Lady in Blue (9 page)

Three days after coming
to terms with the earl, Clare sat in the music room of Ernestine Fitzwalter’s mansion, absently picking out the melody of an old hymn on the ebony pianoforte.

Whatever was she doing in this bizarre house? The walls, hung with wooden African masks, war hatchets, and objects she could not identify, seemed to be closing in on her. And all the tables and chairs had paws, like animals. Bellpulls dangled everywhere. She had only to give a tug and a servant appeared, so proper and aloof that she took care never to touch the cords.

This was her first day alone, at loose ends. Until now Mrs. Beales had kept her occupied, towing her through an endless number of shops where she was tugged at and measured, draped and pinned, until her head spun and her feet ached. A small portion of her new wardrobe was stored upstairs, while seamstresses completed the rest, but already she had more clothes and fripperies than any one person ought to need.

The earl appeared to have lost interest in her. Since bringing her here, in the company of a charming man named Robert Lacey, Lord Heydon, he had virtually disappeared. She had a note from the earl this morning, saying he would call on her at his earliest convenience, and since reading it she’d been unaccountably nervous. For a short time, she’d almost managed to convince herself that he didn’t exist.

Lost in thought, she was startled when the door swung open and a vision in lavender swept across the polished floor. Clare came to her feet, heart thumping in her chest.

The woman was beautiful, with blue eyes, pale blond hair, and a bright smile curving a wide mouth. Except for the gold settings on her necklace and earbobs, she was done up completely in shades of violet.

“You must be one of Aunt Ernie’s friends,” said the vision in a light, cheery voice. “How nice to meet you. I am Isabella Marbury, her most disreputable relation. But I expect she told you about me. She makes it a point to warn everyone in advance. And you are—?” She extended a gloved hand expectantly.

Clare stepped back, flushing hotly. She didn’t think women in her new profession ought to shake hands with ladies. “C-Clare Easton,” she stammered.

Isabella colored too and dropped her hand. “Oh,” she said, her eyes a little hurt.

Clare hurried to explain. “Truly, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s only that I have never met the duchess and ought not to be here at all.”

“But how delicious! An authentic mystery, and I so longing for one. Will you have lunch with me?”

The startling invitation rendered Clare mute again. She had no idea in the world how to deal with this awkward situation.

It quickly became apparent the matter was out of her hands. Isabella Marbury was the violet personification of an irresistible force. “Come,” she said, already on her way to the door. “We’ll have Mrs. Halley fix us a bite and a dish of tea.”

“Mrs. Halley?” Clare trailed in her wake. “But the cook is a man. Mr. Lyle.”

“Hendly Lyle?” The vision paused. “How odd. I thought he worked for . . . well, never mind.” She took off again, heels clicking on the marble floor. “At least we’ll have a fine meal.”

Isabella maintained a steady flow of chatter while the servants dished up lobster salad, veal medallions in cream sauce, gingered carrots, and asparagus soufflé. Clare pecked at her food, little being required of her but an occasional nod. The woman was Isabella Marbury, Countess of Hogge, she learned. And because she despised being addressed by her proper title, Lady Hogge, she insisted that everyone call her Lady Isabella. Even the High Sticklers had finally agreed to do so. She was Robert Lacey’s sister and a widow. Her bridegroom’s regiment had been dispatched to the Peninsula three days after the wedding, where he was almost immediately killed in battle.

“How sad,” Clare murmured.

“Dear me, no. Not that I wished him dead, but I scarcely knew the man. Henry Marbury has been gone these eight years, and all I remember of him was how splendid he looked in his regimentals. I was very young and immature, you understand.”

“But you are still in mourning.”

Isabella look puzzled. “Why would you think . . . ah! My clothing. This is merely my lavender phase, Miss Easton, which I sense drawing to an end. Perhaps you’ll help me select a color for my next wardrobe. I’ve wanted to try shades of orange, but with blond hair I might look too much like a summer sunrise. What do you think?”

“Blue would suit you perfectly.” Those were the last words Clare spoke during the meal. After a dessert of raspberry pudding, Lady Isabella led her to a small sitting room, where she examined the furniture meticulously before choosing a silver brocade chair.

