Five
Back in the safety of his black carriage that resembled every other carriage on the streets of London, Reginald pulled the diary from his pocket and tapped his fingers on the cover as he stared out the window into the icy winter evening.
“Quite respectable these days,” he mused as the Fairlyn home disappeared from view. The lord of the house, Knottsby, had built a good name in society since they last met. A lordly name, a lordly home… Even the shrubbery in his garden had been pruned just so.
“After everything he stole from me,” Reginald said, his grip on the small diary tightening.
Life for Knottsby was about to suffer a devastating blow. He would do well to enjoy his lordly reputation today, for soon it would be gone.
St. James would attempt to stop events from happening, of course. That man must always place his nose where it didn’t belong. St. James had a need to control everyone and everything around him, was willing to do anything for the sake of protecting the innocent and his precious Spares. He always had. They lined his pockets, after all. But he wouldn’t be able to keep these plans from happening.
“Go mad from trying, St. James.” With a grin, he descended from the carriage and started up the steps to his accommodations, anxious to read yet another entry in Lady Isabelle’s private journal.
Isabelle Fairlyn’s Diary
February 1817
I read Sir Tristan de Lyones’s story from Malory’s “Le Morte d’Arthur” again last night. The pages of my copy are well worn with curling corners, creases, and dots of tea from years of enjoyment. I wish I could recount the number of times I’ve read the story, as I’m certain it would be an impressive number, but all I know is the truth I’m always left with on the last page of Tristan’s tale. I want to know a love like the one he had for Isolde, and someday I shall.
With that in mind, my qualifications for my future husband are as follows:
1. Blond hair
2. Polished appearance and keen sense of fashion
3. Drive a festive red phaeton or ride a powerful steed
4. Be a skilled dance partner
5. Admire flowers and other beauty in the world
6. Friendly smile with even teeth
7. Honorable and upstanding in society
Gentlemen who embody every ideal listed above and are therefore under consideration for marriage:
1. Mr. Kelton Brice
—Isabelle
• • •
Spring 1817
Isabelle loved her sister. And that was what made today so terribly difficult.
She wasn’t certain how long she’d been standing in her bedchamber with her arms wrapped around herself as she shook. The large brass key to her door pressed jagged lines into the palm of her hand, but she made no move to ease the pain. She’d been betrayed.
“Isabelle Fairlyn, open your door this instant!” her mother shouted from the hall.
“No,” she whispered to the empty room.
“If you don’t, I will find the housekeeper and allow myself entry!”
“Do what you must,” Isabelle replied, though she didn’t believe she could be heard through the paneled door that separated them.
Two years ago, she’d asked her cousin Sue to paint vines and flowers on the walls of her bedchamber. She’d always thought them cheerful: their various shades of pink and purple, sweeping around her, full of life and the expectation of blooming in the sun. She preferred the idea of living in a garden rather than within the four walls of a house. Gardens were happy. No one argued in a garden. In a home, however…
“Isabelle!” her mother bellowed, punctuating her thoughts on home life rather well.
Now the garden walls closed in and choked her with thoughts of how wrong she’d been. She’d always believed in the good in everyone and everything around her—until now.
How could Victoria have betrayed her so?
Victoria observed proceedings in her life like a watchful owl on the topmost branch of a tree, always surveying and looking for her next move. She wouldn’t have allowed this to happen unless she’d wanted it. She’d been in control in that milliner’s shop with Mr. Brice, in control when she’d allowed him to rescue her, and in control when she’d agreed to Father’s bargain that she become his wife.
Victoria only cared for Victoria. Isabelle had overlooked all her sister’s faults, believing the small shreds of good were what truly held her together beneath her jaded exterior. Isabelle had been wrong.
Victoria had done this to her on purpose, and Isabelle would never forgive her for it.
It would seem her sister wasn’t good deep beneath her jaded facade, as Isabelle had always believed—she was actually quite evil. Isabelle shook with the knowledge and pulled her arms tighter around herself.
