CHAPTER TWENTY
For once, Lady Duskwood slept peacefully.
No tears streaming down her face or staining her eyes. No haunting memories of crass rogues, or gorgeous men, or bite-marks and hateful slaps, and sinister promises. No ghosts of the past; no debts outstanding, no lingering fear of her father's shame or of Deaton's worrisome rants on the state of affairs at Duskwood Manor. No maidservants, traitorous or otherwise, pounded upon the door to rouse her, nor did she sob through a summoning by a man she thought had scorned her.
Instead, she awoke to the feel of the sun on her face; she awoke with her cheek resting against the bared chest of a man worthy of any dream she could conjure. But this is reality, she recalled - unchained reality, shared with him in indulgent, freed passion - without the weight of shame or judgment bearing down upon her shoulders. Lady Isobel Duskwood felt pride - feeling sure that she had done proud to what her father would wish. No more was she afraid of the world - of men like the Duke of Thrushmore. And in finding a heart like Ellery's, which beat in perfect time with her own, she had freed the scoundrel from the chains imposed by his own charms; she'd made herself - and her love - into nobles his father would take pride in. Perhaps her father, the cunning old man he had been, had planned this all out from the very beginning, the day he took those loans out from Lord Brighton, and not from the Duke of Thrushmore.
Or perhaps it had all been luck. It mattered little - their hearts, somehow, had found one another so perfectly. Now she was a true, proper lady - and he, her gentleman.
She looked to his face, still slumbering' the sun glared in his cheeks, bright beams highlighting the cresting, chiseled cut of strong abs, a broad chest, and hadn't realized until just that moment that she never had seen him quite like his. She had never seen him completely bare, and in full view; he had only loved her in dark places, when the day had started to fail, or else by the glow of glinting candlelight. Now she could see all of him - unhindered, and unchained, just as she had become - unfettered by the false 'good taste' of society.
His eyes opened not long after, his lips curling quickly into a pleasant grin when his gaze fell upon her. They didn't need to share words; instead, their lips met in a tender and passionate embrace, full of fire, just as furious and free as each of their souls had grown to be. She recalled his terms and demands to her, on that first night, when came to him a woman broken by the lies of the Duke of Thrushmore. He wanted all of her - not just body, but soul; and her obedience. She began to understand it now, lips kissing passionately as their arms held one another close, their tired eyes so focused on one another. He had wanted to free her from the beginning - and they would 'know', as he had said, when the time had come - she would either be freed, or remain a prisoner.
But neither of them, she knew, had imagined this. Neither imagined the most beloved Duke in northern England on his knees in the mud, nor could they have guessed at the gallantry of bandit hearts. Isobel could only imagine hearing of the scandal on the lips of ladies across the land - the fall of the monster, the Duke, Eugenius Miller. She liked the sound of that. She may even consider writing a book on it someday, she thought to herself.
Only one thread lingered unresolved, and as their tender morning kiss ended, doubt played upon Isobel's face. She held herself close to her master's waist, looking deep into his eyes.
"Ellery, I detect the idea of ruining this wondrous morning with dim thoughts," Isobel confided. Before she could finish speaking, Lord Brighton pressed a finger to her lips to still her worried tongue.
"Then why do it, love?" he said with a smirk. "Besides. Aren't you breaking one of our rules, right now?" he teased. She felt a surge of desire down her spine, but the worry in her mind couldn't be quelled so easily.
"Ellery, it's... quite, a pressing matter," she insisted.
"What's left to worry on, lovely Isobel?" he asked, with a strain of playful courage, as if ready for their blossoming love to take on the world. He dashed from the bed, still nude; she giggled and averted her eyes with a small gasp, before remembering she need not worry herself with these sorts of societal trivialities. She embraced her desire. She turned to watch him; he threw open the curtains, the sun streaming across his bare body unfettered, much to her amusement.
"You don't think there's anything left unfinished, anything left to tend to?" she prodded him, still herself full of fleeting dread.
