Chapter Eleven

 

Isadora eyed the unwelcome visitor surreptitiously as he basked, urbane and fashionable as ever in a wine-coloured cloth coat, in the flattery of the elder Pusay exiles, who had invited him to visit this afternoon in Mrs Alvescot’s private sitting-room. She had been trying for such an opportunity—impossible yesterday when everyone had to attend Sunday service—since he had arrived three days ago.

He appeared delighted to be in company with both the Pusay ladies again, exercising the charm that had worked so well before. To Isadora’s intense annoyance, Cousin Matty threw her a glance pregnant with meaning. No doubt she supposed, knowing nothing of the deceased Lord Roborough’s debt, that they owed the doubtful honour of this visit to Syderstone’s unswerving attachment to Isadora. A useful view now.

He was not in the least degree attached to her, she knew well. But that was not going to prevent her from carrying out the brilliant plan she had conceived.

It had come to her the morning he had arrived, as she had watched the bitter aspect creep into the viscount’s countenance when he had thought no one was looking. Every other member of the household had been engaged in the presentations, which were performed with a slight air of patronage by Cousin Matty.

From their demeanour, neither Lady Roborough nor Lady Ursula—and one would suppose the viscount must have opened his mind to her—could possibly be privy to the information that Syderstone had fleeced the late master of the house of an enormous sum of money.

While the elder man had been enjoying all this feminine attention, the viscount had allowed his polite company mask to slip a trifle. Isadora, seeing it, had been conscious of the strongest desire to jump up and fling her arms protectively about him. Of course she could do no such thing. Embarrassment apart, it must be unwelcome to him. He might have conducted himself towards her in a manner scarcely befitting a gentleman—conduct which she would give anything to have repeated—but he had made clear his purpose in doing so. It had not been because he wished to.

Quite when the germ of her idea came to her Isadora was not sure. But once it had entered her mind it burgeoned swiftly. She could do it—yes, she could. And it would solve several problems at one blow. The viscount would be free both of the debt and the need to provide for herself, and she—perhaps more importantly—would be free of the misery of watching him enmeshed in the toils of Lady Ursula Stivichall.

Not, as she could plainly see, that he was suffering. Far from it. Anyone with eyes could tell how much he enjoyed her company. God knew what else he enjoyed with her in their private moments together.

No, she must not think of that. The idea of the Ursula female being the recipient of such caresses as she had received—and more, if Cousin Matty had gauged the matter rightly—was too painful to be borne. The longer she remained in this house, the worse it would become. Lady Ursula’s year of mourning was almost up. What was to stop Roborough marrying her immediately beyond the moment when Society would deem it acceptable?

Nothing in the world. Certainly not Isadora Alvescot. She would be far away, pursuing that ambition she had long ago decided was the goal of her life. Only then she had not known she would meet a hateful, teasing wretch who made her laugh at every moment he was not rousing her to fury. A wretch who was never going to know that she was doing this only so she might not be obliged to watch him making love to another woman.

With an inward sigh, Isadora thrust these uncomfortable thoughts to the back of her mind and threw herself into the role she had carefully worked out through the day.

Interrupting a nostalgic conversation about the days of their youth—for the two elder ladies were much of an age with Syderstone—Isadora claimed his attention.

‘Oh, this is quite outrageous, Mr Syderstone, to be talking so hard to Mama and Cousin Matty about times which mean nothing to me. How can you?’

‘It is indeed disgraceful of me, Miss Alvescot,’ he agreed, the vivid eyes turning in her direction. They held a slightly questioning look. ‘Besides, I am anxious to know how you go on. Do you miss your home very much?’

‘Oddly, no,’ Isadora replied. ‘But our house, you must admit, had only the gardens to recommend it. You have not had a chance to see the gardens here, I think?’

Cousin Matty jumped in immediately. ‘Now why do you not show Mr Syderstone about the grounds, Dora? I am sure you must enjoy them, sir.’

Isadora rose with alacrity. ‘I shall be very happy.’

‘Why, this is most kind, Miss Alvescot,’ said Syderstone, following suit. He added in an undertone, the moment they were outside the door, ‘But why, Miss Alvescot? I cannot think you really wish to show me the grounds.’

‘I don’t,’ Isadora agreed readily. ‘But I could think of no other excuse to get you away from them.’

‘This is most flattering, I protest,’ he said, brows raised.

