Isabella Adams is taken in as a companion to kindly Lady Watson after a scandal tarnishes her reputation. When Lady Watson’s nephew, Lord James Crawford, returns to the country, there is an instant attraction between them. But will the secrets of the past keep them apart?

A Most Improper Proposal

Molly Ann Wishlade

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Molly Ann Wishlade 2014

Molly Ann Wishlade asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781474008464

Version date: 2018-07-23

MOLLY ANN WISHLADE

has always been an avid reader and writer of stories. She regularly indulges her love of romance and passion by getting lost in the delicious worlds created by romantic novelists. When not reading, she’s busy with her current WIP, usually her next highly erotic tale about hunky heroes and their lady loves - and sometimes their gorgeous male lovers too.

She wants to take readers on the rollercoaster that is life through the creation of loveable characters, exciting relationships and vivid worlds. She has a soft spot for a happy ever after.

She loves to hear from readers.

Acknowledgements

Once again, huge thanks to the dedicated HQ Digital team who helped me to bring Isabella and James’ story to my lovely readers.

Big hugs to all my author friends. They are fabulously supportive with their advice, tips and retweets.

Love and a million kisses to my darling husband who keeps me sane, my precious children who keep me smiling and my two dogs for making me get out in the fresh air on a daily basis. (Walking helps keep writer’s bottom at bay! Just!)

XXXX

For all the ladies and gentlemen who have ever received a most improper proposal…

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘Look out, madam! Get out of the way!’

Isabella’s stroll along the sandy track of Rotten Row was abruptly brought to a halt as the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun on her face was suddenly obscured.

She flung her hands out to shield herself from the enormous iron-clad hooves of the black stallion rearing above her. She threw herself out of its path, landing hard on her behind.

‘Hush now, hush, boy. It’s okay.’

Trembling, Isabella struggled to catch her breath, winded from her fall. She watched as the rider leant down over the stallion’s sleek black neck and smoothed it gently whilst whispering further words of reassurance into its flicking ear. The agitated beast gradually responded to the soothing voice that came from beneath the black top hat and slowly ceased its stamping, then lowered its head to the grass at the side of the path and began to graze.

The rider jumped down, looped the horse’s reins over a fence post and turned to Isabella. She looked away quickly, aware that she had been staring.

‘Excuse me, madam…’ He made a small bow. ‘Are you hurt?’

She scanned him from his black riding boots up to his black velvet riding jacket. He was smartly dressed but clearly no dandy. She moved her gaze towards his face but it was cloaked in shadow and the sun glared out from behind his head, creating a veritable halo.

She squinted up at him, raising her hands to shield her eyes.

‘Did you bump your head?’ The man reached down to her.

Isabella gasped as she caught his scent on the breeze. It was of horses, leather and something else that she did not recognise ‒ an aroma that was fresh, earthy and that stirred something deep within her. A blush rose in her cheeks as heat flooded through her like mulled wine. It was as if her body recognised him instantly and she was surprised and unnerved by its response.

‘Madam? Or is it Miss?’ His voice betrayed a trace of irritation now. ‘I asked if you are hurt.’

She shook her head and was about to reply when she heard a familiar voice.

‘Isabella! Are you all right, Isabella?’

She turned in the direction of the voice and the pounding of feet, then shook her head again in answer as Henrietta Pembrey arrived breathless at her side.

‘Oh my dear, dear Isabella…’ The words came out in between gasps and the young woman fluttered her hands above her chest. ‘Whatever happened? I only left you for a moment to retrieve my book and then I heard the most dreadful noise.’

Henrietta looked pointedly at the horseman, then crouched at Isabella’s side and rubbed her back in circles as if she were a small child in need of comfort. Isabella suddenly became aware of her position on the ground and felt acutely vulnerable. She fought the urge to shrug Henrietta’s tiny hand away and struggled to prevent the welling tears from falling.

‘Can you rise, dear?’ Henrietta took hold of her arm.

‘I can. Thank you, Henrietta.’

Isabella pushed herself up to her feet, suddenly conscious of the crowd of onlookers savouring the spectacle. She attempted to dust herself off and swallowed hard at the ache in her throat. Henrietta retrieved her parasol from where it had landed, then took a peek at the back of Isabella’s dress.

‘Oh no, your dress is quite ruined!’ Henrietta gasped. Then she whispered into Isabella’s ear, ‘You fell into horse muck and it is all over the back of your dress.’

Her blush deepening at this new revelation, Isabella backed towards the fence in an attempt to conceal her shame from the crowd. She could not believe that she could have such ill luck. She glared at the man responsible for her fall, eager to apportion blame. It was his fault. This stranger had nearly run her over with his horse; he was clearly careless and most irresponsible. He should have taken more care over the direction of his steed.

He moved towards her and she was now able to discern his features and to become fully aware of his height, because even when standing, she had to crane her neck to look up at his face. She studied his features.

Deep-set dark eyes were framed by shapely black brows currently formed into a heavy frown. His jaw was square and his cheeks featured wide sideburns that were as dark as his brows but flecked with rogue white hairs. Some might consider him handsome with his strong, masculine physique and those fathomless eyes, but he was not a young man and he had clearly spent much time outdoors.

She met his eyes and heat blazed in her cheeks. His gaze was unflinching and the sincerity she saw there unsettled her so that she felt as if she were hurtling towards something she did not yet understand. Something that scared yet excited that part of herself that she had tried to bury.

As Henrietta continued to fuss, fruitlessly attempting to wipe Isabella’s dress with a lace handkerchief, the horseman interrupted her. ‘Excuse me, your friend has not yet answered my questions.’

Henrietta turned her wide blue eyes to Isabella. Stirred into instinctive protection of her friend, Isabella scowled at the man.

‘I am quite well, sir. Thank you for your concern.’ She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. ‘Though I would be far better if I had not just been nearly knocked down by you and your horse.’

‘I did shout to you several times.’ He shrugged, his palms facing the sky. ‘But you appeared to be lost in a daydream.’

Isabella’s gaze was drawn again to the deep frown engraved above his eyes and she wondered if it ever lifted.

‘Well, sir, mayhap I should ask you if you are unable to control your horse?’ Her frosty reply was met with an eruption of giggles from their audience.

‘I must admit, Miss…’ His eyebrows lifted as he awaited her reply.

She was reluctant to provide him with her name without an official introduction, but the moment was too awkward to withhold it, so she surrendered.

‘Adams.’ Would he know her name and reputation? Was it possible that this stranger would have heard of her past…misfortunes?

‘Miss Adams’ – he bowed regally – ‘my horse was startled by a squirrel and I was trying to regain control of him when you walked across my path. You seemed quite preoccupied, almost like a sleepwalker.’

Isabella willed the heat that had risen to her cheeks to subside. She determined that although she surrendered her name, she would not surrender anything else.

‘I was merely taking the air, sir, and you, in fact, rode into my path.’

The giggles became sniggers and she lifted her chin higher, refusing to show any weakness or shame in front of the society vultures as they circled the scene of the accident, well aware that her embarrassment would be all the sweeter to them because of who she was.

‘Well, Miss Adams,’ – the gentleman’s voice was soft, low and, she believed, tinged with mockery – ‘I apologise for disturbing your walk and I will strive to control my steed in future. However, as long as you are unhurt…’

She inclined her head and raised her eyes to meet his but he had already turned to unhook his horse’s reins. He mounted his horse and dug his heels into its muscular flanks. The beast sprang into a canter, causing the crowd to take a collective gasp and step back. Within seconds he was gone, leaving her in a cloud of dust and shaking with fury, confusion and unspoken admonitions.

‘Oh, Isabella, what shall you do?’ Henrietta shook her small blonde head, causing her straw bonnet to rustle.

As she fought to control her wobbly legs, Isabella realised that she did not know. She could not believe that the gentleman had caused such a disturbance. She also knew that she should be insulted, which did not help. He had almost killed her, then caused her to fall into manure. He had asked for her name and not, she now realised, yielded his own. The gentleman’s behaviour was most improper, shocking and insulting. Yet as a sinking feeling washed over her, she wished that he had not left so abruptly and wondered if she would ever see him again.

Foolish thoughts, Isabella. He is a man, and men are not to be trusted or thought after.

‘Pray do not fuss, Henrietta,’ she muttered, dusting off her fawn gloves and straightening her violet satin spencer. She must maintain the façade of respectability in front of both her young companion and the watching crowd at all costs.

She took a deep, somewhat shaky breath and looked around, meeting the cold and curious eyes of the ton. With all of her willpower she forced haughty disdain into her expression. She would not give them what they wanted.

As if reading her thoughts, the crowd slowly dispersed.

‘Henrietta, how bad is my gown?’

As the petite young woman leant backwards to assess the damage, Isabella could already predict her reply. The thin muslin clung to the back of her legs in sticky, wet patches and whenever she moved she was overwhelmed by an aroma that reminded her of a wet forest floor and overripe vegetables.

Her stomach roiled and she struggled not to heave.

‘It is a bit messy.’ Henrietta wrinkled her nose. ‘But if we hurry home, I’m sure that not many people will see you.’

A sudden gust of wind blew cold against her wet dress and Isabella shivered. She realised that she really had no choice: the damage was done and there was nothing that she could do about it. She would have to walk back to their lodgings and endure further public humiliation.

