Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (21 page)

“I believe
you are correct in your assessment, Miss Kennilworth. It will take more than
mere words.” Lady Doncaster fell silent again, sensing the tentative connection
between herself and Miss Kennilworth faltering. She chose her words carefully.
“During your come-out season you proved to be quite resourceful in arranging
matters to your own liking. In this way, Joanna is very like you, though
instead of aspiring to a duke, she seems to be bent on spinsterhood. I am very
much hoping, Miss Kennilworth, that you would be willing to undertake a little
scheme to promote the match.” Lady Doncaster saw that Isobel was about to
refuse and forestalled her.

“I am not
asking for you to deceive Joanna in any way. But if Lord Pelton happened to
come and call on a few occasions while Joanna and Mary were visiting, perhaps
she would see him in a different light. She would see that you esteem him. And
you could judge for yourself if indeed he is right for Joanna.”

“Again, Lady
Doncaster, you give me too much credit. My past romantic endeavors have been
sadly ill conceived. Surely you cannot think my opinion trustworthy, or my
instincts reliable.”

“And yet I
do. You have been much abused by the gentlemen in your life. I believe that
gives you greater insight and wisdom, not less. Joanna will not listen to me,
for she believes me to be too tame and compliant. She sees much of herself in
you and admires you because of it.”

Isobel felt
the unbidden tears stinging her eyes, but held them at bay. “My abuse, as you
so generously refer to it, was in large part a result of my own machinations. I
cannot claim any wisdom. If Lady Joanna has similar tendencies for scheming, I
can hardly be held up to her as a paragon.”

“You are too
hard on yourself, Miss Kennilworth. We women are taught from birth how to catch
a husband. Any education we receive is for that aim. It is our sole purpose in
life. Your machinations, as you put it, were used toward that end. You were
fulfilling the role that society has imposed upon you with your own brand of
cunning. I find that admirable.” There was no sign of Lady Doncaster’s innate
shyness as she spoke, but a hint of resentment tinged her words.

Isobel sat
quite still for a moment crumbling her uneaten scone with her delicate fingers.
Lady Doncaster’s estimation of her was cheering and as far from Saybrooke’s
condemnation of her actions as night is from day. But she could not be
completely pleased, for she felt the truth of it lay somewhere in the middle.
Before she could give any answer Lady Doncaster spoke again.

“I fully
understand that I have no right to ask this of you, Miss Kennilworth. I only do
so in the belief that you are at heart a kind woman and have taken a liking to
Joanna. I ask only that you consider my proposal.”

Isobel
almost laughed out loud. For weeks she sat alone with Aunt Maude as her only
company, bemoaning her sedate existence, and within two days she had received
the most outrageous and unexpected proposals imaginable. Isobel cringed
inwardly, contemplating Charles’ wicked plot and felt ashamed in the presence
of this generous woman and doting mother. She forced herself to meet Lady Doncaster’s
eyes.

“I will
consider it,” said Isobel.

“Shall I
call again in a week’s time?” Lady Doncaster asked, trying not to be overly
assertive.

“No. I would
not have you risk it. I will send a note within the week assessing you of my
decision. And if my answer is no?” asked Isobel, hoping Lady Doncaster would
understand her meaning. She did.

“I shall not
forbid her visits to you, Miss Kennilworth. I meant what I said.”

Lady
Stoughton gently placed her empty teacup on the mahogany table next to her
chair and stood. Isobel followed suit and gave Lady Doncaster a polite curtsy.
“It has been a pleasure, Lady Doncaster. Thank you for coming.”

“The
pleasure has been all mine, I assure you.” Lady Doncaster bestowed a pleasant
smile on Isobel, bowed her head slightly, and took her leave.

Isobel had
only a few moments to catch her breath when Lord Saybrooke was announced.
Isobel felt drained from her visit with Lady Doncaster and had just decided to
refuse him, when he burst through the door behind Renfrew.

Isobel fixed
Saybrooke with a glare that belied her civil words that were laced with acid.
“By all means, Renfrew, allow his lordship to enter.” Renfrew’s confused glance
hovered between Isobel and Saybrooke.