The implication of this was not lost on Isadora. She had done nothing to encourage him, and after his revelation of Roborough’s debt she had barely spoken to him again at Pusay. She assumed a look of troubled entreaty.

‘Well, I hope it may be. I have been in such a quandary, you see, and could not think where to turn. Then you came, and suddenly I knew I was saved.’

She glanced at him as she spoke, still leading the way through the corridors towards the gallery, to find, to her satisfaction, that the bait had hooked. His eyes gleamed with genuine interest.

‘You intrigue me greatly. Let us by all means hasten to the gardens that you may tell me how I may save—or at least serve you.’

The grounds about the mansion at Barton Stacey were extensive, with walled gardens and stepped lawns leading down towards an artificial lake. To either side of the unkempt lawns—another sign of the tightness of funds here—were intermittent alcoves behind wide beds of overgrown flowering plants where benches were set into the stone.

Isadora selected the first of these for her tête-á-tête with Syderstone. She sat, wringing her hands in an agitated way to show her supposed inner turmoil.

‘Tell me all, Miss Alvescot,’ invited Syderstone, watching her gravely as he took his seat beside her.

Turning to face him, Isadora put a piteous inflexion into her voice. ‘It is Roborough. You were right when you warned me against him.’

‘Was I?’

There was caution in his tone, but Isadora was ready for it. He must realise that by now she knew the truth.

‘Oh, I do not speak of his father’s gambling. He would not take that path himself.’

‘You know, then?’

‘That the debt to you was incurred by the late viscount? Yes, of course. No, no, this is much more painful to me, although the debt is significant in this.’ She drew a breath as if she must determine herself to speak. ‘You see, Mr Syderstone, I am wholly in Roborough’s power. He—he is coercing me to marry him.’

Syderstone’s eyes narrowed. ‘Coercing? Come, come, my dear Miss Alvescot.’

She gazed at him, injecting a world of tragedy into her expression. ‘I see you do not know him well. He is a hard man, sir. Why, do you not know that he is selling our home from under us? As for repaying you from the proceeds, he has vowed that he will die first.’

‘Has he indeed?’ said Syderstone softly, but with an edge to his voice.

Isadora seized one of his hands, holding it between both of her own. ‘Oh, Mr Syderstone, dare I trust you? I have conceived such a notion—a way to enable us both to escape—well, perhaps that is not a word for you. But I, alas, have only that option before me.’ Her eyes brimmed. ‘Except that I cannot do so alone.’

He was eyeing her, she thought, with a good deal of misgiving, a little of his habitual urbanity deserting him.

‘You are proposing that I should aid you to run away, Miss Alvescot?’

She nodded vehemently. ‘That is it exactly. Well, not entirely.’ Releasing his hand, Isadora turned a little away, embarrassment in her tone. ‘I—I hardly know how to say this. Nothing could be more forward, more—more unladylike, but—’ she turned eyes she hoped were drowned in dread back upon him ‘—I am desperate, Mr Syderstone.’

For a moment he stared at her in a horrified sort of way. It was working. He had taken her meaning. There could be no other way open to a chivalrous man than to offer for her at once. Was this man chivalrous? She watched him anxiously. Disappointingly, the expression of lively apprehension gave way to another look. One of—yes, calculation, as if he was weighing her words.

‘Miss Alvescot,’ he said, more in his usual manner, but with his eyes firmly on her countenance, ‘if you do not wish to marry Roborough, why do you not refuse him? It is not so easy in these enlightened days to force a female into wedlock.’

‘It is,’ said Isadora mournfully, ‘if she has a family wholly at the mercy of her suitor.’

A frown creased his brow. ‘There is a threat there?’

‘A very real one, sir. We are all dependent upon the viscount. He gives me two choices—either I marry him or he turns the lot of us out.’

‘You shock me infinitely, Miss Alvescot.’

Isadora was not surprised. She was shocked herself by the dreadful things she was saying of the man she loved. It hurt her to speak of him so. Only if she was to convince Syderstone to rescue her she must do so. She sighed dramatically.

‘You can scarce believe it of him, I dare say. Then you will be even more dismayed to learn that his determination to wed me is for his convenience only. He may thus dispose of me suitably, without being obliged to expend one penny on either dowry or settlements, and at the same time provide himself with the means to supply an heir to his name.’