It was past five o’clock and the park was teeming with le bon ton. How on this earth would she escape being noticed? She was about to endure yet another public humiliation caused by yet another gentleman ‒ though this was not such an emotional one, it was true. She made every effort possible to avoid England’s male population, but it seemed that no matter what she did, trouble would find her out and make her the source of other people’s amusement.

‘Come along then, Henrietta. We had better make our way home or Lady Watson will be worried.’

Her blonde companion gingerly took her arm and walked alongside her, imitating her rigid posture, and they made their way out of the park, feigning indifference to the stares, pointing and mocking laughter that followed them.

* * * *

The cool, dark hallway of Lady Watson’s London house was a positive sanctuary for Isabella as the heavy door clicked solidly shut behind them. The walk from the park to Berkeley Square had taken less than ten minutes but it had been the longest walk of her life. She was accustomed to being laughed at, pointed at and whispered about, but to be covered in horse manure whilst receiving such unwelcome attention was a humiliation beyond endurance.

‘Here, Isabella, let me take your parasol and instruct the maid to run you a bath.’ Henrietta’s kindness caused tears to spring into Isabella’s eyes.

‘Yes, thank you, Henrietta, that is very kind.’

As Henrietta went off in search of the maid, Isabella suddenly became properly aware of the butler.

‘Excuse me, Miss Adams.’

‘Yes, Henry?’ Isabella winced at the overpowering animal smell that was emanating from her dress and filling the confined space of the entrance hall like a thick, choking fog. If Henry was also aware of it, he showed no sign. His pallid face was inscrutable, as always.

‘Lady Watson has been asking for you.’

‘Please tell her that I shall join her once I have freshened up. I cannot possibly see her like this. Thank you, Henry.’

The tall man bowed, then left.

‘Alone at last,’ she thought and turned to the large gold-framed mirror that adorned the hallway. She was alarmed at how the woman looking back at her slouched as if carrying a heavy burden. She straightened her back and lifted her chin but her body immediately reverted to its original position as if tied to a spring.

She placed the palms of her hands on the cold, unyielding glass and sighed. Her skin was dull and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her once-white dress was wrinkled and stained, giving her the appearance of a woman of the lower classes. And in the shadow of her bonnet, her thin face appeared much older than its actual twenty-three years.

Yet despite these visible markers – evidence of the hardships of recent years ‒ there was something different there, something that she had not seen in some time. The inner circles of her hazel eyes appeared lit up, like she was illuminated from within. Her encounter with the horse-riding gentleman had clearly sparked something within her. She wanted to believe that it was her indignation at his behaviour, her fury at his carelessness which could have led to her being seriously injured or worse.

But deep down, in a secret part of herself that she hid always from the world, she suspected that it might be due to something else and that concerned her, as she had sworn never to allow another man to cast a shadow over her life again.

Chapter Two

‘I do love Wednesday evenings at Almack’s,’ Lady Watson giggled, stepping over the threshold of the exclusive club. She appeared almost ethereal this evening with her translucent skin and her shock of white hair elaborately pinned and decorated with diamonds.

At seventy-nine, Lady Watson displayed an energy and zest for life that Isabella admired. The ageing lady was keen to squeeze every last drop of excitement into her days whilst she was able. Some might say that the yellow shade of her gown did little for Lady Watson’s complexion, but she was unperturbed by the opinions of others ‒ which was just as well, Isabella thought, or she would not be in the position of companion to the elderly lady.

‘Come here, dear.’ Lady Watson grasped for Isabella’s arm with fingers like gnarled twigs. Though old and appearing frail, she had a surprisingly strong grip and her fingers pinched a little, conveying her excitement. ‘And how are you feeling this evening?’ The lady’s breath was fragranced with the violet and liquorice of her cachou lozenges.

‘Why I am well, Lady Watson.’ Isabella met the inquisitive grey eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I heard something of your afternoon’s adventure, dear.’ Lady Watson chuckled. ‘Some awful, boorish man lost control of his horse and nearly ran you over. Is that right?’

Isabella blushed and tried to look away, but Lady Watson reached up to firmly take her chin between thumb and forefinger.

‘How did you hear about it, Lady Watson?’

‘Why, from the lovely Miss Pembrey, dear. How else?’

Isabella shook her head as it filled with thoughts of exactly what she’d say to little Henrietta when she saw her next.

‘Now, now, Isabella, it wasn’t like that. Henrietta is a sweet girl and meant no harm. She was just concerned for your welfare. She has your best interests at heart and she is a sensitive little thing. Why, she was so upset by the incident that it gave her a headache, leaving her confined to her bedchamber this evening.’

Lady Watson gave Isabella’s chin a gentle squeeze, then took her hand, placing it in the crook of her arm where it rested upon the fine silk of her glove and the equally soft, loose freckled skin.

Isabella walked slowly along the hallway with the sprightly lady and mulled over Lady Watson’s comments about Henrietta. It seemed that Lady Watson had taken it upon herself to actively seek out young ladies in distress in order to offer them the security and protection of her age, experience and class. She had come to Isabella’s aid when she was at her lowest point and more recently she had swept up little Henrietta and her set of problems.

Lady Watson patted Isabella’s arm, returning her to the moment.

‘Come, dear, let us enjoy the evening ahead. You do look quite delightful this evening, you know.’

Isabella smiled at the compliment. She had to admit that she did feel good in the dusky-pink taffeta-silk gown. The low neckline with its pink rosebud trim accentuated her pert, round bosoms and the long skirt fell like a shimmering silk waterfall.

‘And, dear,’ Lady Watson continued, ‘I do love what Georgina did with your hair.’

‘She is most talented.’ Isabella smiled and tucked her fan beneath her arm, then moved her free hand to her hair, where she twirled a finger in a ringlet at the nape of her neck. Her chestnut curls were pinned loosely so that a few tendrils hung prettily down and her maid had styled tiny ringlets at the front so that they framed her face.

They approached the grand stone staircase. Although she had attended Almack’s Assembly Rooms several times since her appointment as Lady Watson’s companion, its splendour never ceased to amaze her. Perhaps this was heightened by her vulnerability, as she knew how strict the club’s patronesses were, and how at any moment they could withdraw membership vouchers, leaving man or woman, lord or lady, literally out in the cold. She shivered.

‘Do you have a chill, Isabella?’ Lady Watson asked.

‘No, Lady Watson, I am quite well, thank you.’

‘Then why did you shiver, child?’

Isabella considered fabricating a reason but knew that Lady Watson was too perceptive to deceive.

‘I was thinking of the patronesses, Lady Watson,’ she whispered.

The board of women, including Lady Sarah Jersey, Lady Castlereagh and Lady Cowper, were strict and draconian in their control of the club and they ruled Almack’s with a collective iron will. They had, it had even been rumoured, recently turned away the mighty Duke of Wellington, the nation’s hero, because the gentleman was wearing trousers instead of the required knee breeches and because he had arrived at the club after eleven o’clock.

The broad grin that graced Lady Watson’s face brought her immediate comfort.

‘Have I not told you that you have nothing to fear from that coven?’

Isabella gasped at the derogatory term but hid a smile behind her fan.

‘I must admit, Lady Watson, that the ladies in question do remind me somewhat of the witches in Macbeth.’ It was wicked to speak about others in such a way but Lady Watson brought out her mischievous side.

Lady Watson smiled and winked. ‘Do you mean in the way that they act like puppeteers of London society, my dear, making or breaking people’s reputations through their collective manipulation?’

Isabella inclined her head.

‘I wish I knew exactly how you persuaded them to allow me to accompany you to Almack’s, Lady Watson. I mean… so many have tried but failed.’ She peered coyly up at the great lady from beneath her lashes.

‘A lady never tells, Isabella’ – Lady Watson tapped her closed fan against her lips once before continuing – ‘but feel secure in the knowledge that everyone has secrets and that I know a few that some of the lovely patronesses… despite their insistence on members of Almack’s having untarnished reputations… would prefer not to have bandied about in public.’ With that, Lady Watson winked again, leaving Isabella wondering at the power that the seemingly frail old lady wielded in London society. She was fearless and Isabella’s admiration for her filled her chest so that she had to resist throwing her arms around Lady Watson and hugging her tightly.

As they passed the spacious supper room to their left, Isabella could already hear the musicians warming up in the rooms above. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation and she pressed her free hand over it. Even though she worried about being an object of mockery or disdain, she could not help but be caught up in the collective excitement and buoyancy that permeated the atmosphere at the club.

‘It will be another busy evening at Almack’s, Lady Watson.’

‘Certainly, dear,’ the old lady replied. ‘And I hope to see you enjoying the dancing well into Thursday morning.’

Isabella inclined her head and suppressed her reply. She knew that any gentleman who claimed her for a dance would likely be a rake who was under the impression that she was his for the taking. In the past, to her mortification, she knew that certain young men of the ton had even danced with her as a wager, just so that they could claim to have touched the flesh of the disgraceful, wanton Miss Adams.

They climbed the grand stone staircase and Isabella was reminded once again of Cinderella as she ran from the prince and lost her glass slipper. How unfortunate to finally find your prince then to be forced to tear yourself away from him just as he was falling in love with you. What if they had not found each other again? Mayhap Cinderella was lucky to have found him at all. Isabella certainly doubted that she would ever find such happiness, let alone a prince.

‘What is it, Isabella?’ Lady Watson questioned. ‘Are you sure you’re warm enough?’