“So many colors clash with lavender,” she explained, settling herself gracefully. “Sometimes I am compelled to stand for an entire evening. Why don’t you sit right across from me, so I can look you in the eye while I quiz you. You do have the most spectacular eyes.”

Unable to muster a response, Clare sat obediently and folded her hands in her lap.

“Have you had sufficient time to recover yourself, Miss Easton? When I first came into the room I thought you would swoon dead away. Actually, I’ve never seen anyone swoon who wasn’t pretending—not that I wanted you to demonstrate, of course. But you were so pale I thought perhaps you ought to eat something.” She cocked her head appraisingly. “You do look better. Or at least more composed. I would not turn you over to the authorities, you know, even if you were a housebreaker. And that is impossible, because Hendly Lyle would never prepare luncheon for a criminal.”

He would if you told him to, Clare thought, wanting to smile. “I was admitted with a key,” she said, answering the real question before launching a small surprise of her own. “By a relation of yours, I believe, since he also referred to the duchess as—”

Lady Isabella raised both hands, which sparkled with amethyst rings. “No, no. Let me guess.” Then she frowned. “It’s too easy. No one but Robert would even think of using Ernie’s house while she’s gone, let alone have the nerve.” She looked directly at Clare, her gaze frank and not unfriendly. “Have I stumbled upon a difficult situation, Miss Easton? Is my brother keeping you here under his protection? It’s a clever idea, I must say, though Ernie will have a fit. Good heavens, what a lark. I’m glad to see old Lace is still up to snuff. Never think I’ll give you away, because Robert and I have been covering for each other all our lives. And I should be able to let you know when Ernie is on her way back to England, for we are in frequent correspondence. Indeed, I only came by to sort through her post and forward anything important.”

Clare could barely keep up with her. “I am not your brother’s mistress,” she said after a moment.

“Oh, dear.” Isabella wrinkled her pert nose. “I
have
blundered.”

“Not . . . precisely. Lord Heydon is doing a favor for a friend. I am
his
mistress.”

“No, no, don’t tell me. Let me guess.” She stomped her foot. “Botheration! This is all too
easy. The chef gives it away. Bryndle must have sent him.”

“B-Bryndle?”

“I expect he hasn’t told you his nickname. Doesn’t like it, which is why we take pains to use it at every opportunity. Considering your relationship, Miss Easton, you might do well to refrain, but then one always blurts out the exact words one is trying
not
to say. Bound to happen. Just don’t tell him where you first heard it. That will be our secret . . . one of many, I expect. You have a great many secrets, do you not?”

For once in her life, Clare was unable to repress her amusement. It gurgled up, past her embarrassment and self-control, past both hands pressed over her mouth, erupting in a laugh so light and charming it found an echo.

Countess and mistress giggled like two schoolgirls, neither quite sure what they were laughing at. At last, wiping tears from her eyes, Clare found her voice. “Do you know
everything
?”
she asked, awestruck. “I daresay you do. I feel I’m being pried open like a clamshell. Does anyone manage to withstand your inquisitions?”

“Not if I persevere. It’s rather like fencing: a bit of dancing around, now and again a partial engagement, and then
voilà—
ze
lunge for ze throat!” This was accompanied by a dramatic swoop. “You see, you’ve dropped your guard. May I call you Clare?”

“Yes, of course.” When she sniffled, Isabella opened her reticule and passed Clare a lace-edged handkerchief. It was lavender, and scented with lavender water, which set Clare laughing again. It was years since she’d laughed so long and so loud, and oh, it felt good. “But you ought not be speaking to me at all, Lady Isabella.”

“Whyever not? Don’t think to stand on ceremony with me, Clare. I shan’t permit it. In the normal course of things we are unlikely to meet, but if good fortune brings us together, as it has today, it would be a crime not to enjoy each other’s company. I will ask you to call me Isabella, though I really wish you’d call me Izzy. But by all means choose an address you feel comfortable with. Bryndle prefers Dizzy.”

Feeling dizzy herself, Clare leaned back in the chair and smiled weakly. Friendship with this comet was impossible, but she had never been so instantly drawn to anyone. Except Florette, she thought, her smile fading. You are a whore, she reminded herself. You will burn in hell.

A warm hand touched her forearm. “Have I offended you? I don’t mean to. It’s just that I’ve known Bryn all my life, and he’s nearly as much a brother to me as Robert.”