“Isabelle, your sister has been through quite enough of an ordeal. You will come out from behind this door and give her the comfort she deserves.”
“Comfort her?” Her voice cracked as she spoke. After what Victoria had done? She’d stolen away the only man Isabelle had ever loved. They were to be married, not Victoria and Mr. Brice. It was supposed to be Isabelle. “I’m the one who needs comforting,” she called out louder than before, her voice strengthened by the anger that surged within her.
“Your sister is the one who has survived a fire. Don’t be dramatic, Isabelle.”
“I’m not…” she began, but there was no use arguing with her mother through a closed door.
Her entire life she’d been accused of overdramatizing events. Perhaps in the past it had been true, but it wasn’t true today. Today was all too real. Today she’d lost her hopes and dreams. She should be allowed time to mourn the happiness she could have had in her life. The love she would have experienced. The laughter they would have shared. The flowers he would have brought to her. She scowled at the blossoms that covered her walls, mocking her with what could have been.
Was she to stand by while her twin sister took her future from her?
“And I’ll have to watch,” she whispered. It was like some horrid image in a mirror playing out the wrong future. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Isabelle had to find a way through this, or she would surely perish from a broken heart. That was all very well on some later day, but just now, she refused to give Victoria the satisfaction. If she avoided her sister, if she avoided everyone involved…if she could survive their wedding, then…
She grew weak at the thought. Their wedding. How had this happened to her?
Isabelle sank to the floor and hugged her knees to her chest. She’d wanted a life with Mr. Brice for so long. And now, in an instant, that life was gone. Victoria’s name would be listed on the banns with his, their lives forever linked.
What do you plan to do? a voice whispered through her thoughts.
She didn’t know the answer. But she couldn’t very well sit here and pine over a man betrothed to her twin sister. They would have children and a home together. Isabelle might live through the wedding vows, but their life together beyond that day she could not take. Those were her dreams; she’d written of them in her… She needed her diary. She needed the comfort of the words written there—her words. Everything had become so distracting, now that the season was in full swing, that she hadn’t written in the small book in more than a month, but she needed it now.
Scrambling to her feet, she went to the table beside her bed, but the drawer was empty. She opened the drawer farther and searched the back corners. Empty. When had she last seen it? She knew she had left the book here. Now the one place she could pour out her soul without judgment was gone too? Isabelle sank to the top of her bed. It mattered little anyway. Her thoughts were so scattered just now that they would be no more than scribbles on the page. Everything was lost.
When one dream was stolen away, could another dream take its place? Or was she destined to live the rest of her life in this despair?
“For-ev-er,” Isabelle drew out the word on a whispered breath and fell back on her bed.
Victoria and Mr. Brice would have a family together, and Isabelle would be the spinster aunt who gave the children sweets. She would be alone to ponder what could have been. No, that would not do at all. Seeing them together day after day, year after year, while Isabelle remained unattached sounded dreadful. She would have to find another gentleman to marry, set her sights on someone else, someone just as appealing as Mr. Brice. Perhaps someone even better awaited her.
Kindness had been what drew her attention to Brice in the beginning. Surely he wasn’t the only gentleman with a good heart in the city. Could she replace him? She tried to remember the list of perfect qualities from her missing diary.
“Red phaeton, talented dancer,” she whispered to herself. But dancing abilities and the type of conveyance a man possessed didn’t seem to matter as much now as they once had. The longer she lay there on her bed, the more she wondered if she’d truly known anything of value about the man of her dreams.
Perhaps it was time for a new list, one that looked beyond the color of a man’s hair. She trailed a hand over the locket that still hung around her neck. The right gentleman, a gentleman who would love her, was hiding somewhere in the shadows. Perhaps he was waiting for her, for this moment.
Perhaps she might escape after all.
She sat up, dropping the key on the bedspread and crossing the room to the small writing desk. Throwing open drawer after drawer, she searched once more for her diary. She’d left it here somewhere, she was certain! But she didn’t wish to dig about her rooms all afternoon—not today. She grabbed a piece of paper, slapped it down on the desktop, and began scribbling a list. She would mark down her requirements for the perfect husband—truly the perfect husband this time—and search for those qualities. She would lure the right man from the shadows.