‘My dear Miss Alvescot,’ said Syderstone in accents of disgust, ‘I protest this is callous beyond belief.’

‘You see now why I turn to you, sir.’

She groped for her pocket handkerchief and made play with it, sniffing and dabbing at the corners of her eyes. Peeping through her lashes, she saw that Syderstone was now frowning heavily. It seemed as if he was convinced. But would he commit himself?

Abruptly, he reached for one of her hands and drew it to his lips. ‘You did quite right to turn to me. I trust I may prove a more honourable man than Roborough.’

That, thought Isadora, was quite impossible. But she gave his fingers a grateful squeeze and smiled tremulously up at him. ‘I knew you would not fail me. I promise you I will give you no cause for regret.’

‘Oh, I won’t regret anything,’ he said on a cynical note that gave Isadora an instant’s pause.

Had she misunderstood? She rushed into the clinching argument. ‘You will not lose by it, Mr Syderstone. For do you not see that if I am married to you—?’

‘Married?’ He sounded almost amused. Then he smiled. ‘But of course. Gretna, do you think?’

‘Oh yes, for we must do it all in the greatest secrecy,’ Isadora agreed. ‘You need not concern yourself. I have thought it all out. We must take the main road which runs from Stockbridge to Basingstoke, and from there we can take the post road north.’

‘That seems a sensible route,’ he conceded.

‘And when we are married you will be in a position to force Roborough into paying your debt. For he dare not refuse when he knows that you may blacken his name with a tale of his wrongs to me.’

‘Now why had I not thought of that? But of course you are perfectly correct. He will most certainly agree to my terms.’

He sounded so confident that Isadora was shaken by doubt. Had he given in to her rather too easily? But next instant he was smiling again.

‘Now we must plan the details of our escape. How soon would you wish to elope?’

***

 

The escape was effected with no difficulty at all. Summoning a footman to her bedchamber, Isadora instructed him to take her packed portmanteau down to the stables and place it in Mr Syderstone’s curricle.

‘The gentleman is passing by our previous home, and has very kindly agreed to take some items that Mr Thornbury, our man of business, has requested me to send as gifts for the servants who are leaving us.’

The Barton Stacey domestic staff being, like all servants everywhere, conversant with every detail of the family business, including the facts of the Alvescot inheritance, the footman took this without a blink. All that remained was for Isadora to rise at an early hour upon the following morning and slip off through the gardens to the road where Mr Syderstone picked her up outside the gates to the mansion.

It was with a heavy heart that she climbed up into the curricle. It was bad enough that she had not been able to say a fond farewell to Mama, worse—infinitely worse—that she had seen Roborough only in company at dinner last night, and then he and the Ursula female had had their heads together at the top of the table.

Fearing her emotions would get the better of her if she stayed, Isadora had pleaded tiredness after the meal and retired before the gentlemen had come in from their wine. Tears had been shed into her pillows. Useless, stupid tears. For what was the point in crying when, if she did not do what she had decided to do, she had only despair before her? But that was all in the past.

The future, while it might not include Mama and the viscount, would be bright enough. For, little though he knew it, it did not include her escort. The letter she had left for Roborough—to be delivered by her maid, along with a note for Mama, once she was safely at a distance—would ensure that Syderstone troubled none of them again.

Dear Roborough,

I have persuaded Syderstone to elope with me to Gretna Green. He believes that marriage with me will enable him to blackmail you into paying his debt. But of course I will not marry him at all. You may then challenge him to dare to claim his debt, as you must say you believe he has ruined me. Pray don’t concern yourself over my future. I shall be doing that which I have always desired.

Isadora.

If that did not bring the viscount haring after them, then she was entirely mistaken in his character. He would be intent upon preventing her from going to Gretna. But it would avail him nothing, for when he caught up with them he would find only Syderstone. That would baffle him. He would not know where to look, and he would be looking for Isadora Alvescot. There was not going to be any Isadora Alvescot.

He would no doubt deal with Syderstone as he saw fit. She could guess how that might be, but of one thing she was certain: the man could not possibly have the effrontery to demand to be paid when he had run off with the viscount’s cousin.

As for Roborough, this time Isadora flattered herself that she had out-generalled him. He would think she was ruining herself one way, when in fact she would be busy ruining herself in quite another. That would fox him. And there would be nothing he could do about it, because by the time he did catch up with her—if he managed to do so at all—it would be too late to do anything to save her. Not, she reminded herself, that he had said he would save her. Quite the contrary.