‘Yes, thank you, Lady Watson. I really am quite comfortable.’

‘I do hope that you haven’t caught an ague after being in a damp dress this afternoon.’ Lady Watson shook her head and tucked her companion’s hand more securely into the crook of her arm.

At the door to the ballroom, Lady Watson paused to catch her breath. ‘Now, dear, remember: head up, shoulders back and hear only what is favourable.’

Isabella nodded.

‘We will have a good time, my dear, no matter what.’

‘No matter what,’ Isabella repeated, though she felt her serenity of just moments ago begin to drift away from her like clouds on a breeze and she wondered if she would ever feel completely at ease amongst London’s high society.

* * * *

The ballroom was a truly magnificent sight. It was almost one hundred feet in length and forty wide, and when fully illuminated it was like a night sky full of stars. The walls were divided with panels and paired pilasters and decorated with festoons and paterae, giving the rooms a Roman feel. Isabella felt that this was appropriate as the decadence enjoyed by many of le Beau Monde who attended Almack’s, did echo that of the ancient Romans she had read about.

Walking into the ballroom was a bit like walking the gangplank, then plunging into shark-infested waters. Isabella watched as they started to circle, clearly the scent of her blood and the nervous thrumming of her heart had alerted them to her presence. She pressed the hand holding her fan against her stomach so that it rested like a shield in front of her body.

‘Ah!’ Lady Watson exclaimed. ‘My dear Lord Howden. How are you?’

The elderly gentleman took Lady Watson’s hand and bowed low, brushing his withered lips against her fingers. He reminded Isabella of a balding old crow in his black jacket and breeches, with his bony legs clearly outlined in their silk stockings. At any moment she could imagine him stretching out his arms like wings and strutting around the room, bobbing his head backwards and forwards in the funny way crows do.

‘I am very well, Lady Watson, and all the better for seeing you.’

Lord Howden leered as he turned to Isabella and openly eyed the low neckline of her gown. She flickered her eyes over the dome of his head where his sparse hair had been greasily combed from one ear to the other in a futile attempt to conceal his expanding scalp.

She bobbed a curtsey and he took her hand, then leant over and kissed it more sloppily than he had Lady Watson’s. Isabella fought the urge to pull her hand away and frowned with dismay at the damp patch his kiss had left on her silk glove. She yearned to wipe it against her dress to rid herself of his drool but such behaviour would not be proper or comely.

‘You must save me a dance later on, Miss Adams.’ His wolfish grin seemed all the more sinister because of the missing teeth and the foul stench of his breath. That smell would now be clinging to her glove.

‘Of course, Lord Howden. It would be an honour.’ That I dream not of…

‘So lovely,’ he muttered, then turned and walked away, lifting his right leg slightly as he unabashedly adjusted his manhood.

‘An honour, dear?’ Lady Watson smiled.

‘I am afraid not, Lady Watson.’ Isabella shook her head. ‘I have tried to show the gentleman good manners…’ She wondered if it would be awful of her to confess her thoughts, but Lady Watson was not easily shocked. ‘However, I cannot bear to dance with him for he whispers the most awful things into my ear, then claims that it is his age and that his mind wanders.’

Lady Watson laughed. ‘Yes, dear, like his hands. Lord Howden has not altered in the sixty years during which I have been of his acquaintance. Outliving three younger wives and dallying with countless mistresses has done nothing to dull his ardour. I thought that he would fall head first into your gown the way he was leaning over to peer down your neckline.’

‘Lady Watson!’

Despite her shock, Isabella laughed, for the old lady’s wicked humour was most infectious.

As they approached a circle of ladies, Isabella felt her laughter die in her throat. Lady Watson coughed and the nearest two turned and quickly assessed the new arrivals, evaluating hair, clothing and jewellery in one sweeping glance.

‘Lady Watson.’ Lady Herridge bowed her head in acknowledgment. ‘And the lovely Miss Adams.’ Though the lady smiled, her tone was icy and her pale-blue eyes were hard as flint.

‘Well, ladies…’ Lady Watson addressed the small circle of women in their colourful evening gowns and headwear. They reminded Isabella of a picture she’d once seen in a book about parrots in a jungle. ‘May I ask what you were discussing?’

‘My dear Lady Watson’ – Lady Herridge drew herself up to her full height and paused for effect – ‘we were discussing the latest arrival in London.’

The ladies tittered and fussed and Isabella glanced quickly from one hard face to another. There was much flickering of fans and exchanging of knowing smiles.

What did they know? She felt her vulnerability once more, as the unswallowable lump rose in her throat and began to choke her. Was it someone from her past? Was there a chance that her former shame would be resurrected and bandied about this season as well? Her head began to ache and she felt certain that her knees would give way.

Lady Watson applied a gentle pressure to her hand, squeezing it just a fraction in the crook of her elbow.

‘The latest arrival.’ Lady Watson stared hard at Lady Herridge. ‘And whom might that be? The Duke of Wellington, mayhap?’ She smiled broadly at her suggestion, well aware that the snobbery of this club had kept that honourable gentleman from entering its social circle.

‘Oh, no, Lady Watson!’ Lady Herridge announced triumphantly. ‘Someone far more interesting. At least, someone you will find far more interesting.’

Lady Watson shook out her golden fan with its decorative yellow feathers and raised it to her face.

‘Pray tell me the name of our new arrival, Lady Herridge.’ Lady Watson’s voice was calm but Isabella sensed her tension. It made her long to stand between the two ladies in order to block out the mocking face of Lady Herridge. She wanted to whisk her saviour away from this gladiators’ arena because she feared what knowledge Lady Herridge was about to impart, but she forced herself to stand still and silent and to imitate the unflinching dignity that Lady Watson displayed.

‘None other than…’ Lady Herridge sniffed and her companions giggled behind their fans. ‘Lord… James Crawford.’

Isabella heard the collective intake of breath and waited as it was held. But if the colourful vultures expected to feast upon the remains of a devastated Lady Watson, then they were as disappointed as the hyenas at their edges, because the lady showed no sign of weakness or surprise. Instead, she smiled, as if already privy to the information.

‘Oh, I say, Lady Herridge, that is no news to me; I thought you spoke of another.’ She chuckled. ‘Of course I am aware of my nephew’s return. And, I believe, he will make an appearance here this evening.’

Lady Herridge frowned.

‘You knew of his return?’

‘Of course, Lady Herridge.’ With a proud nod of her head, Lady Watson smiled at the circle of disappointed women, then turned on her heel, practically dragging Isabella behind her.

As soon as they had escaped to the coolness of the hallway, Lady Watson peered around to check that they were alone, then leant against the wall and fanned her face furiously.

‘Lady Watson?’ Isabella’s stomach churned and her hands shook as she reached out to still the lady’s fluttering hands. ‘What is it? Why did that disturb you so?’

Lady Watson was silent for a moment then she turned her moist grey eyes to Isabella and held her gaze. Isabella watched as a tear escaped and ran down the withered cheek, leaving a pale trail through the pink circle of rouge.

‘Because, dear girl, I knew nothing of his return. He has not contacted me to inform me that he is here in London, nor to make arrangements to see me before we meet up in society.’

Isabella’s heartbeat quickened as she registered the insult to Lady Watson and a slow anger began to burn in her belly at the poor manners of the man she had yet to meet. But her desire to comfort the old lady dominated.

‘Well, perhaps he has not had time, Lady Watson, or perhaps…’

‘Perhaps, nothing,’ the old lady shook her head. ‘It is clear that my dearest nephew, once the light of my life and my pride and joy, has not yet forgiven me. He still blames me, perhaps he even hates me. I have not set eyes on him in five long years and I had hoped that time would help him to heal, but for him to slight me in this way is evidence that I am out of his favour still.’

Isabella’s eyes filled with tears of compassion.

‘But what did you… what could you have done to make him treat you in this way?’ Lady Watson was so kind, so compassionate and so sincere that she could not imagine her doing anything so wretched as to merit this ill treatment.

‘None of us are straightforward, Isabella, and we learn, hopefully, from our mistakes. I have never set out to hurt anyone but, at times’ – the lady stared off into the distance and her eyes clouded over – ‘my decisions may not have been the right ones.’

Suddenly aware that someone was standing right behind her, Isabella twisted around and found herself staring into a familiar face. Instantly, colour rushed into her cheeks and her fan took up its defensive position across her chest.

‘Why, Miss Adams, is it not?’

She fell back against the wall next to Lady Watson as she tumbled into the intense, dark-brown eyes of the horseman from Hyde Park.

‘And Lady Watson.’

He bowed to them both and Isabella noted that he was wearing a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

‘Good evening, Nephew,’ Lady Watson’s response caused Isabella to stare at her, open-mouthed.

Chapter Three

Lord James Crawford stood in front of his aunt and the young lady he had nearly mown down that afternoon. If he hadn’t been so agitated himself, he would have found their expressions amusing. Lady Lydia Watson was looking at him with a mixture of affection and bewilderment. His quick assessment of her informed him that she was either completely shocked or the yellow of her gown was having a draining effect upon her complexion. Typical of his aunt to choose a dress that would have made even a debutante appear less than her best. The old lady was sparky and defiant and had always refused to conform. It had been one of the things he had loved about her.