"What matter troubles you, love? We've put to rest the mystery of the Merry Bandits," he said with all the flourish of a dashing hero recounting his exploits, "we've seen to it that the wicked Duke of Thrushmore will face justice; we've thrown off the shackles of a controlling and restrictive society which had imprisoned us, and we've fallen into true love, Isobel," he proudly announced, the raconteur's facetious charm overflowing. "That sounds like quite a rousing tale, to me. Perhaps..." he tapped his chin as she watched him with a smile, "...perhaps it should conclude with a grand wedding, now that I think on it, love. But we can certainly arrange for that, can't we?" he smiled devilishly. Isobel's heart melted at the idea, though still fear lingered in her features.
"You're forgetting about your own chains, Ellery," she whispered warily. He looked upon her like a governess would look upon a misbehaving child.
"Come now, are you worrying about..." he drew closer, cupping his mouth with his hand, "the Lady Maryweather?" he spoke her name quietly, as if its damnable syllables would summon the witch to their bedroom, flowing white dress and all.
"Well, shouldn't I be? It's not quite a paltry matter, is it?" she murmured warily. "From the sound of her words, her lies... we've quite something to be worried on... after all, her threats had made you troubled enough for us and our relationship that you feared it lost."
"M'lady, I told you," he grinned, lips close to her ears. "Do you think that Lady Emily Maryweather is the only cunning lord or lady among those of us in northern England?" he teased. "My own little bird had quite a mouthful for me - and it was enough for me to realize I loved you, and would risk anything for you."
"And so you're saying this issue will have a neat resolution, will it?" Isobel haughtily retorted.
"In my experience, love, there's not such a thing as a simple or neat resolution in the games us men and women of power and wealth play," Lord Brighton mused, sitting onto the edge of the bed with her. "Resolutions are often rather uncomfortable; as muddied as a flowing river of silt, love," he added. "Often, they involve muddied, flowing rivers. Such as the one our lovely Duke of Thrushmore found himself wallowing in, last afternoon," he chuckled.
"You're brimming with far too much confidence to take stock in what you're saying, love," Isobel chided amiably. "Such certainty is betraying of insecurities, I think."
"Or perhaps such certainty is betraying of utter security, hmm? Had you considered that possibility?" he quipped with a facetious smugness, causing a crack of laughter to break through Isobel's fears. With the sudden shock of a lightning strike knuckles rapped timidly on the door to Lord Brighton's bedchamber, and though Isobel's heart froze in fear, Lord Brighton's resolve appeared unshaken, his mood undimmed.
"Who may I ask, is knocking?" he called across the room playfully.
"M... m'lord," the voice could scarcely be heard through the door. Isobel clammed up, her expression twisting to muted anger, as she heard Lilian's voice creep through the cracks around the door. "M'lord, the Lady Maryweather is here to see you," she announced, her voice meekly and thin. Lord Brighton's eyebrows quirked and his voice boomed with pride.
"I suppose it's time to test all that braggadocio of yours, isn't it?" Isobel smirked, shimmying out of her bed and throwing on her nightgown, white and lacy. He glanced to her with a smirk on his lips.
"Should I get dressy for this meeting of ours, love, or do you think I look quite alright as-is?" he sarcastically gestured to his nude form, and she admired it one more long, lingering moment, her cheeks blush-red in delight, amusement, and embarrassment.
"She may react quite strangely to such a sight," Isobel's voice quivered.
"That's not how you're reacting," he added with that shameless, churlish playfulness in his voice. Her legs squirmed together and she bit her bottom lip, knowing her desire to be in full bloom across a rosy face.
"Let's just settle this," she whispered, "and then we'll have all the time in the world left to discuss... other, issues, m'lord," her voice shuddered in rapturous delight at the thought. Ellery grinned, pulling his shirt atop his body, watching Isobel as he slowly and temptingly dressed himself, the grin on his lips burning bright and salacious the whole time.
And she no longer had any shame in appreciating it - or in appreciating him, and his body. Perhaps she liked the sound of that wedding more and more, each moment that passed.