“I was
afraid you would refuse me, so I took matters into my own hands.” Saybrooke had
the grace to look abashed, all the while toying with his hat and walking stick.

“That will
be all, Renfrew. Please take his lordship’s hat and cane as you leave.” Renfrew
reached for the offending articles, leaving Saybrooke no outlet for his
anxiety. “Oh, and Renfrew…” Isobel began.

“More tea,
Miss?” Renfrew asked with a cheeky grin. Ah, so the impudent footman was back
replacing the stodgy old retainer. At least it made life interesting.

“Thank you,
Renfrew. And do be careful,” She added as he juggled the tray, walking stick
and hat.

“Hello,
Izzy,” Saybrooke said as the door closed on the many faceted Renfrew. The smile
he gave her sent a flutter through her.

“Lord
Saybrooke,” said Isobel formally. She was not going to give in to these
unwelcome reactions. “Please be seated.”

Isobel
gestured to the chair so recently vacated by Lady Doncaster as she sat back
down on the gold velvet couch. Lord Saybrooke ignored the Chippendale chair and
sat himself down next to Isobel. She cast another glare in his direction,
knowing it would not hinder him in the least.

“I have come
to make amends, Izzy. I know you are angry with me and have every reason to be.
But, it came to me yesterday as I was reading the scriptures. It fairly jumped
out at me. Thus the note I sent you this morning. By the way did you like the
flowers? Irises stand for inspiration.” Saybrooke knew he was babbling, but was
powerless to stop it. He had to get this out now before he lost his nerve.

“They are
lovely. Thank you.” Isobel’s cold manner did nothing to hamper the determined
Lord Saybrooke.

Saybrooke
stood and began to pace as he spoke. “I am ashamed of myself. Ashamed! I have
taken great pains in our last few meetings to point out all your perceived
failures while completely missing my own. Almost everything that I accused you
of, I have done myself. I have been so anxious to please my mother and be
worthy of the name Saybrooke, that I have completely lost sight of who I truly
am – Andrew Stafford. I have been caught somewhere between a Viscount and a
vicar, not knowing which I actually was. But in truth, I am neither. Those are
just titles.” Lord Saybrooke’s entire frame fairly crackled with passion. This
revelation had come to him on the previous evening as he stood in a crowded
ballroom feeling lost. The Viscount in him wanted to do his duty and ask the
awkward Miss Drummond to dance. The vicar in him wanted to flee to the nearest
book room. And then the lightning bolt had struck! What did Andrew Stafford
want? And he knew what to do. Poor Miss Drummond was left without a partner and
Andrew Stafford, Viscount Saybrooke formerly the vicar of Axminster,
Devonshire, left the ballroom.

Isobel did
not feel constrained to speak. She allowed Andrew to unburden himself. Suddenly
he stopped pacing and took his place by her side. “Izzy, do you remember my
favorite passage in the Bible?”

“Of course,”
said Isobel mildly. “You quoted it to me often enough. It was from the book of
the Psalms, the one hundred and thirty ninth chapter.”

Lord
Saybrooke seemed inordinately pleased that she had remembered. “Yes! I will not
quote it at you now, but the words came screaming into my head last night as I
stood in Lord Chisholm’s overcrowded ballroom. God knows my every thought, my
every desire because He created me. I am a unique creation, Andrew Stafford. I
happened to have been a vicar and am now a Viscount, but despite my
circumstances or my station in life I must be true to the inner man that God
created. Once that became clear to me, I realized that there are two things
that Andrew Stafford wants. The first is to spend my life making a difference
in the world, taking part in my ‘hopeless causes’ as you call them. The second
is to spend my aforementioned life with you by my side.” Saybrooke, in one
swift movement lowered himself onto the floor, perched on one knee and took
Isobel’s hands in his. “Marry me, Izzy!”

Isobel was
caught off guard. She had listened to Saybrooke’s impassioned, if lengthy
speech with interest and perhaps a bit of conviction. But she was used to Andrew’s
inspirational ramblings and even appreciated his spiritual bent, for she had
once shared it and knew it to be sincere. She was not however, prepared for his
final sentence. Good Lord, thought Isobel, another proposal and this one more
astounding than the other two.

