Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (30 page)

“
Of course not.”

“
How many times has he
come?”

“
I don’t know! I don’t really pay
attention.”

Alexander’s bad humor ended as quickly as it
started. “I’m sorry,” he said. He pulled her to him. “I’ll be glad
when this thing is over and we can leave London.”

Isobel arrived at the duke’s shortly before the
guests began arriving. It was not until she had spent about half an
hour making sure the musicians were ready that she began to feel
nervous. She paced the music hall until she heard a commotion that
could only mean the King had arrived.

Faircourt nudged her. “Surely there is no harm done
if you go take a look.”

Isobel looked at him gratefully. “I hope it takes my
mind off my nerves!” she said.

It was easy to find the room where the King was
receiving. The duke’s house was an old one, with most of the rooms
connected to one another by doors so that one might walk the length
of the house without going out into the hall. She found that she
had an almost unimpeded view of the King from a small anteroom. She
stood quietly, watching as he greeted the guests. He was not very
tall, and his bright satin suit did not look well on his stocky
frame. Mallentrye stood next to his chair, laughing dutifully at
His Majesty’s occasional witticisms. The King suddenly frowned and
the duke bent to say something to him in a low voice. She followed
the duke’s glance. Her heart leaped when she saw Alexander,
handsome in plum-colored satin. He towered over the other men in
the room, and his bow to his sovereign was as gracefully executed
as any man could hope. To her surprise, the King’s greeting was
curt; that he was for some reason displeased with Alexander was all
too evident.

Isobel’s attention was riveted on the duke’s cold
smile as he watched Alexander retreat. The expression became a
sneer when a short man with sharp dark features tapped Mallentrye
on the shoulder. The duke bent to the King again, obviously
excusing himself, for he followed the other man into the anteroom.
She had no desire to see the duke, and she was about to leave
through another door when the duke’s words riveted her to the
spot.

“
Hartforde’s here after all,
Fordham. Have you got it?”

“
Of course, Your Grace.” Fordham’s
voice was gravelly.

“
And you’ve taken care of
Hawes?”

“
Yes, I’ve taken care of Hawes.”
The sentence ended in a chilling laugh. Something about their tone
kept Isobel from leaving.

“
Let me see it. I want to make
sure you haven’t bungled the job.” She heard the crackle of
parchment being unfolded, then silence. “Excellent,” the duke said.
“When His Majesty sees this, Hartforde will rue the day he was
born. Do you have the seals?”

“
Yes, Your Grace.”

“
Then take this to my study and
see that you finish the job properly.” The door shut behind the
duke with a bang as he left to rejoin the reception. There was a
softer repeat of the sound when Fordham left the room.

Isobel stepped out into the hall in time to see
Fordham disappear around a corner. Heart in her throat, she
followed him. She had to get her hands on that document. She stood
outside the door to the room Fordham had entered, uncertain what to
do. At last she took a breath and went in.

Fordham jumped at the sound of the door’s opening;
and frowned at the sight of young Boxham, the composer. He was
sitting at a desk, and he let go of the seal he was pressing into
the wax spreading out over a slim packet. “Get out of here!” he
snarled.

“
Oh, dear me,” Isobel said. “This
does not appear to be the musicians’ room.”

“
No, sir, it does not, does it?”
Hastily he pushed the packet into the desk and closed
it.

“
Do forgive me, sir. I had no
intention of disturbing anyone.” She laughed and bowed.

“
It’s quite all right. No harm
done.” He relaxed at her abashed expression and stood so she would
be prevented from seeing what he did with the seal.

“
Do you think, sir, that you could
point me in the right direction?” She smiled sheepishly. “I’ve
simply no idea where I am.”

He gave gruff instructions and she gave him another
clumsy bow. “I knew I oughtn’t to have drunk so much. Thank you,
sir, for your kindness.”

She had to wait for what seemed an eternity before
she heard Fordham leave so she could slip back into the room. When
she opened the desk she thought for one horrible moment that he had
taken the letter with him. She looked frantically through the
papers and finally found it, tucked away under a pile of other
documents. She sat down in the chair, surprised to recognize the
seal as Alexander’s. The wax was still warm and she managed to
separate it from the paper without breaking it. The letter inside
the parchment wrapping was on plain paper, and when she unfolded it
she almost believed she was looking at Alexander’s bold writing.
When she finished reading the two paragraphs she understood what
the duke had meant. The brief letter purported to be from Alexander
and it outlined a plan to garner enough support in the House of
Lords “to bring George to his knees and have myself named Prime
Minister.” She was about to throw the letter in the fire when she
stopped. She had a better idea. The sound of voices brought Isobel
out of her intense concentration and into a panic of activity. She
quickly replaced the letter and did her best to put the papers back
in their original order. She was fairly certain that the duke did
not intend to show the letter to the King until much later in the
evening. With a silent prayer that she was right, she slipped out
into the hall.

She made her way back to the reception hall and
stopped one of the duke’s footmen, instructing him to bring her
paper and pen. As soon as he returned with the required materials,
she found an empty room and sat down to compose an entirely
different document.

“
There you are!” Isobel jumped at
the sound of Faircourt’s voice. “Mr. Boxham, this is no time to be
writing letters!” he cried when he saw what she was doing. “Come
along, supper’s almost over!”

“
In a moment!” She waved the paper
in the air until it was dry. After folding it carefully, she tucked
it away in her frock coat.

“
Congratulations, Mr. Boxham!”
Faircourt slapped Isobel on the back.

“’
Twas well received, I think.”
She took a deep breath and looked around at the crowd of
well-wishers, searching for Alexander. This was no time for him to
disappear; she had to warn him.

