Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

T he rest of the garden party continued without further incident, Edmund sipping tea on the terrace by himself, ensuring he always had a clear view of Isolde. At present, she was chattering amiably with a group of young ladies, the barely avoided scandal of earlier apparently all but forgotten. And Lord Spofforth was nowhere to be seen, making himself scarce.

She does not realize what could have happened, and yet she claims to know exactly what she is doing. Edmund simmered as he partook in a lemon tart, blaming Julianna as much as Isolde. Clearly, the lady's mother had not raised her with enough warnings about the dangers of men. At that very moment, Julianna was enjoying the party with her own friends, not paying Isolde any attention whatsoever.

Edmund did not lay blame at Vincent's door, however. His dearest friend had been too occupied with the role of Duke, thrown into it at such a young age, that he had not had time to ensure that his sister was being raised with enough wariness of the opposite sex.

"But who is the gentleman?" Edmund mumbled to himself, letting his gaze wander across the other guests for a short while.

He liked to think of himself as a perceptive man, certain that he would be able to spot the individual that Isolde had alluded to, whether it be through a secret look or a prolonged gaze or through a shiftiness in someone's demeanor.

He observed the quartet of gentlemen by the walled garden, the gentlemen trying to pick apples from the trees, the gentlemen indulging in conversation over glasses of lemonade, the gentlemen who were apart from the main festivities; the solitary gentlemen, the bored gentlemen, the inebriated gentlemen, the shy gentlemen, but there was one glaring problem—at one time or another, all of them cast discreet looks at Isolde.

"Why should I care?" he muttered into the crust of his lemon tart as he took a big bite.

I need patience, not whatever this unease is. He banged on his chest with the palm of his hand, hoping to dislodge the tight feeling that had settled there since Isolde had revealed she had a gentleman in mind.

"Do you need someone to smack you on the back? Did you swallow that pastry the wrong way?" A mild voice made him sit up straighter, the tart very nearly catching in his throat as he hurried to swallow it down.

"Goodness, where did you come from? I almost did choke!" Edmund peered up at the familiar face of his friend, Lionel Barnet, the Earl of Westyork.

A quiet, steely sort of fellow who tended to keep to his country estate, Lionel and Edmund had struck up an unlikely friendship several years ago, after a fight had broken out in a gentlemen's club and they had both leaped in to separate the two brawlers. Thanks to his grand tour of the Continent, it had been at least two years since Edmund had last seen the man, and it was a welcome reunion.

Lionel sat down in the white garden chair beside Edmund, reaching to pour himself a cup of tea before one of the nearby members of staff could do so for him. "Apologies, Edmund. I have only just arrived and when I saw you, I approached without thought." He pulled the cup and saucer to him. "It is good to have you back on English soil."

"I would say that it is good to be back, but I daresay I am still finding my feet," Edmund replied with uncharacteristic honesty.

When he was with Lionel, for reasons he could not explain, he always felt like he could say anything without risk of judgment. Of course, Vincent was Edmund's dearest friend, but Vincent preferred not to be serious or to talk of vulnerabilities, tending to turn everything into a jest. Without that part of Vincent's nature, Edmund doubted he would have made it through the grief of losing so much, but, sometimes, he liked to speak his mind freely.

"A return to duty is always a difficult thing," Lionel agreed, "but duty is our greatest purpose. Within a month, you will be at ease with your position again, and I have no doubt that your adventures abroad will be of tremendous assistance—a balm of memory, if you like, for the truly hard days. I expect it shall make finding a Duchess much simpler too, for you have stories to tell—there is nothing better to begin a conversation with a suitable lady."

Edmund tapped the edge of his cup as his gaze found Isolde again. She had not moved from her gaggle of ladies, their laughter ringing out across the beautiful gardens, drawing the collective attention of the gentlemen once more. And though the other ladies were pretty enough, Isolde did have a way of standing out. A certain… essence to her that could not be described.

"I have no desire to find a Duchess," Edmund said. "You know this, Lionel."

Lionel took a sip of his tea. "I was aware of your aversion, but I suppose I thought that your time away might have altered your opinion. We are men of high station and influence, Edmund—we must set a good example to our peers, and one of our primary duties is to find a wife and have children to continue our ancestral legacy."

"A gentleman of high station cannot choose his own path?" Edmund arched an eyebrow. "Is that not part of the benefit of being in positions such as ours?"

Lionel lifted his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug. "I would not dare to tell you what path you should walk, Edmund. I can only do what is expected of me; I cannot instruct anyone else." He hesitated. "But would it be such a terrible thing?"

"It would," Edmund confirmed, closing his eyes and concentrating on his breathing as his mind was overwhelmed with sounds and visions: the shriek of panicked horses, the crack of carriage wheels, the thump and violent rolling of bodies tossed in a tumbling landau, the sharp, solitary cry for help, and deathly silence afterward.

He became aware of Lionel's hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of that wretched mix of memories.

"You still struggle with the ghosts?" Lionel asked gently.

After one too many snifters of brandy in the gentlemen's club, Edmund had revealed the ‘ghosts' to Lionel, explaining that was what he called the memories that struck him out of nowhere sometimes.

Edmund opened his eyes. "They have been less pervasive since I went away, but they remind me that they are still lingering in my mind now and then."

Lionel nodded in understanding. "How is Sinclair?"

Edmund mustered a smile, grateful to his friend for diverting the conversation slightly. "As miserable as ever, though I suspect he had a rare time in my absence. I almost gained a smile out of him when I asked to see the ledgers upon my return. He did such exemplary work as my steward that I am tempted to let him continue."

Noticing Lionel's momentarily horrified expression, Edmund laughed and added, "Of course, I will not, but it was a comfort to know that my estate was in capable hands."