Isobel had
no further time for reflection. Renfrew burst through the door with a liveried
footman on his heels. “Miss, James, has come from Wren House.” As Renfrew
paused to take a breath, the footman took up the tale. “It’s Lord Charles, your
Grace…er, Miss. He was just brought to Wren House by the Watch.”

Isobel
panicked. Charles has been found out, his dastardly deed uncovered! The
footman’s next words eased those fears, but brought new ones. “They found him
in the Rookery. He’s been beat up real bad, Miss. Her Grace has sent me to
fetch you, for he keeps crying out for you.”

Isobel
rallied. “Of course, I shall come straight away. Renfrew, my carriage.”

“We can take
mine,” offered Lord Saybrooke, including himself without being invited.

“Her Grace’s
carriage is waiting to take you, Miss, and the gentleman, if you like,” James
assured them.

Isobel
turned to Saybrooke. “You need not come, Drew…”

“I am
coming,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Though she
did not want him to come, Isobel did not want to waste the time it would take
to talk Saybrooke around. She gave instructions to Renfrew to inform her aunt
of what had occurred and she left the house on Woburn Street and headed to her
former home.

In the
carriage, an awkward silence reigned. Saybrooke’s proposal hung unanswered
between them, but both knew it was not the time to discuss it. Saybrooke knew
he had failed Isobel in the past, but he would be here for her now. She did not
need patronizing words or lofty speeches. She simply needed to be comforted.
Saybrooke said nothing, but took her hand in his, pulling out his handkerchief
with his other hand to dry her tears.

When Isobel
and Saybrooke arrived at Wren House, they were quickly hustled up to Charles’
room. He lay with his head on the pillow, his swollen eyes closed. One of the
maids was sponging his badly beaten face. His valet, Griffin hovered nearby.
There was no sign of the Duchess.

“Charles,”
Isobel whispered, tears pricking her eyes. “Charles.”

“He’s been
in and out, Miss,” explained Griffin. “Doctor says he’s concussed. He has a
broken hand and leg, too. And a few ribs.”

“Is he in
any danger?” Saybrooke asked.

“Doctor
Blanchard seems to think he’ll pull through, My Lord.” 

Isobel sat
on the bed, careful not to cause any harm to Lord Charles. She gently grasped Charles’
unbandaged hand and let the tears freely flow. “You bacon brained ninnyhammer!”
she whispered through her tears.

“Who’s a
ninnyhammer?” uttered a hoarse voice from the general direction of the pillow.
“I am not the one carrying on. Stop the waterworks Izzy; I haven’t cocked up my
toes yet.” Charles tried for a smile, but on his battered face it looked like a
grimace.

“No thanks
to you!” Isobel burst out.

Saybrooke
wondered at Isobel’s reaction. She blamed Aiken for his own beating? Something
was definitely havey-cavey here. He continued to stand in the shadows, just
beyond Lord Charles’ view.

Charles’
rasping voice came again. “I am sorry Isobel. I could not do it...”

“Hush, now.
Do not talk,” shushed Isobel hoping Saybrooke did not follow the young Lord’s
ravings.

“No, I must
say it. By the time I got to the Rookery, I had changed my mind. I decided I
couldn’t go through with it. I’m not cut out for skullduggery, Isobel. I am
sorry. I am afraid I will not be duke and you will not be my duchess.”

“Charles,
truly you must not speak!” Her eyes flew to Saybrooke whose face had turned to
stone.
What was he thinking?
she wondered frantically.

“Don’t fret
Isobel. I’ll go to the continent,” Lord Charles croaked.

“No,
Charles. We’ll think of something else.” Isobel whispered.

Lord Charles
fluttered his eyes and the slur in his speech became more pronounced. “We shall
see. But, now I think I will go to sleep.” And without further ado, he did.

Isobel
continued to hold his hand, hoping to put off the inevitable confrontation with
Saybrooke. He was not a fool. Her brain worked furiously to invent a likely
explanation. None came.

“Izzy, he is
asleep. Perhaps we can find a place to have a conversation.” Saybrooke’s voice
was deceptively calm. Isobel would rather he scream. She patted Charles’ hand
and placed it gently on the bed. Before she could answer another voice broke
in.