Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (14 page)

“Most
of us are not fortunate enough to be able to marry for love. Isobel herself was
constrained to marry Warwick for those very reasons,” countered Lord Westcott,
becoming angry himself.

“Whom
you choose to marry, for convenience or not, Lord Westcott is completely
irrelevant and interests me not, nor do your reasons for doing so. Your conduct
in my house, however, is of great import to me. You, sir, have treated my house
and my hospitality with disrespect. Adelphi is not Covent Garden or Drury Lane.
I am not accustomed to gentlemen using my house as a place of procurement! And
to so treat my wife’s dearest friend!” Mercer spluttered to an end.

“Again,
I apologize. I acted heedlessly, but in my defense, I acted out of love. I did
not; I still do not want to lose Isobel. I felt my offer was the best I could
do in my situation. I knew it would hurt her to hear of my engagement. I begged
Lord Stoughton to wait until we returned to London, so that I could properly
prepare Isobel and make her mine, though I did not share my reasons with him.
But he would not wait, threatening to cancel the engagement. I was tempted. Oh,
was I tempted. But my father had extracted a promise from me and I had to keep
it.” Westcott rubbed his weary eyes with his left hand, looking thoroughly
defeated.

“Your
predicament, though pitiable, is not my concern, Westcott. I will give you one
piece of advice. Forget about Miss Kennilworth, she will not have you.”

“I
sincerely hope you are wrong, Lord Mercer.” Westcott rose. “Is that all?”

“One
more thing, though it is not my affair. This preposterous duel you propose to
fight with Saybrooke. You say you care about Miss Kennilworth? Adding a duel to
her growing list of supposed improprieties will seal her fate with the
ton
.”

“You
are right, Mercer. It is not your affair.” Westcott continued to stand as if
waiting to be released.

“Very
well. This is a devil of a coil, Westcott. Good day.” Mercer strode to the door
to open it, signaling an end to their interview.

“I
shall be leaving Adelphi within the hour. Once again, Mercer, I do apologize if
my actions have reflected poorly on you or your lovely wife.” Westcott extended
his hand to Mercer, who hesitated briefly and shook it.

“I
suppose that I should wish you and Lady Cynthia happy.”

Lord
Westcott, Mercer’s hand still clasped within his own, looked him in the eye.
“You may wish it, Mercer, but I have little hope of happiness with Lady
Cynthia,” pronounced Westcott and exited the room. Mercer, shaking his head,
watched him go.

*****

 “But
Manning, surely you must know what has occurred to upset your mistress so,”
exclaimed Lady Whitcomb as she sat in the cozy salon and proceeded to grill
Manning. Isobel had arrived unexpectedly three hours ago and had burst into
tears when Lady Whitcomb asked her why she had returned early. Without another
word she had fled to her room, locked the door, admitting only Manning and
refused food, conversation or comfort.

“Yes,
my lady, but she has forbid me to say anything,” said Manning staring at her
shoes.

“And
she is not saying either,” sighed Lady Whitcomb, impatient to know why her
usually unflappable niece was so distraught.

“I
gave her a sleeping powder, my lady. She should feel better after a nice long rest.”
Manning curtsied, and turned to leave when Lady Whitcomb stopped her with
another question.

“Was
it a man?”

Manning’s
eyes nearly bugged out of her head, but she said, “I could not say my lady.”

“Ah,
it usually is. Did she fall for a married man, is that it?”

“No,
my lady. I mean, I could not say, my lady.” Manning fought the urge to run from
the room.

“Well,
that is a relief. Did she allow a rake to ravage her? Is that it?”

Manning
gasped. “She never!” Stopping herself, Manning begged Lady Whitcomb to cease
her interrogation. “Please, my lady. Could you not wait to speak to Miss
Kennilworth?”

“If
I could wait, I would not be badgering you,” said Lady Whitcomb simply.

At
that moment Renfrew entered, a buoyant smile on his heavily freckled face. He
intoned, in his little-used butler voice, “Lord Saybrooke, my lady, to see Miss
Kennilworth.”

“Lord
Saybrooke?” She turned to Manning. “Was Lord Saybrooke at Adelphi?”

“Yes,
my lady.”