Isabella Adams was moving her head from him to his aunt, and back again, and she appeared to be totally confused. Her face was pinker than the rosebuds on the trim of her gown and her eyes carried a wariness that he had only seen before in the eyes of a hunted deer. He realised that he recognised the look; she had worn it this afternoon in the park when she became aware of the stares of the afternoon walkers.

What was it that she had to fear?

‘You have already met?’ Lady Watson asked.

Isabella had opened her mouth to answer when James jumped in. ‘Indeed we have, Aunt Lydia. We met this afternoon at Hyde Park, though our introduction was somewhat unconventional.’ He offered a conciliatory smile.

The comely young woman nodded her head at his aunt and sudden understanding filled the elderly woman’s face. ‘So you were…’

‘Yes, it was a most unfortunate incident,’ James agreed. ‘But thankfully both Miss Adams and my stallion, Loki, escaped unharmed.’

‘Thankfully,’ his aunt’s companion echoed, though he noted that it was not gratitude that passed across her pretty face. In fact, she actually appeared to be annoyed with him.

He was suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to reach out and touch her, to pull her against his chest and hold her until he felt her relax against him and he wouldn’t have minded the opportunity to be closer to the fresh pink skin of her bosom. What he could see was tantalising and he wondered if her nipples would be dark or fair, large or small. He shook his head to clear the images as he felt a stirring in his loins. This young lady was enchanting.

‘Well, Aunt Lydia, aren’t you going to enquire after my health? It has been quite some time since we last met.’

‘Of course, James, please excuse me. I am a little surprised. I am afraid that I did not know that you had returned until just moments ago.’ He watched as she lowered her eyes down and closed her fan then ran the fingers of her free hand through the feathers that hung from the end.

The silence hung between them.

When he did not attempt to fill it, she raised heavy eyes to his and asked, ‘When did you return, James dear? Is everything all right? Are you staying long?’

He raised a hand.

‘One question at a time, please, Aunt Lydia. I apologise for not contacting you to inform you of my return, but it was an impromptu decision. I was in Calais at the end of my tour of France, looking out across the channel, when I had a sudden and overwhelming urge to see England again; to feel British soil beneath my feet.’

‘In France?’

James eyed the pretty young woman. She really was delightful.

‘Yes, Miss Adams. The situation there is much calmer now. Many of the French are trying hard to rebuild their lives and livelihoods and are not as hostile as some would have us believe.’ He frowned as he thought of what he had seen in Calais and the surrounding countryside, the poverty of the people and the general antediluvian appearance of the place was a complete contrast to the Kentish towns he knew so well. He returned his gaze to his aunt. ‘I have been away so long and enjoyed my travels but suddenly I knew that it was time to return home.’

‘Well, I am extremely glad to see you, my dear. Your handsome face and your company have been missed.’ Lady Watson’s voice was tight and strained and he detected a slight quiver as she spoke. It made his heart ache to see her so distressed, yet a part of him whispered that she did not deserve his pity.

‘Indeed,’ he replied, nodding his head. ‘And I see that during my absence, some things have changed.’ He smiled at Isabella, holding her gaze until she was uncomfortable enough to glance away, then he turned and swept his arm across the staircase and upper rooms. ‘Yet some things have not altered. Not at all.’

‘No, James’ – Lady Watson shook her head, and his stomach churned to hear her voice laced with sadness – ‘some things do not change.’

‘However,’ he announced with forced brightness, ‘in answer to your questions: I returned six days ago; yes I am well and I intend to stay at least until spring. Although,’ he smiled at Isabella again and leant slightly towards her as if to whisper to her, ‘I may stay longer if I have reason to.’

His heartbeat quickened at the flush that burned in her cheeks and swept across her neck and chest. He was but teasing the maiden and meant no harm but she seemed so serious. She did not, he noted, react as most of the young women and debutantes did in his presence or that of other eligible bachelors.

There was, in fact, no return at all of his superficial flirtation. Instead, she seemed extremely uncomfortable. Almost… humiliated. What have I done wrong?

‘Well, there is room with us, James,’ his aunt interrupted his thoughts, ‘if you have not found suitable lodgings. I would be so pleased to have your company.’ Lady Watson raised a trembling hand to her chest and held it there to convey her sincerity.

‘That is most kind of you, Aunt Lydia, but I would not inconvenience you. However, we have much to discuss. I would like to call on you tomorrow, if I may?’

James stared at his aunt, his head on one side.

‘Of course, James, my dear, of course.’

He took her hands in both of his and raised them to his lips. His aunt was clearly distressed and he did not want to place her under unnecessary strain at her great age. She seemed to have shrunk during the course of their conversation and her yellow gown now appeared too big for her. It hurt him to be this formal with the lady who had rocked him in her arms in his infancy, sneaked into the kitchen with him to steal cakes when Cook’s back was turned and kissed his knees better when he had fallen and grazed them.

This was Aunt Lydia: sweet, kind, eccentric Aunt Lydia and he wanted things to be the way they were; the way they had been before; before it all went so terribly wrong.

He cleared his throat. ‘But this is neither the time nor the place to think on it nor to discuss it.’

She shook her head.

‘No, James. A public display of feeling would not be proper or desirable.’ Her lips twitched. Was there a touch of sarcasm in her tone?

‘It would not.’ Besides, he was acutely aware of the bright hazel eyes assessing his every movement and the small, pearl-clad ears listening to his every word, and he did not want a witness to the frank discussion that must take place between him and his mother’s sister. Not even such a comely and intriguing witness as Miss Isabella Adams.

He lowered his aunt’s hands, then turned to Isabella and reached for one of hers. She paused before giving it to him and he felt his own cheeks colour at her hesitation. If it was this hard to take her hand, he wondered how difficult it would be to take more. The thought of a challenge made him smile inwardly and he decided to reconsider it at a more convenient time.

‘Miss Adams.’ He bowed low over her silk gloved hand and brushed his lips against it. Her sharp intake of breath when his mouth met the silk caused him to look quizzically into her eyes. He caught sight of something there but blinked, and whatever he had seen was gone.

He lingered there for a moment longer than was necessary because her sweet fragrance pleased him but she did not look back in his direction. Reluctantly, he released her hand and pulled himself up to his full height.

‘Well then, Aunt Lydia,’ he straightened his black tailcoat, ‘I will visit you tomorrow morning.’

‘It will be good to see you,’ his aunt replied, her eyes full of a thousand questions.

‘Ladies,’ he bobbed his head, then turned on his heel and hurried away. He had to force himself not to turn and seek out Isabella’s eyes again.

He had found her aloofness most confusing and unusual and he wondered if its roots lay in her anger at the incident at their first meeting or if there was in fact more to the young woman. She intrigued him and he wanted to learn more about her. It had been quite some time since he’d felt any real interest in a woman and he had a feeling that there was something special about his aunt’s companion.

* * * *

‘Ah, Lord Crawford! How good to see you again,’ Lady Castlereagh reached out both hands in greeting to James, causing her ample bosom to bulge at the low neckline of her damask gown.

He took one of her hands and bowed low over it.

‘Lady Castlereagh, it is a pleasure.’

She giggled like a maiden.

‘You are as comely as ever, my lady,’ he bowed again.

She raised her fan and half opened it over her face flirtatiously.

‘Oh, Lord Crawford, you are too kind.’ It was difficult to imagine how this bubbly woman with her sandy brown ringlets and warm brown eyes could reduce some of those keen to attend Almack’s into trembling wrecks. He’d even imagined himself half in love with her at one point in his youth and spent several weeks fantasising about burying his head between her rounded thighs. He shook his head.

‘Lord Crawford, old fellow.’ James felt a large hand land on his shoulder and he turned to face Lord Castlereagh.

‘Foreign Secretary’ – he bowed – ‘how are you?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ the politician replied, shaking the proffered hand firmly. ‘Still being kept busy by our neighbours across the channel, amongst others’ – he smiled conspiratorially – ‘but Britain will always come out on top, old chap.’

James bit his tongue, not wanting a political war of words so soon after his return. He was as happy as the next man at Napoleon’s recent defeat but that did not mean that he agreed with all of British foreign policy. Besides, he had more pressing matters to deal with so he forced out, ‘Of course, Lord Castlereagh. I’m sure you’re right.’

‘How did you enjoy your travels?’

‘Very pleasant, thank you. It did me good to get away.’

The musicians in the balcony changed pace, moving to the triple metre of the waltz. The lively rhythm added to palpable buzz in the air.

‘Good, good, glad to hear it.’

They both watched as groups of ladies and gentlemen took to the floor.

‘I see that the Almack’s uniform has not altered during my absence.’ James gestured at the dancers where the men were identical in their breeches, waistcoats and jackets. They reminded him of magpies.

‘No, old chap,’ Lord Castlereagh replied gruffly. ‘The patronesses would never accept that.’

James felt Lord Castlereagh’s curious eyes upon his face.

‘But the ladies look good, eh, James?’

They did, he couldn’t deny it as he eyed the dazzling rainbow of jewels and evening gowns. A seasoned eye could easily distinguish between the married women and the debutantes, because the younger ladies were dressed in creams and pastel colours whilst the more mature and experienced amongst the gentler sex wore darker, richer shades of crimson, navy and black. The pure colours sported by the debutantes implied that they were themselves pure and innocent but every man of the ton was aware that it was not always the case.

‘We have had some delightful debutantes this year,’ the politician continued. ‘If I were a younger man… and single of course.’ He laughed and slapped James hard on the back. ‘But you…’

James’ nostrils flared. He knew where this conversation was heading.