Victoria could keep Mr. Brice. He still held a special place in Isabelle’s heart, and as her first love, he likely always would, but she needed to move forward and find her way through this mess. The quill tightened in her hand for a second as she thought of her sister smiling up into that cheerful face, but then she banished the image. Hanging on to what could have been would only lead to more sorrow. She would find love again. She would find someone who could take her from her father’s home to a place where no one ever yelled, where there was always peace and joy and sunshine. She had made lists like this dozens of times before in her diary. She shook her head. It was just as well she couldn’t place the journal. This time she would look beyond any one man and let go of the dreams of him that had filled the pages there.
This time she would find true love. She had to believe that.
The perfect husband must…
Possess a jovial spirit.
She paused to brush a tear away with the back of her hand. With a sniff, she pulled the paper closer and continued. Nothing would stop her from this mission.
Have a noble and honest heart.
She sniffed again. There were other good men in existence. There had to be. All people had some goodness at their core, didn’t they? It was the one truth she’d leaned on her entire life. Now she wasn’t so certain. If Victoria could hurt her this way—and she was Isabelle’s sister!—what did that mean for the rest of society? Were there good people in the world at all, or had that been the delusion of a lady who’d never had her heart broken before? Her aunt had always claimed Isabelle had delusions of grandeur. Perhaps she was right after all. Isabelle’s entire world seemed to shake with the thoughts coursing through her mind. “There has to be a good gentleman out there,” she whispered.
Be willing to protect me from harm.
Never utter cross words.
Love me.
She would not end up in a loveless marriage like her parents. She would find her brave knight. A hero in armor that gleamed in the sunlight, someone who would happily scale tower walls for her, someone who would love her. Her search would begin at tomorrow night’s ball.
Isabelle stood from the desk, clutching the list in her hand, and crossed the room to retrieve the key to the door. If her mother required her presence, she would be there. After all, supporting family during difficult times was what good daughters did.
* * *
“Well, I’m Lord Hardaway now. Are you pleased? What do I want with a blasted title, St. James? I only want to be Brice! Only Kelton Brice. Damn this entire season!” Brice—or Hardaway now—fell into the chair in headquarters and buried his head in his hands.
It had been only a few days since the fire, but that had been all the time Fallon needed to fix most of the problems in London. Hardaway had certainly done his part of acting the hero—perhaps too well, since yesterday he’d been awarded a title for his bravery. Fallon had winced at that unexpected turn of events, but there was no turning back once they’d begun repairing the damage done by the fire. Plans were now well in motion to make the entire “burning of Bond” incident vanish from the memories of the ton.
Fallon, along with his begrudging friend, had spoken to Knottsby and arranged for a marriage contract to be signed. His poor friend, now Lord Hardaway, would be bound for life to Lady Victoria. Fallon’s involvement was something Isabelle could never discover, or she would seek the first opportunity to kill him for his intrusion in her life and destruction of her plans. Of course, a desire to kill him seemed to be common among his friends as of late.
“Apologies, but you know—”
Hardaway stopped him with a raised hand and a small shake of his head, clearly not interested in receiving condolences. Fallon shifted in his chair, looking out the front window to avoid seeing the look of agitation on his friend’s face. The man sitting across the small table from Fallon might possess a powerful punch, but it was Isabelle’s anger that gave him true concern. Fallon had had a difficult time not thinking of her the past few days—of her and what she must be thinking. But he’d made the correct decision. Her infatuation with Brice had to end eventually, and Fallon had only helped things along. Even still, he would seek her out at tonight’s ball—he would make time between his meetings. He was certain she could use a friend just now.
Anger and heartbreak aside, Fallon’s plan was working to perfection, as he knew it would. The grandness of the upcoming wedding was already being discussed over every cup of tea in the country—neatly replacing the fire the honorable Lord Hardaway had caused.