"Does that mean you will not be in London for much of the Season? I expect you will be eager to return to Davenport Towers to begin afresh," Lionel said, glancing around with a confused frown. "I had thought I might see Vincent here today. Did he decline the invitation?"

Edmund looked at Isolde again, his eyes widening just a little as he realized she was staring right back at him. Every impulse within him urged him to turn away or lower his gaze, but he did not want her to think he was bothered, so he continued to stare, waiting for her to look away first.

Her eyes pinched and she gave him a look that seemed to say, "What do you think you are staring at?" before one of the nearby ladies said something, and she turned back into the conversation, laughing so brightly that she practically glowed. Some sort of witchery, no doubt, for it could not be explained with common logic.

"Actually, he is in Bath," Edmund told Lionel. "That is the reason that I have not yet resumed my duties at Davenport. I have been charged with a very important task, and until Vincent returns, I must remain at my post."

For you will embarrass him, Isolde, if you are left to your own devices… He mused upon the unknown man who had ‘captured her heart,' and his stomach began to churn, as if he had swallowed a rock and it was now tumbling around in his abdomen. A strange feeling, half-dread, half something he could not pinpoint.

"What manner of task?" Lionel leaned in, holding his cup and saucer, ready to listen before he took another sip.

Edmund pointed his chin in Isolde's direction. "The eldest of his three sisters has just debuted. I am to ensure that she finds no trouble for herself while she is searching for a husband."

"Ah, I remember her," Lionel said, following Edmund's line of sight. He frowned, a look of confusion falling across his face. "But why would you be worried about such a thing? From what I can recall, and from what I have heard of her, she is a sensible, respectable, modest young woman. Many of the society mothers have been speaking very highly of her. I should think you would have no trouble at all."

Edmund turned to observe his friend. "And when have you been spending time with society mothers?"

"I have not," Lionel replied, withdrawing into his customary reticence. "I… um… happened to overhear at Lord Simpkin's gathering the other night. They were speaking very loudly, and I was nearby, sampling a rather excellent salmon puff. I did not do it on purpose. Goodness, I would never eavesdrop on purpose."

Edmund had refused to allow Isolde to attend Lord Simpkin's ball, for those gatherings were known to be infamous occasions that frequently descended into degeneracy. He had informed her over dinner, and, for a fleeting moment, he had been certain that she was about to launch her fork at him.

But it surprised him that Lionel had gone to such an event.

"You went to Lord Simpkin's ball?"

Lionel picked up a lemon tart, to give his hands something to do. "An accident. I misread the invitation." He paused, frowning as if he was trying to solve a difficult puzzle. "I did not have my spectacles at the time, and you know how atrocious my eyesight is. I thought it was Lord Simson's ball, and, to my shame, it was several hours before I realized the mistake. I left once the waltzing began. Now, what were we saying? You were speaking of this task of yours, to guard Lady Isolde?"

Edmund hid a smile, content to relieve his friend of his unease. "It is not as simple a task as you might think, for the girl is… more wayward than she appears, with silly notions that will assuredly see her reputation in tatters if she is not closely watched."

He reclined in his chair, his gaze once again drawn to Isolde as she laughed delightedly, the apples of her cheeks dusted with the prettiest shade of pink, her happiness as contagious as that laugh. Of course, Edmund was impervious, forcing his mouth to flatten into a stern line, refusing to indulge in that woman's frivolities.

"She already had a near-miss with Lord Spofforth," he added, pulling a wry face at Lionel.

Lionel duly grimaced. "Heavens, did no one warn her? Should you not have warned her?"

"I tried. She would not listen. That is my primary predicament, and that is what I mean when I say she is more wayward than she seems." Edmund dusted pastry crumbs from his fingers, diverting his gaze to check where Julianna was. To his dismay, she was asleep in a chair beneath the shade of an apple tree, utterly oblivious to her daughter's potential antics.

Lionel jolted, sitting up straighter as he raised his index finger. "Wait a moment—is Lady Isolde not the one involved in the strawberry tart incident? The one who?—"

"She is," Edmund interrupted, flinching at the memory.

"Ah, so that must mean all is finally forgiven!" Lionel said more brightly. "I did think it rather peculiar that you held such a grudge for so long, when she was but a girl at the time. I find it is always to one's benefit to forgive where possible. It must be a relief to finally be friendly with one another."

Edmund downed what was left of his tea and dabbed his mouth a little too aggressively with a napkin, his eyes narrowing at Isolde. She was not looking at him this time, had not looked at him since she caught him staring, and he could not explain why that irked him so. Indeed, there was an unusual strain in his chest, as if he wanted her to look back at him.

"I would not say that," he murmured, for even if he and Isolde were not constantly in conflict with one another, he knew it would be safer if they were never friendly.

He cared for the friends he already had, and that was all; he would not add any other name to that list, in case fate should decide to strike a line through it, hurling him back into a grief he had fought long and hard to overcome.

Just then, an almighty crash erupted across the peaceful garden party. A scream went up, piercing through Edmund's skull like a javelin, igniting a wave of visceral visions that should have held him rigid in his seat. Instead, he was up and out of his chair in an instant, eyes scouring the scene, heart lurching with panic as he saw the glint of smashed glass and the gleam of something red.

Ahead of him, the group of young ladies who had been keeping Isolde company were crowded around something in the center of their tight circle. And where Isolde had been standing, the other women had closed ranks, all turning at once to glare at a figure who swayed a short distance away. A very familiar figure, for Edmund had wanted to punch that ‘gentleman' in the face the moment he had seen Lord Spofforth touch Isolde's waist.

Putting two and two together, the tense scene left Edmund with only one possible reason why he could not see Isolde there anymore, and who the group of ladies were protecting.

He ran without thought, closing the distance in seconds, terrified of what he might see.