Chapter Twenty-Two

Three Days Later

Drawing in a deep breath, Isolde dug her spoon into the pea soup and drew up a hefty mouthful.

She was determined not to be the sort of woman who wasted away after heartbreak. Her appetite had deserted her, but she knew that she ought to be eating, and bowl of pea soup wasn't going to kill her.

The dinner table was quiet. It generally was, lately.

After all the nonsense about James wanting to challenge the man to a duel had died down, a sort of awkwardness had settled down over the family. Every time Isolde glanced up, she found one or other of her parents eyeing her anxiously. James followed her around in a way he hadn't since they were children, trying to get her to reminisce over old times or play some silly joke.

She wasn't in the mood. When nobody was around, Isolde had taken to getting out her mother's portrait and looking at her. Her real mother, that is.

"I understand you a little better now, I think," she'd said once. Thankfully, nobody had heard.

"James, aren't you going to your club today?" Richard said suddenly, after a meaningful look from his wife.

James paused, a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. "I thought Isolde and me might play chess, like we used to."

"I don't want to play chess," Isolde said, as everybody was looking at her. "Go to your club."

James pressed his lips together. "I think I should stay."

"You should go," Beatrice said severely. "We want to talk to your sister about something."

Well, that couldn't possibly be good. Isolde looked inside herself and tried to dredge up some anxiety or perhaps dread, but there was nothing.

An hour later, the three of them gathered in the drawing room. James had left for his club, and the house felt eerily silent.

Richard and Beatrice sat opposite Isolde on a sofa, glancing at each other, neither one wanting to speak first.

"Well?" she said after a pause. "What is it?"

"You haven't been yourself," Beatrice said quietly. "I know that… we know that time is what you need to heal, but in the meantime, you must make a decision."

"A decision? About what?"

She drew in a breath. "About Lord Raisin."

Isolde stiffened. "What is to be considered about him?"

Her parents exchanged another look.

"He was deeply upset about the… about what happened at Vauxhall Gardens," Richard said carefully. "But he still loves you very much."

"He does not love me," Isolde said, voice flat. Her parents did not correct her this time.

"He is still very fond of you," Beatrice said instead. "He is still most fervently desirous of marrying you. Just yesterday, he sought your father's permission for your hand in matrimony, and we pledged to broach the subject at the earliest opportunity."

Isolde passed a hand over her face. "Mama, you know how I feel about him."

"I know, I know, darling, but the business of that vile wager may yet come to light. If that happens, you'll be ruined. It's over. In fact, all of us may need to leave London, and it may even affect James' prospects."

"But that's not fair. I did nothing wrong."

"We know that, Izzy. But the gossip columns – and public opinion – tell a different story. If you hadn't been featured in the columns so much and connected with the viscount, the wager might just be a humiliating little story. But as things are, it'll be rather a shocking thing in town. But, if you are married to Lord Raisin, it'll be entirely different. You'll be safe, my love. Reputable. The gossip columns shall scarcely concern themselves with a wager made prior to your matrimonial union, particularly when there exists little substance to it."

Isolde drew in a breath. "Why would Lord Raisin want to be connected to a woman as scandalous as me?"

"He's fond of you," Beatrice repeated. Isolde stared at her mother and realized that she truly did believe it. Married as she was to a kind, loving man, Beatrice could likely not grasp how spiteful a man could be, how determined he could be once his pride was on the line.

"He desires to marry posthaste," Richard interjected. "Ere this tale comes to light."

"It may not come to light."

"Yes, but we can't sit around and pray that it doesn't," Beatrice said firmly. "This sort of thing has a way of coming out, and like your father says, we must act first. Lord Raisin proposes a special licence. You can be married in a week, and then you'll be safe. Safe, darling."

"He hasn't gotten my consent yet," Isolde pointed out.

Her parents sighed, exchanging looks.

"That is true," Beatrice acknowledged. "And while he has our permission and blessing, your father warned him that he would need your acceptance, too. But I beg you, darling, accept this proposal. I worry about you, and if this story breaks, I can assure you that it will be the last proposal you receive. And…" she drew in a breath, steeling herself, "… and we will be obliged to send you to the country. It's not fair to endanger James' reputation."

Isolde stiffened at that, head snapping up. She glanced at her parents' faces, hoping to find some shred of mercy there.

There was none.

"I can't marry him," she said softly.

Beatrice sighed. "And we can't force you. But those are your choices now. Marry Lord Raisin or go to the countryside. The choice is yours."

There was a taut moment of silence in the room. Before she knew what she was doing, Isolde had risen steadily to her feet. Her legs wobbled, but mostly held her upright.

"I need to think about it," she announced.

Beatrice nodded. "Of course, my dear. But don't take too long, will you? This needs to be settled quickly. The sooner, the better."

She gave a nod, and strode out of the room, not looking back. Isolde took the stairs two at a time, hurrying along the dark hallway which led to her room. Part of her had expected to hear running footsteps, to turn and see that one of her parents was coming after her, but there was no one. She reached her room and tumbled inside. Thankfully, none of the maids were in there. She just managed to get the door closed before the tears came.

***

He had drunk entirely too much, but Clayton could not bring it upon himself to care.

He'd received a few notes from Eliza since the fateful Vauxhall outing. Apparently, Auric had recovered enough to rise from his bed and greet his wife and children upon their return from Vauxhall, bellowing and throwing things until he went white as a sheet and slid to the ground. He'd been in bed since then. He had requested Clayton's presence, but Clayton had not gone.

He lifted the whiskey decanter to his lips, only to discover that it was empty. Sighing, he set it aside.

Probably for the best.

There had been a few messages from Lucas, mostly left unopened. Clayton could not bear to read them. He could imagine his friend's mournful, accusing stare, and had to put the notes aside.

I'm the unworthiest man in the world.

He kept remembering how Isolde had looked, how her face had lit up when he told her he loved her, and the way that excitement had slipped off her face when Lord Raisin had told her the truth.

Clayton was trying hard not to blame Lord Raisin. Yes, the man was spiteful, slimy little fellow, but he hadn't lied. He'd only told the truth about what Clayton had done.

There was a tap on the door, and Clayton, lying flat on his back on his bed, grunted.

The footman took it as a sign to come in.

"A letter for you, my Lord."

"I don't want any letters."

The man stood his ground. "It's from Lady Wrenwood, my Lord. The butler said that you would want to read all correspondence from that house, and this one is… er, I suppose you'll have to look at it yourself."

Clayton wordlessly held a hand out above his head. An envelope was slipped into it.

He waited until the footman had gone before he inspected it.

The letter was sealed with a knot of black wax.

Clayton found himself sitting upright, even though the movement made his head spin. He glanced over at the clock over the mantelpiece. It was barely seven o'clock, and already he was dead drunk.

This has to stop.

Breaking the seal, Clayton opened the letter. It was a brief letter, written in Eliza's familiar, sloping hand. He already knew what it was going to say, but he read each word carefully even so. His hand crept up to his mouth, the way it had when he was young, and he bit back a gurgle of hysterical laughter.

It was no good. The laughter came up, and by the end of the letter, Clayton was laughing aloud, biting down on his lower lip to keep quiet.

"My Lord?" came the butler's tentative voice from the doorway. "Is all well? Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you," Clayton answered, flopping back on the bed. "Some water, perhaps. I think I've had more than enough whiskey for one day."