He finished dressing himself - 'finished', to be generous, as he didn't tuck in his shirt, nor did he button his his waistcoat across his chest; without a tie to his neck he looked every bit the disheveled and carefree rogue she had fallen so deeply in love with, and who had fallen so deeply in love with her. Another knock sounded on the door, even more timid than the last.
"M'lord..." Lilian's voice quivered.
"Yes, my darling little bird," Ellery responded, emphasis on that silly pet name, and Isobel's eyes widened.
"You know? You knew?" Isobel asked almost wordlessly. Ellery smirked.
"You underestimate my cunning, love," he quipped.
"Why didn't... why is she still your maidservant?" Isobel queried.
"Come now, you must understand how this works," Ellery sighed in joking frustration. "It's hardly fair for me to embed a trusted spy in Lady Maryweather's entourage, and not allow her to do the same, don't you think? Besides," he continued, "she's useful. If I told her I wore ladies' dresses and transubstantiated into a howling wolf when the moon rose, she may very well believe it, and feed it into lovely Emily Maryweather's ear. Sweet Lilian would believe anything," he sighed. Isobel began to understand; a coy game, these nobles played. She didn't know that she liked it - but to happily flaunt her love for her lord over treacherous Lilian? She could think on savoring that.
"Your spy..." Isobel's voice trembled, shamefully curious on these games of intrigue. He quieted her with a finger to his lips before pulling open the door, smiling at Lilian and marching proudly into the hall. Isobel scurried behind to follow; her eyes briefly met Lilian's, whose gaze wavered, as she looked away in shame. Isobel congratulated herself with a quiet smirk as she followed behind her master. He stood proud at the top of the stairs, and already the sun streaming through the windows and reflecting off the angelic visage of a hellish harpy before them blinded Lady Duskwood. She had dressed in her absolute finest gown, perhaps hoping to look exquisite on the day she well and truly forced Lord Brighton under her thumb - though the burning fury on her reddish cheeks belied a frustrated hate welling inside of her.
"Ah, Emily, always a pleasure to have you here in Norbury Manor, isn't it, Werner?" Lord Brighton announced, his wizened butler at the foot of the stairs, a contentious stare washing over Lady Maryweather. Isobel noticed, skulking in the shadows near the grand doors to the estate, that man who sent a shiver along her spine - his sick smile ever-present beneath the wide-brimmed hat and straw hair. Arthur lurked behind his mistress, arms crossed over his cheap black suit, watching the events like a keen-eyed raptor soaring hungrily above a nest of rats.
"Emily? Lady Maryweather," the mistress hissed, arms crossed atop the bust of her flowing, ribbon-covered blue-white dress. "I'm not certain what manner of con or game you've decided to play, Ellery—" her eyes fell upon Lady Duskwood, who smiled at the sight. "...nor do I know why that filthy, seducing little viper is here at your side, much less in clothing betraying what I can only imagine was a night spent in sin with you," she positively bristled, "and so I've given the courtesy of a visit, so as to perhaps divine what manner of ill-conceived thoughts have sprung into your head."
"Have you? Given me the courtesy, you have? Quite a courteous, courteous woman, who comes to visit the victim of her blackmail," Ellery responded with proud aplomb. Isobel watched from the railing, satisfactorily savoring each of her lover's bold, rapier-sharp retorts. "Perhaps your little dove carried a message 'cross the countryside of strange goings-on in the house of Brighton, hm?"
"I've no manner of idea on what you're speaking of," Lady Maryweather hissed.
"Oh? Was it not but a day past that you stood in my study positively bragging about how the little bird had told you everything? About how much leverage you held above my head? You seemed quite proud of your cunning plot when we spoke, m'lady," Ellery crowed with authority. "Now that the Duke of Thrushmore's fortunes have turned quite bleak, now you've no interest in a good, classic gloat, I suppose?"
