Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

I f anyone had been watching Astley House at a quarter past three, they would have seen Harrington Astley’s tiger, a skinny boy dressed in a groom’s attire of breeches, boots, tailcoat, and top hat, bringing Harrington’s curricle around to the curb.

Harrington emerged from the house, carrying the case containing his dueling pistols. He was careful to look nonchalant as he climbed into the curricle and stashed his pistols beneath the seat.

Once his tiger had taken his place on the tiny jump seat behind him, Harrington set a course south toward the shooting gallery run by Joseph Manton, the famous gunsmith. This was one of his regular haunts, as he was a marksman of some repute.

But he didn’t stop at the shooting gallery on Davies Street. Instead, he drove past it, then turned, plotting a circuitous route north.

Along the way, he caught glimpses of his brother Edward and his friends Thetford and Ferguson on horseback. They all pretended not to see one another.

An unmarked carriage pulled alongside them. He spied his sister Anne and her husband Morsley through the window. They had a half-dozen firearms laid out on the seats beside them, and… was that a battle-axe ? Harrington was fairly certain that was the battle-axe that had recently been hanging above the mantelpiece of the first-floor parlor at Cranfield House.

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Subtle, Morsley. Very subtle.

Anne and Morsley’s carriage turned off, keeping up the illusion that these were chance meetings, just as they had planned. Another carriage took its place, this one bearing a grey-haired woman with a fierce expression holding a blunderbuss at the ready. She was accompanied by a half-dozen brown and white speckled dogs. Good old Aunt Griselda.

His plan appeared to be working because they weren’t being followed, so far as he could tell, and none of the riders had dropped their hats, which was the designated distress signal. Twenty minutes after his original departure, he drove past the last of the older, more venerable squares of Mayfair and entered the area where the nouveau riche had built their mansions.

Most of the townhouses on the square where Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy lived were owned by rich industrialists like Harrington’s future brother-in-law. But there were a few families who were considered to be good ton . Caleb Stanhope, the second son of the Earl Stanhope and a preeminent barrister, had a house here. So did Andrew Milner, a prominent M.P.

Harrington drew his curricle to a halt in front of the Gothic monstrosity that was the Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy townhouse and waited for his tiger to climb down.

At this point, his actual tiger, who had walked over an hour earlier, came scrambling up the stairs that led to the coal vault and took hold of the horses.

This was fortunate because his other tiger was standing slack-jawed in the middle of the pavement, staring at the Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy manse with its crenelated walls, arched windows, and turreted towers.

“This is it?” the “boy” said, entranced. “I get to live here ?”

“Only if you survive long enough to get inside,” Harrington said, grabbing his sister beneath the arms and hauling her up the six stone steps.

Izzie tried to twist out of his grip. “I just want to see—”

“You’ll have the rest of your life to look at it. Let’s make sure it lasts longer than three minutes, shall we? Don’t worry, I’m sure the inside is just as tawdry.”

Harrington wasn’t sure if the alacrity with which his sister hurried inside was a mark of how much she valued his sage advice or if she merely wanted to see if the house’s interior could possibly be as ostentatious as its fa?ade.

He rather suspected the latter.

For the last half hour, Archibald had been pacing the foyer of his family’s home like the caged bear in the Tower menagerie and snarling a similar amount. He’d brought four dozen men over from Nettlethorpe Iron to serve as guards, and ten of them were stationed with him at the front door. By now they’d all given up on trying to offer him a reassuring word.

Jimmy Isaacs, one of the sharp-eyed apprentice boys he’d assigned to keep watch from the roof, came flying into the room, breathing hard from having run down four flights of stairs. “Curricle, coming up to the house, boss. Pulled by a pair of blood bays, just like you said.”

Archibald peered through the narrow window next to the door. Seeing Harrington Astley climbing down, he quickly unlocked the door and swung it open.

“Where is she?” he said tightly, seeing no one but Astley and his tiger.

“Right here,” Astley said, giving his tiger a push through the door.

That was the moment that Archibald noticed that the tiger had rose-pink lips, delicate features, and huge blue eyes.

Time slowed down as he drank in the sight of Isabella in boy’s clothing. Her long, slender legs encased in skin-tight breeches made his mouth go dry, but it was about to get a thousand times worse, because at that moment, she removed her hat and began pulling pins from her hair.

“Ugh, my maid had to pin it so tightly to get it under this hat,” she explained, then groaned with relief as the whole mass came tumbling down her back in mahogany waves. She closed her eyes as she combed her fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. “That’s much better.”

His men were as thunderstricken as he was. Who knew how long they would have all stood gaping in the foyer had his parents not scurried into the room.

“You must be Lady Isabella!” his mother cried, seizing her hands.

“We’re so delighted that you’re marrying our Archie!” his father added.

This was a significant understatement. The news that Archibald was going to marry not just the daughter of an earl but a member of the influential Astley family had sent his parents into paroxysms of delight.