“
What did the King say to you?”
somebody asked.

“
He was very charming and
complimentary.”

“
Bravo, Boxham!” someone else
shouted.

“
Will you excuse me?” She bowed
nervously. If she couldn’t find Alexander soon, it would be too
late. She was certain the duke would not show the King the forged
letter until he was ready to leave, but His Majesty was beginning
to show signs of boredom.

At last Isobel decided she could wait no longer.
Making her way back to the duke’s study proved to be more difficult
than she anticipated. Everyone wanted a word with the new young
composer, but at last she escaped the crowd to find herself alone
in front of the duke’s study. She listened at the door, and when
she was satisfied there was no one there, she went in. With
trembling hands she opened the desk and removed the duke’s letter.
The seal had hardened and she began to loosen it gently from the
paper with the tip of a penknife. Every noise seemed amplified and
several times she froze with fear at the sound of footsteps going
past the door. She wiped a film of perspiration from her forehead
and continued working at the seal. “Hell and damnation!” she swore
when a small piece broke off the edge. It seemed to take an
eternity, and when she was finally finished, her shoulders were
aching from the effort. Slipping out the letter, she replaced it
with her own. She blessed the servant who had left several candles
burning, and, though the underside of the paper was unavoidably
blackened when she held it inches above the flame, at last the wax
was softened enough to reseal the parchment wrapping around the
letter. If it wasn’t examined too carefully it might pass for a
fresh seal.

She heard voices, and her heart gave a sickening
leap when she recognized the duke’s voice. There wasn’t time to
make sure the original letter was burned, so she thrust it into her
waistcoat. She quickly closed up the desk and replaced the candle
on the mantel. The moment she stepped through the door, someone had
her by the shoulders, slamming her against the doorway.

“
What the devil were you doing in
there?” the duke hissed, his face perilously close to her
own.

At almost the same moment the duke grasped her,
Alexander came around the corner. All Isobel could see was his
shocked expression as he saw the duke holding her by the shoulders,
pulling her so close they were almost touching.

The duke twisted around when he heard footsteps.
“Get the hell out of my house, Hartforde!” he snarled.

“
With pleasure, Your
Grace.”

She called out to him, but he never turned back.

“
So, Mr. Boxham,” the duke
snapped, “would you care to explain what you were doing in my
study?”

“
Please, Your Grace.” She shook
herself free from his grasp. She brushed off her jacket and looked
at him as though insulted. I am going to be sick, she thought. “I
was not actually in your study, though I freely admit I was headed
there. These rooms all look alike from the outside.”

The duke’s expression relaxed, and he stepped back a
little. He would probably have let her go if Fordham hadn’t come
along.

“
What’s he doing here?” Fordham
cried.

“
You know him?”

“
Of course he knows me!” Isobel
interjected. “Even the King knows me today. How wonderful to see
you again, sir.” She nodded at Fordham.

“
He was in here earlier, Your
Grace.”

“
I think, Mr. Boxham, we’d better
talk.” The duke took her arm and, opening the door, pushed her
inside. “Check the desk, Fordham.” He jerked his head at the desk.
“Tell me, Mr. Boxham, how is it you know Hartforde so
well?”

“
He has commissioned several works
from me, Your Grace, and his lordship is not, as I have discovered,
a man to stand on ceremony.” She purposely kept a bantering tone,
hoping Mallentrye would be disarmed by it.

“
It’s here,” Fordham
said.

Please, don’t look at it too closely, Isobel prayed
silently.

“
Give it to me.” He held out his
hand but merely glanced at it before putting it in his pocket. “Mr.
Boxham, I find your manner insulting. You have let a small success
go to your head. However, I will send you away with some advice.
Don’t depend on Hartforde’s patronage; you will find it
short-lived, indeed. Now, please be so good as to leave my
house.”

“
You are too kind, Your Grace,”
she said, consoling herself with the thought that the duke was soon
to present the King with a highly confidential letter that would
prove to be an offer to purchase a racehorse. It would be some time
before he gained the King’s ear again.

Isobel did not bother to make her excuses to
Faircourt. She went directly to the line of cabs waiting in front
of the house and threw a handful of shillings at the first driver,
promising him more if he got her to Albemarle Street as quickly as
possible. She sagged against the seat, fighting off a nauseating
panic. “Please, let him be there,” she said out loud. But he wasn’t
there, and, though she waited all night, he did not return.

I

Isobel waited five miserable days before a letter
finally arrived. Tersely worded, it instructed her to go to meet
Alexander in Hartfordeshire.

It was still dark when Isobel was roused with
difficulty. She ate only a few bites of one of the rolls Bridget
had set out. Even more than most mornings, she had no appetite;
just the smell of food made her stomach roil. Bridget pressed her
to eat more and was rewarded with a killing glance. They had to
wait only a few minutes for the arrival of the five men hired to
see them along the route north and then they were on their way.
Isobel looked askance at the heavily armed men; they had been paid
handsomely to see there were guns and shot enough to discourage
even the most desperate of highwaymen.

They left well before six in the morning. Though
Bridget made a few attempts at conversation, Isobel sat in a corner
of the carriage and stared resolutely out the window at the
lightening horizon.

The ride north was a miserable bone-jarring journey
over muddy rutted roads. Bridget had given up trying to draw her
mistress out. They just sat in silence as the minutes slowly
passed. They stopped every hour or so to change horses, and more
than once Isobel took the opportunity to find a private place to
retch. They were able to make good time; by noon they had traveled
nearly fifty miles. They stopped twice for meals and both times
Bridget had to make sure Isobel ate. Both times Isobel dreaded
getting back into the carriage to continue that nauseating rolling
and her constant battle with her stomach.