“As Lord Caradoc’s sister or his friend, you can scarcely approve of me.”

“But no one has called on me to approve or disapprove, except you. In truth, were you not such a snob, I could like you enormously.”

Clare sat forward. “A snob?”

“My, yes.” Lady Isabella shrugged prettily. “Likely I am not respectable enough for you. Or perhaps you are offended because I too have seen Bryn naked as a newborn babe.”

“But I haven’t se—” She clamped her lips shut.

“Truly? Excuse me, but how can that be? The man is never shy, and why would he be, with that glorious physique?”

Clare’s cheeks felt hot enough to roast potatoes. “I have not yet . . . taken up my duties.”

“Duties?”
It was Isabella’s turn to whoop with laughter. But when she spoke again, her tone was remorseful. “In that case, I have embarrassed you and I apologize most sincerely. My tongue has a mind of its own, and not a very wise one.”

“You mustn’t apologize to me, Lady Isabella. And truly, I am not a snob. But everyone I meet seems to take my position so . . . nonchalantly.”

“Except you.”

“Yes. I am not sure how to behave, or what to say, or to whom I ought to speak at all. Mr. Lyle scares me to death.”

“The hauteur of otherwise excellent servants with irreplaceable skills can be most annoying,” Isabella agreed. “And no one is more temperamental than a chef. But never allow yourself to be intimidated, Clare. We all came onto this earth naked and squalling. The next time anyone dares look down his nose at you, just imagine him a baby with a soiled nappy.”

Clare tried, and failed, to picture the Earl of Caradoc as an infant.

Isabella pulled out her fan. “I ought to explain that when I saw Bryn in the altogether, I was four years old. He and Lace had been riding and chose to take a dip in a small lake where I happened to be playing.” She grinned. “Naturally I purloined their clothes and left them two miles from home bare-bummed as the day they were born. It is one of my fondest memories. Their revenge is not such a fond recollection, but we’ll save that for another day. May I quiz you a bit more, Clare? Why are you here and not at Clouds?”

“It is being decorated,” she answered, welcoming the change of subject. “Your brother expects the work to be completed soon, and meantime Caradoc has stored me here.”

“Robert has excellent taste,” Isabella said. “I’m sure you’ll approve the results. And Bryn is colorblind, of course. I expect he didn’t choose that gown, which is very becoming. Is my brother supervising your wardrobe too?”

Clare fingered the soft apricot muslin, quite the nicest dress she’d ever worn. “I’ve been turned over to a dressmaker with a French accent more phony than—” she almost said “Florette’s” and bit her tongue. “Tomorrow I am scheduled for a dancing lesson and a trip to the circulating library, if his lordship has time. This afternoon I am to select a maid.” She shook her head. “As if I’d know how.”

“Choose a girl you like,” advised Lady Isabella. “Maids are always underfoot, and a companionable maid can be taught skills while a skillful one cannot be grafted with a pleasing personality.” She glanced at a clock, set incongruously in the forehead of a primitive mask hung over the fireplace. “I must be off,” she said briskly, drawing a small gold case from her reticule and pulling out an engraved card. “This is where I live. If ever I can do something for you, please send word or come to me directly. I mean that, Clare Easton.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “I mean that,” she said again.

From instinct, or desperation, Clare seized the offer. “You can help me now,” she blurted, “if it can be a secret.”

“I
knew
we’d have secrets,” Isabella exclaimed with clear delight. “And I sniffed a mystery from the moment I saw you.” She leaned forward eagerly. “What can I do?”

Clare’s hands twisted in her lap. “I need something delivered to a friend that cannot be trusted to the post, and no one must know about it.”

Frowning, Isabella shook her head. “I can do nothing to betray Bryn.”

“Of course not. I would never ask such a thing of you.”

Isabella studied her intently for a long moment and nodded. “In that case, I’ll be glad to see it delivered. Shall I take it with me now?”

Clare popped from her chair. “Oh, yes, if you will. Just let me get it and write some directions. I’ll be back in a moment.” She sped upstairs, returning minutes later with a large envelope. “You cannot go yourself,” she said, handing it to Isabella. “My friend is at a postinghouse on the outskirts of London. But please send someone you trust completely.” She stared at the envelope, watching Isabella fold it in half and place it in her reticule.