‘I have just returned to England, my lord, and I need to reacquaint myself with my lands and such before I even think of such matters.’

He scanned the room for his aunt but he was unable to spot the lemon of her dress or the pink of her companion’s. If he could just locate Miss Adams, then Aunt Lydia would not be far away.

‘Well, do not leave it too long, James, or you might find yourself in the same predicament as my darling wife and me.’

James looked at the man’s raised eyebrows and nodded; Lord Castlereagh referred to their childless marriage.

‘Of course, my lord,’ James inclined his head.

‘Ah, there’s the Earl of Liverpool.’ Lord Castlereagh pointed at the prime minister. ‘I shall take my leave of you now, James.’

As the gentleman walked away, James allowed his eyes to perform another quick scan of the ballroom. He could not see Miss Adams and he wondered why she was not on the dance floor. He realised with a jolt that he wanted to see her dance, to watch as the delicate pink fabric of her dress floated around her as she waltzed across the floor, her face glowing with the exertion of the dance, not with humiliation or anger as he had previously witnessed. He wanted to see how she behaved when she relaxed and allowed that cold façade to fall away.

If it was a façade.

And if her clothes were to fall away too, then…

But what of these foolish fancies? He had been away too long and the first English rose he had laid eyes upon had captured his interest, that was all it was and he must refrain from making more of it.

In her coldness he had lost nothing. After all, the ballroom was full of delightful young ladies ‒ all of whom, he was sure, would readily return his attention. He needed no approval from a cold-hearted wench. Though he could not easily fit the idea of her being cold with the glimpse of vulnerability he had spotted. And such vulnerability might well have caused her to erect a protective layer about her person.

‘Lord Crawford?’ Lady Castlereagh had placed her hand on his arm, her close proximity causing her heavy rose perfume to wash over him. ‘Are you searching for someone?’

James shook his head before replying. ‘No, not at all, Lady Castlereagh. I was just marvelling at how popular the waltz has become at Almack’s. Why, but a few years ago, it would have caused a scandal.’

The lady chuckled in response.

‘It is true, Lord Crawford but we must move with the times. Though we like to avoid any whiff of a scandal here at Almack’s, we must maintain our reputation as a fashionable establishment, and currently the waltz is fashionable. Now, look at my husband.’

James did as she bade him and saw that Lord Castlereagh was deep in conversation with the Earl of Liverpool. The two politicians stood so close that their heads almost touched and whatever topic they were discussing clearly had them impassioned.

‘He will be there for hours debating how best to conquer America or at least how to improve the trade routes. Let us take a turn around the room so that you can become reacquainted with our members and we can have a little tête-à-tête, for so much has happened in your absence.’

James allowed the lady to take his arm and watched as she smiled at her husband before they set off. The look that passed between the Castlereaghs made his heart lurch; it bore the understanding of a married couple secure in their relationship, in their mutual understanding and their knowledge of each other. He was not a close acquaintance of theirs but having known them for some time, he knew that they were devoted to one another. Though they had no children of their own, there was a bond between them that James could not fathom, and he envied their closeness as he witnessed it from his own island of isolation. It had been so long since he had been warmed by tenderness.

‘My dear James,’ Lady Castlereagh spoke quietly as they strolled round the perimeter of the ballroom. ‘You have been away for a long time.’

‘Indeed I have.’

‘What is it… five years?’

‘Yes, Lady Castlereagh.’

‘Come now, James, call me by my Christian name.’ She glanced at him then looked away again, smiling and waving at acquaintances.

‘Of course, Amelia.’

‘You left following such tragedy.’ She turned back to him and squeezed his arm gently.

James inclined his head, well aware that the lady was trying to encourage him to provide her with more details. He felt the old pain rising in his throat.

‘I never had the opportunity to express my sympathy, James.’

He raised his eyes to her face and found only sincerity.

‘Thank you.’ He cleared his throat.

‘To lose as much as you did in such a short space of time is dreadful. I am sure that your grief was overwhelming.’

‘It was, Amelia. But time heals.’ He bit his tongue at the old adage.

‘Of course, James. Of course it does.’ She nodded vigorously.

James registered her desire to convince herself, suspecting that she grieved still for her own lack of offspring.

They strolled the perimeter of the room and James listened to the powerful lady’s stories about the social movements amongst le bon ton and the recent births, deaths and marriages. It seemed that the lady had a detailed érésumé of everyone in the room, in London and mayhap all of England. He allowed her to regale him with her gossip in order to try to forget, for a moment, his own sad past.

‘See there, James.’ Lady Castlereagh waved her fan in the direction of a small circle of ladies and rose onto her toes to whisper into his ear. ‘That is Sophia Dubochet, formerly a courtesan and now married to Baron Berwick.’

‘I see.’ James replied, amused at her dramatic behaviour.

‘They say that, prior to their wedding two years ago, Miss Dubochet used certain methods of seduction to encourage his proposal… and the gentleman appears completely besotted.’

James shrugged. It happened. Love was not always selective when it came to a target.

‘When they married, he was forty-two and she was just fifteen.’

‘Well, if they both have what they wanted’ ‒ James whispered as he glanced at the pretty girl ‒ ‘then does it matter?’

Lady Castlereagh sniffed her disapproval at his refusal to be drawn into her gossip. She clearly wanted his opinion to be more condemning and less accepting. They continued their walk and she made several formal introductions, much to James’ discomfort, for as soon as his eligibility was evident, he could feel the matriarchs closing in around him, willing him to notice their daughters and to claim them for a dance. Thankfully, Amelia kept him close and made it clear that he was her companion and that he would not be dancing for the foreseeable future.

Nearing the end of their circle, she turned to James and asked, ‘So, did you see anything of interest?’

James met her eyes above the edge of her fluttering fan. ‘Why Amelia, are you trying to find me a bride?’ He could not be angry with her, even when she was so keen to cast aspersions on others. It was just her way, the way she had been brought up and the manner in which most ladies of her acquaintance behaved. Why should he hope to find her any different?

‘No James,’ she laughed, ‘I merely thought to see if I could spark your interest. You are, after all, eligible.’

James slid two fingers beneath the front of his collar and eased it away from his neck. The ballroom was hot and stuffy and he felt suffocated between the heat of the candles above and that emanating from the hundreds of bodies all around.

His companion watched him closely.

‘Come, let us descend to the supper room for it is almost eleven o’clock.’

He nodded his approval then led her swiftly from the room.

At the bottom of the staircase, he savoured the cooler air as it washed over him. He froze as he spotted a familiar figure at the entrance to the club and Lady Castlereagh looked curiously at him then followed the direction of his gaze.

Isabella Adams turned, as if sensing his presence, and he held his breath.

Though she held his eyes for mere seconds it felt like hours, leaving her image engraved upon his mind. Her pretty gown was now hidden beneath a damask velvet cloak and only her cream silk gloves and ringlet clad head could be seen. But even across the length of the hall he could see the golden rings at the centre of her eyes and he stared, mesmerized at how they twinkled in the candlelight. His groin tightened and his member moved against the tight material of his breeches. There was that overwhelming urge again… to cross the room to her side and to take her in his arms. The power of his desire both confused and pleased him, for it had been so long since he’d felt anything arousing at all.

But in a swirl of her cloak, she disappeared through the doorway and out into the night, leaving him wondering if he really had seen a ghost of a smile on her full pink lips before she turned away. Or had it just been his desire to see her smile?

When he turned to the woman at his side, she smiled but he could sense her disapproval.

‘Your aunt’s companion, Miss Adams.’

Was it a question?

He did not know how to answer so he waited for further clues.

‘Do you know much about her, Lord Crawford?’

‘I must admit that I do not, Lady Castlereagh, for we have only become acquainted this very day. But I am sure, that as a guest of my aunt’s admitted to Almack’s, the young lady must have a flawless reputation.’

A frown passed over Lady Castlereagh’s face and James experienced a sinking feeling in his gut. Whatever could be wrong with Miss Adams? She was clearly not a debutante and appeared to be several years past eighteen but she was still young and he could understand how some men might find her attractive. Like you…

He had to admit that she stirred something within him, something that he believed he had long since buried. He realised that he was not being objective when he thought that she was still of marriageable age, still young enough to bear children. Any man would be lucky to make children with such a woman.

‘Lord Crawford, you must pardon me for I have a dilemma…’

‘Madam?’ he queried when she paused for several seconds.

‘We do only admit those with apparently flawless reputations to our exclusive club. However, your aunt…’

‘Is a powerful lady,’ he finished her sentence.

The lady nodded, staring into the distance as if seeking the correct way to explain matters to him.

‘And she…’ Lady Castlereagh patted her closed fan against her skirt. A burst of applause from above them signalled the end of the waltz and they both raised their eyes, aware that the dancers would soon be seeking some refreshments. ‘If I explain this to you, you must promise not to repeat it… for I would not wish to suggest that your aunt is guilty of blackmail nor that any of our patronesses are less than they would seem to be. The club simply cannot face any scandal.’

‘I understand and you have my word that my lips are sealed.’

She pursed her lips before continuing. ‘Lady Watson used her influence to gain access to the club for her companion. In short, although I was not at the mercy of her knowledge…’ He smiled briefly, aware that Lady Castlereagh was in possession of a flawless reputation. ‘Some of our other ladies were.’