The fact that an unknown group of criminals was trying to kidnap or possibly kill her and that he would be bringing this danger to their door was dismissed with a wave. “That’ll all blow over in the next few days,” his father had said.

“But you’ll be married forever!” his mother exclaimed. “Just think… Lady Isabella Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy! Now, Archie, you mustn’t do anything that might cause Lady Isabella to change her mind.”

“Best not to mention anything about the ironworks,” his father agreed.

As if he needed to be reminded. Trying to court a highborn bride had been a never-ending series of humiliations. Over the past few years, he had been introduced to dozens, if not hundreds, of young ladies. Every single one, save Cecilia Chenoweth, had seemed to regard the prospect of being courted by a trumped-up blacksmith with horror. He’d had young ladies decline to dance with him on account of having turned their ankle, only to see that they had made a miraculous recovery by the next set. He’d had dining partners give him their back for the entirety of a meal, so much did they dread the possibility that he might attempt to speak with them.

And if he had a shilling for every time he’d overheard a young lady say something disparaging about him behind his back, he’d have… well, probably not even a whole pound.

But it would be close, a fact that was alarming in and of itself.

Izzie had never treated him this way, but he feared this was only because she didn’t truly understand what he did. Her notion of a “blacksmith” was the version of Archibald she saw at balls and parties, once he had been thoroughly scrubbed and stuffed into an expensive suit. What she didn’t realize was that he wasn’t merely in trade. He was in a filthy trade that involved hard manual labor and getting his hands dirty.

The key was, therefore, to prevent her from finding out, certainly before the wedding and for as long as possible afterward. It was a daunting enough task at a ball or rout.

But it would be ten times harder now that she was living inside his house. To make matters worse, he’d had no time to prepare and plan. Things had happened so quickly. When he left for Astley House that morning, he’d had no notion that his next stop would be Doctor’s Commons to purchase a special license. Not that he had any regrets. As unexpected as this turn of events was, the question of whether he wanted to marry Isabella Astley did not require even a second’s thought. The important thing was to seize the opportunity. He would just have to figure the rest out as he went.

He wouldn’t be able to maintain the fa?ade he was determined to construct forever. Eventually, she would realize what he was really like, and she would come to despise him, as every other member of the haute ton did. Of that, he had no doubt. But perhaps if he hid the awful truth, he could delay her disdain and enjoy a few weeks of newlywedded bliss.

His parents were fawning over Izzie as if she were a visiting queen, but she didn’t seem bothered by their overly effusive display. Indeed, she hardly seemed to notice it. She was busy gazing around the foyer in awe. “You have the most beautiful home.”

This sent his mother into a frenzy. “I am so pleased to hear you say so! Some people have had the nerve to imply that it is overly dramatic.”

“Not at all,” Izzie said, her gaze sweeping the vaulted ceiling before landing upon one of the twelve suits of armor lining the walls. “It’s perfect !”

His mother actually squealed. “How delightful that my son has chosen a bride who has a sense of fashion. It pains me to think how few people do.”

“Oh, my dove,” his father said, “you mustn’t let those people bother you. You know they’re just jealous that they could never afford to do the same.”

Harrington Astley squeezed his shoulder. “I’ve got to head over to Manton’s to keep up the ruse. I also need to give Edward the signal that Izzie made it in all right so he can let everyone know. Poor Lucy was frantic when I left, and my mother wasn’t doing much better.”

Archibald shook himself out of his stupor and offered his hand. “Of course. Thank you so much for bringing her.”

“Thank you for taking her on.” He laughed. “You’re going to have your hands full with Izzie.”

He gazed at Izzie, who was busy exclaiming over the pair of dramatic floor candelabras flanking the doorway. “I look forward to it.”

His mother hurried over. “Oh, Lieutenant Astley, do you have to go? How dearly we would love for you to stay and dine with us.”

“I do,” Harrington confirmed. “I need to let everyone know that Izzie is safe. But I’ll be back tomorrow for the ceremony, and my mother will arrive in an hour or so to chaperone her overnight.”

“ The countess is coming !” his mother screeched. “Lady Cheltenham, staying at my house! Oh, this is wonderful, absolutely wonderful!” She turned to her husband. “We must make sure everything is perfect!”

“She must have the best bedroom,” his father said. “What do you think, the gold room?”

“The gold room?” His mother was already rushing toward the stairs, with his father close on her heels. “Are you sure, my darling? I was thinking perhaps the Emerald Suite…”

Archibald saw Harrington out, then locked the door behind him.

He offered Izzie his arm. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?” This seemed like a good place to start, as she seemed to like his mother’s overwrought Gothic décor.

She squeezed his arm with both hands. “Yes, please!”

As he studied her enraptured face, suddenly Archibald didn’t mind so much that every room, including the closet that housed his chamber pot, was elaborately decorated with arches and spires, trefoils and crockets. He’d mostly grown inured to his mother’s lurid taste, but using that particular room always made him feel strangely guilty, as if he were shitting in Westminster Abbey.

But if it made Izzie happy, that was all that mattered.