“Aha!
Renfrew, put him in the parlor and tell him Miss Kennilworth is not receiving,
but that I will be down presently. If he makes to go, tell him I wish to see
him especially and that I am most anxious to speak with him. Oh, and tell Mrs.
Kitchen to prepare tea.”

Renfrew
withdrew to carry out his orders and Manning was hard on his heels out of the
door. Lady Whitcomb heaved her round body off of the brocade armchair and peeked
in on the sleeping Isobel before descending the stairs. She was determined to
get some answers.

Lord
Saybrooke stood as Lady Whitcomb entered the parlor. “Lady Whitcomb,” intoned
Saybrooke, sketching a bow.

“Lord
Saybrooke,” returned Lady Whitcomb with a slight inclination of her head. “Please,
be seated,” she said as she did so herself.

“I
came to inquire after Izzy,” Saybrooke said, lowering himself into a chair
opposite Lady Whitcomb. “I have just returned from Hertfordshire.”

“I
can see that,” said Lady Whitcomb eyeing the dust and dirt that covered the Viscount’s
clothes, his swollen lip and bruised face.

“I
apologize for appearing in my dirt, but I was anxious to see how Izzy does.”

“She
is sleeping, thanks to a potion of Manning’s. She was distraught when she
arrived home; I have yet to learn why. I was hoping perhaps you could tell me.”

“I
would not presume to tell Miss Kennilworth’s story in her stead,” answered
Saybrooke, reverting to his inbred formality.

“Yes,
well, she is sleeping and I am at wit’s end. I must know what has occurred. Come
now, Lord Saybrooke, I have known you since you were in leading strings. You
were never one to be over concerned about the proprieties.”

“People
change,” Saybrooke observed morosely.

“Do
we?” asked Lady Whitcomb. “Of course we grow older and are affected by
circumstances, good and bad. Hopefully we mature a little. But, no, Lord
Saybrooke, I do not think we change who we essentially are. We simply learn to wear
masks that protect us from our own vulnerability and present a face that
society wants to see. We call it our duty, but it is really a means of hiding our
true selves in order to pass muster.”

Saybrooke
looked at the woman before him, her chartreuse and violet checked gown, her
multiple chins and was unable to hide his amazement. He had always thought her
silly, a bit simple. He found himself unable to answer her.

“I
know I shock you with my moralizing. I, Lord Saybrooke, have always hidden
behind a mask of affability and frivolity. But of late, I am become a bit of a
philosopher.”

“I
confess to shock, my lady, but also delight.” Lord Saybrooke smiled at the new
Lady Whitcomb. No, the true Lady Whitcomb.

“Ooh,
the tea has arrived,” cooed Lady Whitcomb, back in her familiar guise. “And
Mrs. Kitchen has made cherry tarts! How nice!”

Tea
was duly poured, cherry tarts sampled and desultory conversation made. Once
Renfrew had left and Lady Whitcomb’s impressive appetite had been momentarily
assuaged, she returned to the reason for this little tête-à-tête.

“So,
tell me Saybrooke, what have you done to Isobel this time?” Lady Whitcomb’s
words caught him off guard and he promptly began to choke on a cherry tart.
Lady Whitcomb stood and ineffectively patted Saybrooke on the back. After a
prolonged coughing fit and a few sips of tea, Saybrooke was able to speak.

“I?
Whatever do you mean, Lady Whitcomb?” he managed, his voice raspy.

“Isobel
returned from Adelphi highly agitated. You were at Adelphi. You have always had
the power to affect Isobel deeply; in fact, I fear she has never gotten over
you. I assumed you had something to do with her distress.”

“As
much as I would like to believe in my power over Isobel, I fear it is no longer
true. And while Isobel and I did have a few rather difficult conversations, I
am not the cause of Isobel’s suffering. It is Westcott.”

“Westcott?”
Lady Whitcomb wracked her brain. “Ah, Jeremy Ingles, future Viscount of Bourne,”
she said triumphantly. “What has he to do with anything?”

Just
as Saybrooke was about to answer, Renfrew reappeared. “Lord Westcott, My Lady.”