He fought the smile that threatened to broaden, twitching at the corners of his mouth.

‘I see.’ James squeezed her hand. ‘So are you at liberty to explain to me why Miss Adams required my aunt’s influence to gain admittance?’

Lady Castlereagh scanned their surroundings, as if checking that no one was listening. ‘Let us move out of the hallway and find somewhere quieter and I will tell you what I know.’

James took her arm in his and led her into the high-ceilinged supper room. He walked slowly and fought the urge to hurry her in order to find out what it was that Isabella Adams had done wrong. Though he barely knew the girl, she was in a very close relationship with his aunt and if she was unsuitable then… then what? What exactly would he do? Express his disapproval? Insist that his aunt replace her? He was already attracted to her and he couldn’t quite pinpoint why but there was something about Miss Adams that had drawn both his aunt and himself towards her.

Besides, when had Aunt Lydia ever listened to anyone else?

Safely ensconced in a shadowy corner of the supper room, her hand resting lightly upon his arm, Lady Castlereagh began to relate to him all that she knew about the scandalous Isabella Adams.

Chapter Four

At breakfast the next morning, Lady Watson appeared tired. She was usually so chirpy in the mornings despite the lateness of the hour at which she often retired but this morning she seemed to carry a heavy burden to the breakfast table with her.

Isabella watched silently as the elderly lady picked at her breakfast, moving the ham and eggs around her plate until the sticky yolk had congealed and no longer appeared appetising. The Lady’s face was as pale as the linen tablecloth and the shadows beneath her eyes could have been drawn there with soot from the fireplace.

The silence was broken as Henrietta bounded into the room with all the grace and elegance of a baby elephant.

‘Good morning ladies! And how are you both this fine morning?’

Isabella looked up at the girl in her cream morning gown, an image of loveliness with her golden ringlets and rosy cheeks, and she fought the urge to reprimand her, for what had she done wrong other than appear happy and full of youthful energy?

As Henrietta took a seat, piling her plate high with muffins, sausages and eggs, Isabella could not help smiling. The girl was so much healthier in appearance than she had been when she’d first arrived at the house. She was no longer scrawny and hollow eyed with lank straw hair. Instead, she had filled out to a pleasant plumpness and her hair and eyes shone with youthful exuberance.

‘You have recovered from your headache, Henrietta?’ she enquired.

‘Yes, thank you. I slept all evening and all night and I feel much better. In fact, I am positively ravenous this morning!’

And radiant, Isabella thought, a warmth spreading from her belly at the joy Henrietta brought.

With that, Henrietta began tucking into her breakfast, making up for the lack of appetite that afflicted her companions at the table.

Isabella sipped her strong tea and watched Lady Watson over the edge of her cup. This would not do. The Lady was too old to suffer from shock and Isabella felt that she must do everything in her power to protect her. If that meant standing in the way of Lord Crawford and whatever it was about him that so affected Lady Watson, then that was what she would commit herself to doing. Lady Watson had helped her and it was time to repay the debt.

‘Will you come for a drive this morning, Lady Watson?’

The older woman looked across the table at her companion.

‘What dear?’

‘I asked if you would come out in the carriage this morning. Some fresh air might be of benefit to you.’

‘That would be lovely, dear,’ Lady Watson replied with a faint smile, ‘But remember, I am expecting a visitor.’

‘Ooh, a visitor!’ Henrietta exclaimed. ‘Who is coming?’ she asked through a mouthful of buttered muffin.

‘Henrietta,’ Isabella admonished. ‘Do not speak with food in your mouth.’

‘Sorry,’ Henrietta made a show of chewing then swallowing. ‘Whom are we expecting?’

Isabella bit her lip and looked at Lady Watson.

‘My nephew, dear.’

Henrietta frowned and turned to Isabella for clarification.

‘Lord Crawford, Lady Watson’s sister’s son, has returned to London. We met him last night at Almack’s. It seems that he is to pay Lady Watson a visit this morning.’

Henrietta nodded then frowned again.

‘Why didn’t he visit you before attending a social event?’

‘Henrietta…’ Isabella scowled across the table. The girl really lacked manners at times, there were some things that you just didn’t ask. But a noise from Lady Crawford made her turn in confusion, for the old lady had started to laugh.

‘Oh Henrietta, dear, you are a funny girl. So many people think things but never have the courage to say them but you…’ she pointed a finger at the girl, ‘you just say whatever is in your head and I adore you for it.’

Henrietta smiled from under her dark lashes and took a gulp of her tea, smearing butter over the rim of her teacup. Isabella fought the urge to instruct the girl to wipe it off. Who else was there to see it and disapprove?

Isabella felt that she would never understand other people. Society was so strict about what one could or couldn’t do and if you stepped out of the set boundaries, or if a family member did not conform in some way, then you and your nearest and dearest faced public scandal. In fact, in the flick of a fan you could become a social pariah. As well she knew.

Mayhap it was more than a flick of a fan… four golden rings…

Her old shame lifted its ugly head. Oh if only she could take back her past. She vowed though to protect Henrietta from frivolous behaviour. She could at least do that.

And yet somehow, here she was, companion to a wonderful aristocrat who had turned all of the rules and regulations upside down. Lady Watson had taken in Isabella with her shadowy past and her tarnished reputation without a second thought and she seemed immune to the opinions of her peers; unaffected by the sneers and sniggers that occurred behind raised fans whenever she appeared in public with Isabella by her side. She appeared to be truly fearless and Isabella found herself constantly bursting with admiration for her because of it.

Then, as if her acceptance of Isabella was not enough, the great Lady had become guardian to little Henrietta. Isabella recalled the conversation regarding the girl’s imminent arrival clearly.

‘Isabella, we are to have a new companion.’

‘We are?’

‘Yes, dear. A Miss Henrietta Pembrey. She has been… asked to leave her boarding school so I have invited her to stay with us.’

‘Asked to leave? But why?’ Isabella had frowned.

‘Her… funding… her benefactor has passed… and the school’s patroness does not wish her to remain there any longer.’

‘But that is awful, Lady Watson. She cannot pay so she is to be cast out?’

‘I agree with your sentiments, dear, but people will do what they will do. I am convinced that Miss Pembrey will benefit from living in a secure and comfortable environment where she will receive nourishment and affection and be able to avoid stressful situations… like the embarrassment of having no money to call her own.’

‘You mean here… with us?’

The Lady had nodded.

‘Does she have no family?’

‘The poor girl was apparently abandoned by her own mother because of her illegitimacy, my dear. Such things sometimes happen unfortunately.’

‘Illegitimacy? Really, Lady Watson?’ Isabella had made an effort to pull her eyebrows down to their normal position.

‘Yes and I suspect that she was born to a lady from the upper echelons of society, conceived as the result of an illicit affair and then placed ‒ out of sight, out of mind ‒ in a girls’ boarding school.’

Isabella had nearly choked on her tea.

‘But how would a… a lady get away with such behaviour? Would her husband not notice?’

‘Mayhap he did, mayhap he didn’t.’ Lady Watson had shrugged as if such things did not matter and Isabella had accepted that the conversation was over.

Thus, six months ago, after Isabella had been with Lady Crawford for almost a year, Henrietta had joined their country household and had now accompanied them to London for the season. Isabella knew though, that Henrietta’s chances of finding a suitable match would be as limited as her own now were. What man of the ton would stain his reputation by connecting with a woman of no name? Henrietta would need guarding from the pain that forming an attachment could bring and Isabella longed to shield the girl from anything that could hurt her. Namely, men.

Lady Watson finished her tea then rose from the table. Isabella watched as she placed her hands upon the back of her chair to steady herself.

‘Girls… I would appreciate your company this morning when Lord Crawford visits.’

‘Of course,’ Isabella replied quickly, having no intention of leaving Lady Watson alone with the man who had clearly abandoned her and caused her significant pain.

‘However,’ the Lady raised a shaky hand, ‘we will require some privacy as we have much to discuss. So, following pleasantries, I would appreciate it if you retire to the window seat.’

Isabella smarted at the idea but what could she do? She would just have to keep an eye on the dark figure of Lord Crawford and ensure that he did not place too much strain upon his aunt. For as brave as Lady Watson might be, Isabella had last evening seen a chink in her armour in the shape of the lady’s nephew, and she had no intention of allowing that chink to be penetrated by a weapon of the heart or mind.

* * * *

Waiting in the parlour, Isabella found it hard not to fidget. The room was cool, dark and uncomfortably quiet. Lady Watson sat on a high backed chair next to the fire, warming her feet and appearing engrossed in her embroidery while Henrietta sat next to Isabella at the window seat.

She looked round the familiar room, trying to distract herself from the nauseating churning in her stomach, and she crossed and uncrossed her ankles; unable to make them comfortable.

Why did she feel so nervous? It was ridiculous to think that it had something to do with the enigmatic Lord Crawford. Yet try as she might, she was unable to banish his handsome countenance from her mind.

Fool!

She had been here before, taken in by a fine appearance, softly spoken words and the tenderest of touches. And where had it got her? Regardless, this James Crawford had the power to wound the lady Isabella cared so dearly for. She would not allow him to affect her so deeply that she lost focus on her duty to Lady Watson.

Isabella glanced around the room, trying to distract herself from her errant thoughts but everywhere her gaze landed, it met the stern face of a family member of Lady Watson, captured forever in oil paint on canvas. It was ridiculous to think that the subjects of these portraits could possibly be looking at her with disapproval, yet it felt that way, that they were peering down their aristocratic noses at her in the same way as most of London society – in the same way that Lord Crawford certainly would do when he learnt more about her past.