"I've no interest in Eugenius Miller's matters," she snarled in response, the composure of the lady she had so precisely and perfectly cultivated cracking like the glass of a shattered mirror. "We had quite a productive conversation between the two of us, Ellery - and I felt certain we had come to an understanding on how this... woman," she spat the word in Isobel's direction, "...was using, seducing you; all the trouble and ruin it would bring upon your names, both hers, and yours. Had we not come to an accord?" Lady Maryweather tried to play sweet with a sugary tone in her voice and a smile on her lips, though the reality lurking beneath her face could scarcely be hidden by now.
"A courteous accord? That's what we call blackmailing now?" Ellery retorted, his voice full of airy sarcasm and smug satisfaction. Isobel could feel it too.
"These sorts of accusations only hurt yourself, Ellery," Lady Maryweather spoke through angrily gritted teeth, her eyes full of spite.
"But that's what it's called, is it not - blackmail? Please, correct me if my brain, so mired with worry and the want of lovely Isobel, has made a grave trespass in calling it as its appropriately termed," Ellery crowed. Lady Maryweather's cheeks burned brighter the more frustrated and irate she grew.
"Perhaps we need to come to a new agreement, Lord Brighton," she rasped in revilement.
"Blackmail, Lady Maryweather - and from the tales I've heard, I'm not your only victim, am I?" Lady Maryweather's rage broke with that statement into a fractured image of worried confusion; Ellery smiled. "I've said this far too many times in the last day, love, but - Lady Emily Maryweather, you certainly didn't think yourself to be the only noble in all of northern England to associate herself with coy saboteurs and 'little birds', did you?" Lady Maryweather took a step back, hand to her chest, as if ready to faint.
"I... I don't quite underst... and," she stammered.
"I'm certain you do. The difference, though, m'lady," Ellery stated authoritatively, sauntering along the top of the staircase as he spoke; Isobel savored every second, her expression growing full of warmth - and so full of pride, at seeing him assert himself to her. He truly had forced off his chains. "...the difference, is that my friend is not a 'little bird'. No, my friend is far from a dove. My friend is a vicious bird of prey, its talons sharpened, its eyes quick, its manner merciless," he said. Isobel watched the doorway - and she saw the gleam in his eyes. Just as Lord Brighton described. He smiled a sick smile - a smile that had so long kept her in wary suspense and writhing fear. It was then, when he grinned up at Lord Brighton with those eyes, that she realized the identity of Lord Brighton's spy. Perhaps the most loyal - and the person she had least expected it to be.
Arthur Ellsworth's ghastly gaze fell then upon Isobel, whose face brimmed with stunned surprise. He tipped his hat to her, giving her his smile. She had never trusted him... but perhaps that's precisely why he made the most effective spy, in all Lady Maryweather's entourage.
"Who—what?" Lady Maryweather gasped; she stumbled backwards, revelations overwhelming her.
"If I revealed too much, that'd spoil our game, wouldn't it, Emily?" Ellery announced proudly. "Now, my hawk has far more evidence of your wrongdoings than simple blackmail - no, that'd be silly, even expected, from a woman like yourself. But some crimes my hawk has seen your hand sullied with..." Lord Brighton clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head. "Perhaps the Duke of Thrushmore wasn't as wicked a man, if we dared compare him to you, love. Though, you're in luck - it seems likely he'll be needing a friend to wallow in ruin with."
"You... you snake," Lady Maryweather managed. She took hobbling steps towards the stairwell, full of rage, before tripping on her long and flowing dress, falling to her knees with a yelp. Quivering, fearful and broken, she could take little more. "I'll ruin b-both of you," she vowed weakly, before the excitement claimed her and she fell faint with a sigh at the foot of the stairs.
Isobel rushed to her lover's side, grasping at his waist; she looked down on the fallen lady with pride. Just like the Duke of Thrushmore, Lady Maryweather had been a lie. And as Lord Brighton held her tight and kissed her, she felt a satisfying warmth fill her from head to toe.
Gentlemen, ladies, deception and ruination... none of it mattered. For no amount of lies or financial ruin could bankrupt the love they shared.
"Now," Ellery whispered against her lips. "We've a wedding to plan, don't we?"