Here a tiny voice at the back of her mind informed her that she was dreaming if she supposed for a moment that he would carry out his threat. Of course he would not set up as her protector. He had no desire to do so. He had only said it, and kissed her, to make her aware of the dangers of following her ambition. Instead, his kiss had precipitated her into taking the step that would push her into doing so—because she would rather die than live with the agony of seeing him married to another.

She had so much on her mind that the journey to Basingstoke hardly seemed to take any time at all. Syderstone being equally silent—was he perhaps having some doubts?—there was no difficulty at all in introducing her final ploy.

As soon as they were driving north out of Basingstoke, she began to moan softly now and then, putting a hand to her stomach. It was not long before Syderstone noticed.

‘What is the matter?’

Isadora hoped she was pale enough from lack of sleep to lend credence to what she replied. ‘Forgive me. I am a trifle queasy. The rocking—’ she snatched at her mouth as if she were indeed about to be sick ‘—I have never been a good traveller.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Syderstone, with all the horror of a man faced with such a domestic crisis. ‘Just how nauseous are you?’

Isadora allowed her head to fall back, saying faintly, ‘Don’t concern yourself. I shall be—’ Then, in a panicky tone, she cried, ‘Oh no, I shall not! Do you think we might stop? If I could just lie down for a space…’

Pulling on the reins, Syderstone slowed the curricle, calling on his groom to keep his eyes peeled for a likely inn. A small tavern came into sight in a few moments, its swinging sign unmistakable.

In a remarkably short time, Isadora had been escorted up to a little room on the first floor, with the landlady fussing over her and offering all manner of remedies.

‘I want nothing, thank you,’ Isadora said, collapsing on to the bed. ‘Only, pray would you ask the gentleman to have my portmanteau brought in? I have some powders with me that will greatly reduce my sickness. I recall packing them.’

The portmanteau was duly brought up, and Isadora, waving away all offers of refreshment bar a glass of water, and pleading only for quiet, soon found herself left alone. She was up at once, darting to the door. Stealthily she opened it, but there was no one about. Breathing a sigh of relief, she closed the door and swiftly turned the key in the lock. Then she seized her portmanteau, hefting it on to the bed.

Ten minutes later, Isadora Alvescot had disappeared. In her place stood a young man, his long black curls drawn back and tied at the neck with a ribbon, and largely concealed by the round felt hat that partly shaded his face. Breeches of blue cloth adorned his slim thighs, and a waistcoat and frock in contrasting greys, although a trifle ill-fitting at the front, sat finely across his shoulders.

Isadora had not forgotten the necessary smallclothes, and only wished she’d had more practice in tying a cravat. She had secretly filched the entire costume for one of her performances, more than a year ago, from Papa’s wardrobe. So amused had he been by his daughter’s unexpected appearance that he had permitted her to keep it for the future. Little had he supposed it would be used for this adventure.

Now it only remained to remove herself from the inn without being noticed. Which did not mean without being seen. It was a small place, but there were still people about. The thing was to step out boldly. No one would expect her, and therefore it was probable that no one would challenge her. Or so she devoutly hoped.

Once she was outside the chamber, she took the precaution of locking the door from the outside and pushing the key under it. That would hold them. Then she squared her shoulders, took a firm grip of the portmanteau, and trod in a leisurely way down the stairs.

As she expected, neither the landlady nor Syderstone, who must have been refreshing himself in the taproom, was present in the little hall. A lad was engaged in polishing some brasses that adorned the walls, but he merely glanced about to see who had come down, and then went on with his work.

Isadora sauntered out of the inn, her heart hammering painfully the while, and struck out back towards Basingstoke. She had gone barely half a mile before she was able to get a lift with a passing farmer, spinning him a tale about her horse having gone lame. The farmer, a man of few words, merely nodded, asked where in Basingstoke the gentleman wished to be set down, and calmly besought his horse to proceed.

At Basingstoke, Isadora was obliged to wait for an agonising hour before the stagecoach arrived at the Green Man, at which hostelry the farmer had assured her it would stop on its way to Staines, and thence to London. But no irate Syderstone arrived to interfere with her plan, and she was able to remind herself that in all probability he was still waiting for her to emerge from the room at the little inn.