She stood and wandered around the room. She paused to make slight alterations to the arrangement of dried flowers on a corner table. They were brittle beneath her hands and despite the maid’s cleaning, dust had settled between the folds of their petals. She ran her fingers over the cover of the family bible, the only object placed upon the main parlour table, she shuddered as she thought of the tales of persecution and retribution within its covers. The great book made it clear how a young woman should behave and what awaited her if she strayed from the path of righteousness. Yet, Isabella smiled wryly, the ton’s treatment of young ladies in possession of what it deemed to be loose morals, probably made the biblical punishments pale in comparison.

‘Isabella!’ Lady Watson’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp. ‘Please sit down. You are making me feel most uneasy.’

‘I am so sorry, Lady Watson.’ Isabella had not realised that her own anxiety would affect her companions and she certainly did not want to add to Lady Watson’s tension. She hurried back to the window seat where she sat next to Henrietta. The pretty girl was absorbed in her sketching, her blonde ringlets falling forwards over her pink cheeks as she concentrated on her artwork.

Isabella peered over Henrietta’s shoulder expecting to find a picture of a rolling landscape or a child playing with a kitten. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene before her and she sucked in a tremulous breath.

‘Henrietta!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why on earth would you draw that?’

The girl’s eyes were hazy with confusion. ‘I am sorry, Isabella,’ she blushed and made an attempt to cover the drawing with her hands, ‘but it was so clear in my mind and I felt the need to capture it on paper.’

Isabella balled up her fists and pressed them into her skirts as vivid memories flooded her mind.

‘What is it, girls?’ Lady Watson asked, glancing up from her embroidery.

‘Nothing, it is nothing, Lady Watson,’ Isabella muttered, putting out a restraining hand to prevent Henrietta from rising.

‘But it must be something interesting if it has brought such a flush to your cheeks, dear,’ Lady Watson smiled. ‘Is it an image of a man, mayhap?’ Her smile broadened.

Isabella was so relieved to see the older woman’s smile that she removed her hand and allowed Henrietta to rise and hand her drawing over.

Lady Watson began to chuckle. ‘Why, Henrietta this is excellent. You have captured the scene quite well. Did Isabella really appear so furious with Lord Crawford?’

Henrietta looked from Lady Watson to Isabella, her lips twitching, and Isabella began to laugh then for the sketch really was excellent. She felt the joy bubbling low in her belly then spreading outwards so that it shook her whole chest. Had she really appeared so startled, so ridiculous as she sat there on Rotten Row, covered in horse muck and surrounded by the ton?

When she could catch her breath, she replied. ‘Yes, Lady Watson, Henrietta has recreated the scene of my fall at Hyde Park in perfect detail.’ From the startled fury upon her face to the bemused concern on Lord Crawford’s, every detail brought yesterday’s incident to life. But now it seemed less serious, less important, less humiliating.

Isabella stood and walked over to Lady Watson, peering at the picture over her shoulder. She gazed at the sketch and placed a hand over her thudding heart. Was Lord Crawford really that handsome… or had Henrietta been overly generous? Isabella’s eyes followed the face that sat beneath his black hat, took in his strong, square jaw line and wide sideburns and wallowed in the deep dark depths of his eyes.

Lady Watson sighed. ‘Is he not a very fine figure of a man, Isabella?’

She swallowed hard before replying, ‘Indeed he is, my lady.’

His shoulders were broad, his waist slim and his legs so shapely, so muscular.

Had she missed these details yesterday? In fact, had she really overlooked these details or just not allowed herself to acknowledge them? She felt quite lightheaded.

Lady Watson passed the sketch to Isabella and she allowed her eyes to wander slowly over the gentleman’s form, absorbing every detail, before returning it to Henrietta.

‘No, Isabella, you keep it. It is a gift.’ The girl put out her hand and gently pushed the sketch away.

‘Thank you,’ she smiled, ‘I think.’ But what I shall do with it I do not know for I cannot allow myself to keep staring at Lord Crawford like a lovesick debutante. I barely know the man… if it is possible to really know a man at all.

All three women jumped as a loud knock echoed through the hallway and Isabella’s heart somersaulted into her mouth.

Was that him? Was he here?

Her eyes moved from Lady Watson to the door, where they waited expectantly, the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She tried hard to slow her breathing and to regain her composure before Lord Crawford was admitted to the parlour but heat surged through her cheeks.

She must get a hold on her emotions now… quickly… before she made a fool of herself all over again. And that could not happen.

Suddenly aware of a rustling noise, she looked down and frowned, for Henrietta’s perfect sketch lay crumpled within her restless hands.

Chapter Five

The door to the parlour opened and the butler announced, ‘Lord James Crawford.’

The young women rose and stood behind Lady Watson’s chair.

Holding her breath, Isabella watched as Lord Crawford strode into the room and swept into a graceful bow that took in all three women. Something in the way that he moved suggested power, control and confidence and he filled the room with his masculine presence.

She forgot her sensible resolutions made just moments ago and inhaled deeply, yearning to catch his scent and to feel that strange excitement that it had aroused in her yesterday. The feeling that she could only describe as lust had been delicious, and she wondered if his presence would stir it again. Though clearly wrong and unjustifiable, it made her feel so good. So alive. And it had been so long since she had felt so animated.

‘Ladies.’ James Crawford smiled and Isabella noted that his smile seemed, this time, to reach his dark eyes, causing them to crinkle at the corners.

‘Nephew.’ Lady Watson smiled in return, her gaze warm. ‘Please sit.’

He lifted his coat tails before lowering himself into the seat opposite his aunt and made himself comfortable.

The butler cleared his throat, signalling that he was still present.

‘Would you like to have tea served now, Lady Watson?’

‘Yes please, Henry.’ She inclined her head at the manservant.

He bowed then retreated, closing the door behind him noiselessly as the heavy oak eased into place.

‘How does this fine morning find you, Aunt?’ Lord Crawford enquired.

‘I am well, James, thank you’ ‒ she pressed her hands together in her lap ‒ ‘and all the better for seeing you.’

‘I am delighted to hear that. And, ladies, how are you this morning?’

Isabella glanced away quickly as his eyes captured hers and she felt a familiar, irritating flush rising up her neck then flaring in her cheeks. Trying to calm herself, she resumed eye contact and replied, ‘I am well, thank you, Lord Crawford.’ She even forced a small smile but her lips trembled awkwardly and she bit them to still their betrayal.

But then, gazing into his eyes, she swayed a little, suddenly unsteady on her feet. It was evident that the gentleman was amused, but was it because he had noted the reaction he’d caused in her, or was it something else?

Shame crawled in her belly as the idea dawned. Had someone told him about her embarrassing past? Was he now privy to the details that so amused London society? Was he now laughing at her as they all did? Oh the shame… And the disappointment to think that he might now see her as the rest of the beau monde did.

She sagged inwardly, relieved, when he finally released her eyes and turned his attention to the girl at her side.

‘And what about you, Miss Pembrey?’

The girl smiled broadly at Lord Crawford and Isabella felt a twinge of envy at her confidence. Though it was not fitting to display the easy confidence of a country maid, Henrietta did so and did so endearingly.

‘I am very well indeed, Lord Crawford. Thank you for asking.’

She bobbed a curtsey to finish and Isabella noted the broadening of Lord Crawford’s smile. So Henrietta pleased him, did she? With her youthful prettiness and girlish ways, it was no wonder. At sixteen, Henrietta was not yet knowledgeable of the ways of men – be they lords, naval captains or reverends – and her innocence was attractive in itself. How she hoped that Henrietta would be spared the experiences that she had endured. Oh to recapture that sense of innocence and to be able to enjoy such gentle flirtations with a gentleman.

Isabella pushed her own feelings aside. If by some chance James Crawford took a liking to Henrietta then she would be glad for the girl. With her less than perfect origins, it would be difficult for the sweet girl to find a match. However, if a man as comely and well to do as Lady Watson’s nephew should think to marry Henrietta, then Isabella would be nothing but happy for her. She wanted nothing more than to see her sweet friend happy with a good future stretching out before her.

The door opened and the butler entered, followed by the footman who carried a silver serving tray which he placed upon a small table near the fireplace.

Isabella watched Lord Crawford as the slow process of placing cups and saucers upon the table ensued. Now that she could observe him without being the target of those penetrating eyes, she realised that he seemed tense and nervous, as if he would throw the whole table of tea things to the wall if they did not hurry their preparations. Lady Watson must also have been aware of this for she interrupted.

‘Thank you, Henry. I will serve the tea. You may go.’

The tall butler inclined his head then ushered the footman out of the room. As the door closed, Henry’s low voice could be heard in the hallway, reprimanding the footman for being too slow in his serving of the tea.

Lady Watson dropped cubes of sugar into the bone china cups, followed by slices of lemon, then she poured in the strong beverage. Isabella noticed that she had to stop twice because her hands were shaking.

‘Girls’ ‒ Lady Watson gestured to the cups ‒ ‘Why don’t you take yours to the window seat?’

‘Yes, Lady Watson,’ Isabella replied, passing a cup to Henrietta then taking one for herself. Before walking away, she turned to the elderly lady and examined her for a brief moment.