Westcott
strode into the room and stopped abruptly when he saw Saybrooke. He paused long
enough to glare at his rival and then bowed to Lady Whitcomb. “Good afternoon,
Lady Whitcomb. Forgive me for intruding. I have come to see how Miss Kennilworth
fares.” Lady Whitcomb nodded at the reluctant Renfrew, silently shooing him
from the room.

Eyeing
yet another gentleman with travel stained clothes, this one with a bandaged
nose, Lady Whitcomb shook her head.
Did no one dress properly anymore?
thought
the woman in the hideous dress. “As I explained to Saybrooke, she is resting,
but terribly upset. He has intimated that you are the cause of her distress.”
Lady Whitcomb’s bead-like eyes fixated on Lord Westcott’s wary blue orbs.

“I
am afraid I am guilty as charged, but I am here to make things right. I assure
you it was all a misunderstanding,” confessed Lord Westcott.

“Ha!”
barked Lord Saybrooke. “How does one misunderstand being offered carte blanche?”

Lady
Whitcomb gasped and Westcott glared at Saybrooke. Saybrooke continued. “Unless
of course you said ‘mistress’ when you meant ‘wife’? But then where does that
leave your affianced Lady Cynthia?”

The
color drained from Lady Whitcomb and she looked to swoon. With great difficulty
Westcott and Saybrooke together managed to grab her and lower her bulk onto the
velvet couch and then rang for Renfrew, who, in turn, sent for Philpot, Lady
Whitcomb’s maid.

“See
what you have done, Saybrooke. To speak so in front of this poor lady.”

“And
yet you did so to Miss Kennilworth without compunction.”

“I
will not discuss this with you here. In fact I will not discuss her with you
ever,” hissed Lord Westcott.

“Oh,
but we shall, at Hampstead Heath. But we shall let our pistols do the talking.”

“So
it is to be pistols? My second, Perkins will meet with your man Finch tomorrow
morning. Do not try and weasel out of it.”

“Quite
the contrary, I look forward to having an open field with Miss Kennilworth.”

Philpot’s
arrival with a vinaigrette served to stop the two men from coming to blows.
Saybrooke gladly released Lady Whitcomb into her maid’s care. “Lady Whitcomb, I
sincerely apologize for causing you distress. I will take my leave, but beg you
allow me to call tomorrow to see how you and Izzy are faring.”

Westcott
was quick to say his piece. “Yes, my lady, I am desolate to have caused you
pain. If you allow me to call tomorrow, all will be made right.”

Lady
Whitcomb focused her blurry eyes on each of the gentlemen in turn. “Be gone
with both of you scoundrels. We shall see about tomorrow. I make no promises.”

Both
men bowed to the troubled lady and took their leave. They exited the house on
Woburn Place in silence, both mounted their weary horses and headed in opposite
directions.

Inside
Lady Whitcomb was slowly regaining her rosy complexion. “My poor Isobel, what
humiliation she has suffered! And now there is to be a duel!”

“A
duel, my lady?” Philpot asked as she continued to fan her mistress.

“Yes,
a duel where two arrogant fools shoot at or try to skewer each other for the
sake of honor. Ha! For the sake of idiocy, more like. Go fetch, Manning. I need
to know as soon as Isobel is awake. It is time she used her gift for plotting in
a good cause.”

Isobel
slept through the night and woke the next morning feeling groggy and depressed.
It only took a single breath for her to remember everything that had taken
place at Adelphi. Manning arrived with a welcome breakfast of chocolate and
toast and an unwelcome Lady Whitcomb.

“Aunt,
I promise you I will tell all, but please, just give me a little more time.”

“Oh,
I already know everything I need to know, except who exactly is Lady Cynthia?”

Isobel
looked daggers at Manning.

“Oh,
do not blame Manning. She was as silent as the grave, much to my dismay. No,
no. Saybrooke and Westcott filled me in on all the salacious goings on.”
Isobel’s gasp of surprise proved disastrous as she was swallowing a piece of
toast at the time. It took Manning a full minute to help her recover from her
fit of coughing.

“Westcott
was here? Saybrooke was here? They
told
you what occurred at Adelphi?”
Isobel did not believe that either man was that far gone, that he would tell
her aging aunt about such a sordid affair.