Scandal at Vauxhall (Pleasure Garden Follies) Read Free Page B

home?”
    Isabel shook her
head. “I think I should be able to manage.”
    “Well, at least
let me escort you back to your mare. I had no idea Your Grace could ride.” He
tucked her gloved, tense hand into the crook of his elbow. Once they were close
enough, he assumed position to help lift her.
    “Thank you,
sir.”
    “You’re most
welcome. Please, if there is anything I can do, let me or my wife know, Your
Grace. We would be most honored to assist you in any way we can.”
    “Thank you
kindly, sir. Should a need arise, I will call on you.”
    Within minutes, Isabel
reared her horse back and rode home hard, only stopping when she reached her
front door. Passing the reins to a surprised footman, she stepped through the
threshold, collapsing onto her knees.
    The butler rushed
forward, hollering for the housekeeper to come quickly. “Your Grace, what’s
happened?”
    “His Grace, the Duke
of Brimley, succumbed to a fatal gunshot. What will become of us?”
    “Your Grace,” he
bent down to help her, “I know I speak out of turn when I say that we’re sorry
for your loss, but no matter how uncertain all may be now, just know we—the
staff—support you fully. We will be here for you no matter the challenge. You
have my honor as a servant. No harm shall come to you. Now, if you’ll follow
Mrs. Cooke, she shall see you settled into bed.”
    Isabel sighed,
feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. But
what will they do if I can’t afford to keep them on? She’d hate to see them
leave, but the harsh reality was this—what would be left to her with Henry’s
passing would be determined by his solicitor. A man she wouldn’t give two
farthings for, and had the manners of pig.

Chapter Two

 
    Six
months later

 
    Isabel paced to
and fro from the dais to her gardens window facing the back of her townhouse.
Uneasiness had her on guard, but she hadn’t the slightest clue the cause of her
anxiety. The skies were gray and the clouds shifted in strange, hard angles
above, threatening to unleash some sort of God-given punishment. Nevertheless,
Isabel found her thoughts and paranoia distracted once again by Cecily’s
incessant chattering.
    While she
enjoyed the frequent visits by her closest friend, Miss Cecily Turner, their teatime
had turned into a weekly accounting of London’s wagging tongues and scandalous
mischief. For the most part, their conversations had been light and humorous,
yet as of late their talk had been dark and unsatisfactory. Three times this
month already, Cecily managed to bring up the Marquess of Stoughton, and every
time his name was mentioned, her heart broke.
    She had written
to Nathaniel on at least half a dozen occasions to seek his council on some
stately matters—as her late husband’s solicitor sorely neglected her—and not
one letter received a response. Disappointment summarized her life in light of
recent events, especially after she had poured out her heart to him at the
ball. Isabel glanced over to her companion then looked away as a single tear
trickled down her cheek.
    She missed
Nathaniel.
    Cecily scoffed,
drawing her full attention. “I just find it utterly distasteful how the dowager
countess continues to declare the marquess ’
affections for Lady Eloise Morton, and insists the marriage would be most
advantageous. Even more shocking is the age difference! Why, she’s barely out of
school, and he’s a man in his prime. A man his age with a wife so young is a
disaster of a match. The affairs, illegitimate children…the list goes on,” she
ranted.
    Isabel dismissed
the words with a wave of her hand.
    “Darling, what
in heaven’s name are you thinking about?” Cecily asked, set her tea down. “My
brother will be here soon, so we must finish making our list.”
    Isabel cocked
her head to the side. What in the devil
is she talking about? “What list are you going on about, Cecily?”
    A pounding on
the door, followed by men shouting, alerted the women, and they sat