What a hero that brave gentleman was to save Lady Victoria. And to be awarded a title for his valor is the perfect addition to the story. How wonderful that love grew from such a nasty start.
Fallon almost smiled.
Meanwhile the Spare Heirs Society would survive another day. If only all problems could be solved so easily. He’d throw half his men into leg shackles if it would help him find Grapling, but engineering marriage proposals would do no good where that man was concerned. The same tricks wouldn’t work with that sort of adversary. Though the man had turned out to be rather unstable and driven by his own greed, he was a worthy opponent—unfortunately.
Fallon had trained the man personally, had taught him how to blend into shadows and look for opportunity in every situation. Damn his own thoroughness! Now finding the one who’d gone rogue and returning him to prison where Fallon had sent him once before was proving to be difficult. He hadn’t spotted the man since that night on the terrace with Isabelle some days before. He could continue his search later today. Now, however, Fallon needed to discuss matters with his friend. Surely a wife and title weren’t the end of the world like he was making them out to be…
“I did tell you to play the hero. Clearly you were successful with your mission,” Fallon said, weighing his words so as not to make matters worse. The title hadn’t been part of his plan, but it must be dealt with now that it had happened.
“All for following damned orders.” Hardaway leaned forward, a concerned look crossing his face as he looked at Fallon. A tense moment of silence lingered between them before Hardaway finally asked, “I’m not tossed out, am I? The rules…this title. I don’t want it. If I could give it back…”
“If only I could be rid of you that easily.”
“Of all times, this is when you joke? St. James, what am I to do about this?” Hardaway pushed away from the table and grabbed a decanter of whiskey and a glass before falling back into his chair. Once there, he poured and mumbled, “A wife and a title? I only went in to get some damned papers.” He tossed back the contents of the glass and continued. “This is all her fault, you know. That opinionated woman with her blasted hats. And now I’m stuck with her at my side for life? How will I work? How will I enjoy anything ever again?”
“Perhaps once you know more of the lady—”
“I’ll learn she’s worse than I believe her to be at this moment? It would be a difficult feat to be a less appealing wife, but I think that one might be up to the task.” Hardaway refilled his glass.
“Her looks are passable,” Fallon hedged, not wanting to reveal to his friend how lovely he found the lady’s sister.
“I suppose I should be grateful I didn’t rescue some hag with sharp teeth, claws for fingers, and a bony arse. How fortunate I am.”
His friend might have been disappointed with the dish he’d been served in life—and Fallon sympathized, truly he did—but Fallon only had the next few minutes to console Hardaway and end things in some kind of positive light. He needed to return to his work before tonight’s ball, or he would be buried until morning and unable to attend. He needed to say something. He had to pull his man up from the muck. “You’ve survived worse,” he finally offered.
“Have I?”
“Yes, remember that time you burned down Bond Street? How everyone spoke of your villainous ways and you were shunned from all entertainments in society for the remainder of your life? The Spare Heirs Society was discovered to be involved, and it was forced to disband. You were left with no work, no income.”
“I—”
“Not to mention what your family thought of the scandal,” Fallon said, knowing he’d thrown down the winning card.
“You believe that you’re clever,” Hardaway accused.
“I am clever.”
“Bollocks. I have to accept that the title is mine in addition to agreeing to marry that woman, don’t I?”
“You do.”
“But I can keep my membership to the Spares?”
Fallon nodded.
“To unwanted marriages and titles.” Hardaway raised his glass and tipped the whiskey into his mouth.
Fallon stood, preparing to leave his friend to drink the whiskey, the day, and his problems away, and surveyed the room. His men were either conversing amicably or relaxing after some job. For the moment, all of his problems resided outside the walls of this house. And tonight he would meet those problems head-on.
Would he see Isabelle at the ball tonight as well? He hoped he would at least catch a glimpse of her. Though if she’d somehow discovered the truth about his meddling, he should stay well away from her. Wood nymphs were dainty creatures, but he would imagine they grew quite violent when pushed to anger. And if Isabelle ever discovered the truth, her anger would put the worst of the classical gods to shame.