The Misses Bretagne and Radclyffe gathered their maps in a neat stack and exited the room, taking with them a thin sheet of paper that would serve as the night hike’s guide. Lord Avendon was no more than ten steps behind them, giving Lord Percival the sort of nod men gave one another as he passed. Lord Percival spoke his good-byes to the room and followed in the group’s wake.
Isabel sat in her chair, needlework in hand, watching it all come to pass, forgotten. They were leaving, without her. No, not they. Lord Percival was leaving without her. No, no, no. This was her chance—her second chance—and it was walking out the door.
The heat of incipient action flared inside her, and she shot to her feet. Lady Bertrand gasped—reactions were ever close to her surface—and the Duchess raised an eyebrow. Eva regarded her as if from a great distance.
“Husband?” Isabel called out. How she hated the wobble in her voice.
Lord Percival stopped in his tracks, back to her. Tension radiated off him in waves. “Yes, wife?” he asked without turning.
“I fancy a nighttime stroll.”
He met her gaze over his shoulder. She wouldn’t waver beneath its challenge. He unclenched his jaw. “Do you?”
“Quite. I’m ever a creature of the night.”
Knowledge flashed in his eyes. “And pray tell, sweet wife, have you the necessary clothing for such an adventure? You can’t venture outside without a cloak to guard you against brisk night elements, and we did leave London in quite a wild rush of abandon.”
“Oh, dear,” whispered Lady Bertrand, both scandalized and riveted.
Isabel had to consider that he may have defeated her. She didn’t have the clothes for a midnight jaunt across the countryside.
The Duchess signaled a servant. “Dobbs, have my gray cashmere cloak fetched for Lady Percival and meet her in the front hall ten minutes hence.” The servant sprang to his mistress’s bidding as the Duchess glanced down at Isabel’s boots poking out from beneath her hemline. “It appears you have the sensible shoes bit covered.”
It was all Isabel could do to not shuffle her feet out of view. ’Twas true she was wearing boots, but they were functional and quite comfortable. In truth, they were the best boots she’d ever owned. She wouldn’t feel ashamed of them, not even for a Duchess.
Lord Percival’s jaw resumed its clenched position, but he gave an assenting nod before striding out the room.
“Duchess, Lady Bertrand.” Isabel scrambled to catch Lord Percival, hastily discarding her needlework onto her vacated seat. She’d taken no more than three steps when she remembered. Eva.
She half pivoted to meet her sister’s eye. Her earlier assessment that the old Eva had returned to life didn’t quite hit the mark. This Eva’s blood didn’t run hot and impetuous. This Eva took her time, assessed a situation in a cool, distant manner. This Eva filled Isabel with dread. Now, more than ever, she didn’t want to leave her alone. “Sister, would you like to join our excursion?”
“I am quite content to sit by the warm fire and soak in the delightful conversation happening around me.” Her eye roved over Lady Bertrand like the cat who ate the canary. “Lady Bertrand has such wisdom to impart. I wouldn’t miss a bit of it for all the world. Enjoy your night adventure, querida. You can tell me all about it on the morrow.”
Isabel knew for a fact that she shouldn’t leave her sister. But . . .
Her second chance was stalking away. If she stayed, she would lose it. And then what? Her eye fell on little, sleeping Ariel, curled and snug in his mother’s arms. She wouldn’t fail him.
She spared one final glance for Eva before proceeding into the uncertain night.
Chapter 11
“Lucy!” Percy called out for the dozenth time to his daughter, who continued dashing ahead with Hugh and Miss Radclyffe. “I should take the lead.”
They either weren’t hearing him or weren’t heeding him. While he suspected the latter, he couldn’t race to catch them and leave Isabel on her own. She trailed at his back some ten feet behind.
As long as he could keep his eyes on the group ahead and his ears attuned to the woman behind, he maintained a sliver of control should a situation, however unlikely, arise. In general, smugglers and their ilk knew to stay off a duke’s lands. There were other stretches of coast better suited to their needs with less risk.
This area Percy knew like the back of his hand, having chased along its dirt twists and turns his entire childhood. The muted crunch of old autumn leaf mulch and detritus long fallen beneath his feet. The full moon high above, dappled light shining through summer’s fat canopy of tree leaves. The sea a roar in the distance. It smelled of damp earth and salty surf and, most of all, home.
And it truly would be soon. Gardencourt, with its glorious grounds and magnificent stable, was his birthright, an idea that made him simultaneously giddy and sick. The deception had grown layers, increasing in size and heft at every turn. At this rate, soon, it would be entirely out of his control. Or was that delusion? Like as not, it was already.
Behind him, he heard a sound. Or its lack. Isabel’s footsteps . . . They’d gone silent.
He glanced over his shoulder, only to find an empty path. Blast. “Isabel,” he called out.
A faint response came from around the bend at his back. Meanwhile, onward marched Lucy, Hugh, and Miss Radclyffe. “Lucy!” he shouted. No response. “Lucy!” They just kept going. He couldn’t very well leave Isabel, who must have found trouble. The woman was damned accomplished at it.
His feet kicked up into a light jog. He located her attempting to wrest the Duchess’s too-large cloak from the clutches of a tenacious blackberry bush. They grew rampant in these parts. “Are you in need of assistance?” he asked. He wouldn’t mind if she said no.
“I shall have it, if I can just . . .” She was turned around inside the cloak, like a badger inside its skin, as the bush appeared to have launched a rear attack. Her fingers steadily picked at thread and thorn. They could be here all night, so great was her patience at her task. All the while, Lucy, Hugh, and Miss Radclyffe tramped on.
“Allow me,” he said, stepping forward. “I insist.”
Isabel’s shoulder hunched around, denying him access “I would prefer not to rip the fabric. It’s such a fine garment.”
Impatiently—he couldn’t lose the group ahead to her stubbornness—Percy circled around and reached for the cloak before she had a chance to move away, and his fingers touched hers. A heartbeat of hesitation, the light touch of gloved fingers, nothing more. It wasn’t skin touching skin. Still, his hand jerked back.