‘I am fine, Isabella,’ the lady reassured her. ‘Enjoy your tea.’

Isabella inclined her head then turned to walk to the window. As she moved away, she glanced at Lord Crawford, who was now staring, unblinking, into the fire and she wished that she could see into his mind and share his thoughts.

* * * *

‘James,’ his aunt’s voice and a small, frail hand on top of his pulled him back to the present.

He placed his empty tea cup on the small side table then focused on Lady Watson.

‘Sorry, Aunt Lydia, I was miles away.’

‘I could see that, James.’

The lady sat in silence, watching him and waiting for him to lead the conversation. He took a deep breath and she moved forwards, perching upon the edge of her seat, preparing to listen, but he merely exhaled and slouched back in his chair.

This was so difficult. He loved the elderly lady sat opposite him but she had hurt him and he needed to explain why.

He cleared his throat then glanced around the room, his eyes drawn again to Miss Adams who was like an angel in her white cambric morning dress with its full long sleeves and high neck ruff.

‘Does the presence of the two young ladies bother you?’ His aunt read his thoughts but he shook his head. It did not help that his aunt’s companions were present, especially the intriguing Miss Adams, but he realised that they were there for his aunt’s benefit.

‘Do you want them to leave, James?’

‘No, no, Aunt Lydia. They are welcome to stay.’ They would be unable to hear what he had to say from their vantage point by the window.

‘As long as you are sure, dear.’ Lady Watson’s eyes searched his face.

‘I am.’

But he felt sure of nothing at this moment in time. Just last evening, Lady Castlereagh had told him things about Miss Adams that would make any honourable gentleman turn his nose up at her beauty and recoil from her presence. Surely none other than a seasoned rake would want to become more closely acquainted with her.

So why then had he found it so difficult to put her from his mind? It was a palpable struggle to marry Lady Castlereagh’s history of the girl with what he had seen of her so far. She had seemed to be reserved, demure and aloof – not the wanton hussy of last evening’s tale. Yet at the same time there was something about her that aroused his masculine cravings and made him desire some time alone with her. Was that what had attracted other men to her? Was she physically irresistible?

And would his aunt really employ a lady with a questionable background and face being the scandal of London? He knew that Lady Watson was unconventional but he couldn’t believe that she would deliberately fuel the fires of the gossips of the ton; show blatant disregard for her family name.

Unless, mayhap, she were trying to make amends for a previous error.

He turned back to Lady Watson.

‘Aunt Lydia…’ he leant forwards, resting his elbows upon his knees. ‘Where to begin?’

The wise old eyes watched him, owl-like with their patience and experience.

‘At the beginning,’ he answered himself. ‘Yes, at the beginning.’

He swallowed against the lump that seemed to be lodged in his throat and spread out his long fingers over his knees, gazing at them as if hoping to find the story there.

‘Six years ago, Aunt Lydia, I seemed to have everything that a man could desire. Although I had lost my parents some time ago, and missed them deeply at times, I was a grown man with a beautiful young wife and a large estate. I lived comfortably, as you know, and I was happy. At least, I told myself that I was happy.’

He found himself yearning to look over in the direction of the window seat again. He wanted to see if Isabella was watching him but he fought the urge to turn. He must deal with matters here, between himself and his aunt.

‘Go on, James,’ Lady Watson urged, her own hands clasped together beneath her chin.

As he inhaled, preparing to continue, his head turned involuntarily and he found his eyes drawn straight to Isabella’s face. She was watching Miss Pembrey sketching, not him. But at that moment, as if sensing his eyes upon her, she glanced up and held his gaze. This time her cheeks did not flush with colour. Instead, she appeared calm and inquisitive. It unnerved and aroused him in spite of his current turmoil.

‘James?’

‘My apologies, Aunt Lydia. This isn’t easy.’

‘Of course not, my dear,’ she replied gently.

‘I thought I was happy, especially when Genevieve told me that she was with child. After all, isn’t that what every man wants? To have an heir to his name and fortune.’

‘One would think so, James.’

‘But as her belly grew, so did the distance between us. It was ironic that as the babe began to fill her body, we both realised exactly how empty our lives were. Pregnancy disagreed with her and she grew crotchety and unkind. I am ashamed to admit it now but, in return, I became intolerant of her. What had endeared us to one another in the beginning ‒ when we stepped cautiously around each other with the shyness of newlyweds ‒ became irritating and I realised’ ‒ he raised a trembling hand to his brow ‒ ‘I realised finally and with startling clarity, that I did not love her. In fact… I never had.’

He wondered if his aunt thought him an awful man for his confession but all he found in her eyes was compassion.

‘Oh my dear boy. You have nothing to feel guilty about. You are not the first man to marry, then regret your choice. Do not berate yourself.’

‘But I should, and do, feel guilty.’

The old lady took a shaky breath and James seized the opportunity to sneak a glance at Miss Adams again. What would she think of him if she knew what he was about to divulge to his Aunt Lydia? Would she be shocked at his ungallant actions? Were his crimes worse than hers? Not that he really thought she had committed any crimes. What he had gathered from the story relayed by Lady Castlereagh suggested that Isabella been an innocent debutante taken advantage of by a complete rogue. It did happen, though the upper echelons of society would prefer to bury their heads in the filth and mire and pretend that it did not. How could a young woman be blamed for succumbing to the seduction of a seasoned rake?

‘Oh, my dear James.’ Lady Watson sagged in her chair, her face suddenly haggard.

James continued. ‘After a particularly ferocious exchange of words, I stormed out of our house and fled to London. I could not bear to be under the same roof as Genevieve. I had to escape, to think. She had confessed to me that she had never loved me. She had been forced into the marriage, under the threat of being disowned and becoming a social outcast, but she loved another and always had.’

‘Oh James, I am sorry.’

‘I was shocked, of course I was, but I did not know what to do. I did not feel jealous because I did not love her in that way but I felt that I should be jealous. It made me feel inadequate in some way, that I was lacking as a man. After all, she was carrying my child and every day that child was growing bigger, its date of expected arrival getting closer. Yet it seemed that this knowledge, which for so many is filled with excitement and eager anticipation, was placing an unbearable pressure upon us.’ His stomach rolled over at the memory. ‘Then, in what must have been a placatory attempt to stem the damage, Genevieve sent a letter to me in London, claiming that she had not seen her beloved since our wedding day, when he had begged her to elope with him.’

‘And why didn’t she?’ the old lady whispered.

James tried to swallow but his mouth was bone dry and his tongue felt swollen, too big for his mouth. The memories were still so painful. He muttered, ‘She could not face the scandal.’

‘So she married you and kept silent.’ The old lady looked down at her hands.

‘Yes aunt, as you well know.’ His words were laced with venom that he had not placed there deliberately. Lady Watson recoiled but then quickly regained her self-composure, restoring her concerned expression.

‘Many women do, James. In our society few women expect to marry for love ‒ though it does happen occasionally for the very lucky.’

‘But not for poor Genevieve, Aunt Lydia,’ he spat out the words, unable to conceal his anger any longer. ‘You could have saved us both from much heartache.’

He glared at the frail old lady, years of anger and resentment welling up and filling him with fury. Then he noted her trembling and the tears in her eyes and he felt his heart soften, his anger melt away.

‘I am so sorry, James. I meant well, my dear, I really did. But I made a mistake when I pushed the girl into marrying you. It was wrong of me and I realised it soon after but it was too late then. I had so hoped that you would be happy with her. I really only ever wanted your happiness.’

‘I know that, Aunt, I know.’ He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. ‘I know that you meant well but when she came to you and asked for help…’

‘I should have helped her, not turned her away.’

‘I have often wondered about it,’ he said. ‘What it was about her that made you decide that she had to be the one.’

Lady Watson shrugged and took a shaky breath.

‘She was pretty, rich and well connected, James. I thought that she would be the ideal mate for you and hoped that she would bring you health, wealth and happiness.’

‘But when she told you of her former attachment and begged you to speak to her father and let her be… why did you not listen?’

‘I have asked myself that question a thousand times, dear boy.’ His aunt nodded, causing the loose skin beneath her chin to wobble. ‘I deeply wish that I had saved you both such heartache.’

James exhaled slowly, letting go of the past, aware that further recriminations were unnecessary. His aunt had clearly tried hard since to put things right, taking in young girls and offering them her protection was evidently her way of trying to make amends.

‘There is more Aunt Lydia. When Genevieve confessed all to me in that letter, the details seemed to push me over the edge and in London I found myself in a tavern…’ He paused, rubbing his chin roughly then he thumped his balled fists upon his knees. ‘I should have gone straight to a gentlemen’s club to seek solace in the company of men of my own class but instead I fell into… I tumbled into… I…’

‘Please, James. You can go on.’

‘I found myself… in a tavern, one frequented by women of ill repute.’

‘You will not be the first man to do so my dear,’ Lady Watson reassured him, ‘nor will you be the last.’

‘But it was uncharacteristic of me, Aunt Lydia. I had never frequented such a den of iniquity before, though I know that this does little to pardon my visiting such a place then and it does not excuse my behaviour. There is no excuse for what I did.’ His head sank into his waiting hands and he pressed hard against his temples.

‘James, please…’

He shook his head, he could not allow her to comfort him. He did not deserve it.

‘James…’

Lady Watson was unable to complete her sentence for at that moment there was a loud scream and a heavy thud.

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