet in the front hall ten minutes hence,” he said in the manner of a man well-accustomed to taking control of a situation. “Fetch a light overcoat. A clear night means a chilly night, even in summer. And Lucy?”
“Yes?”
“Do not attempt to leave without me.”
“We won’t, Lord Percival,” answered Miss Radclyffe. “And our sincere gratitude for your escort.”
Miss Bretagne shot Miss Radclyffe a look equal parts sullen and wounded, but nodded her agreement nonetheless. It wasn’t difficult to see that Miss Radclyffe was the voice of reason in their friendship.