The stagecoach was noticeably slower than the curricle, and Isadora had too much leisure for reflection. But she had a role to play—for it was not to be supposed that the other passengers, curious to a man, would ignore an obvious member of the quality travelling by the stage—and the effort of appearing as much like a youth as possible kept most of her inevitably dismal thoughts at bay.

When the coach stopped for the change, everyone alighted. Isadora would have liked to remain on it, for in spite of her confidence in her disguise she could not help a shiver of apprehension from rising in her bosom. Yet it would arouse suspicion if she did not get down like the others, at least to stretch her legs.

Ignoring the steps, she jumped down—as a young man would—and, adopting what she hoped was a male stride, marched towards the inn into which her fellow passengers had already filed, sparing no glance for the knot of people standing outside.

As she approached the door, a dry voice halted her in her tracks, one she had imagined to be miles away.

‘Rosalind, I presume?’ said Roborough. ‘Or is it Viola?’

***

 

Isadora whirled about. He was standing not two feet away from her, having stepped from out of the clutch of persons she had vaguely noted as she passed. And, for all the mildness of his tone, he was looking like a thundercloud.

‘Oh, God help me,’ she said involuntarily.

‘You may well say so,’ he returned grimly.

Blank shock was swiftly succeeded by the rising tattoo of her pulse in her breast as she stared at him. Useless to pretend she was not herself. He had already recognised her. How had he come here? How had he known? If anything, he should have been wrestling with Syderstone’s whereabouts. She found her tongue, in an inevitably blistering attack.

‘What are you doing here? How did you know? You had no right. I am going to London and you cannot stop me.’

‘We will not discuss rights at this present,’ he responded evenly. ‘But stopping you is another matter. Your journey is done—sir.’

Her attire! Glancing about, she realised they might easily be overheard, and flushed at this timely reminder. She saw a measure of satisfaction enter Roborough’s features and her ire rose. She glared at him.

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘We shall indeed,’ he replied in a calm voice that belied the granite set of his jaw. ‘I imagine you have a portmanteau in that coach. We will begin by extracting it.’

‘You will do nothing of the…’

Her voice died as she encountered such a blaze of fury in the light eyes as she had never seen before. A little shiver shook her, of fright and distress. It was hideous to have him in such rage with her.

‘We will,’ he repeated, the words weighted with menace, ‘extract your portmanteau. Then we shall go into this inn, where you will change back into your proper raiment, which I make no doubt is contained therein.’

It was too much. How dared he take such a tone with her? Yet Isadora’s voice shook a little.

‘I will not!’

His eyes narrowed. ‘My good sir, you endanger yourself more every moment. You will, for once in your life, do as you are told.’ He paused briefly, then added icily, ‘Or, if you prefer, take the consequences.’

Isadora hesitated, her heart beating rather fast. There could be no doubt that she had driven him utterly beyond his patience. Moreover, dressed as she was, he might do anything he chose to her and no one would intervene. She looked every inch a young lad, and Roborough was her senior by so many years that he might treat her as such with impunity. Discretion, on this occasion, must be the better part of valour. She bit her lip on any further protest.

‘Very wise,’ he said drily, and turned from her to address a lounging ostler to whom he had evidently been speaking before he had accosted her.

In a very short time indeed, Isadora found herself carrying her own portmanteau, and trailing in the viscount’s wake—just as if she had been a youth and not the lady she actually was—up the stairs, to halt outside the chamber designated by the footman who had shown them up.

‘I thank you,’ the viscount said to him, nodding at Isadora to enter the room. ‘Inform the landlord that I shall require ale and coffee, together with a light luncheon—nothing at all elaborate, if you please—to be brought to the parlour I have bespoken.’

The footman, pocketing the coin that Roborough handed him, confirmed that he would relay these instructions, and went off down the corridor. The viscount followed Isadora into the room and closed the door.

‘What now?’ she demanded.

‘Belligerent as ever, I see,’ he remarked coolly. ‘Now, ma’am, I will leave you to return to your true identity.’

‘And what do you suppose the landlord is going to say when he sees you with a female instead of a youth?’

‘I have not the slightest interest in anything he may say. The matter does not concern him.’

‘He is bound to think it extremely odd.’

‘Then he will have penetrated your character extremely shrewdly,’ Roborough said blandly. ‘No one could be more odd. If this escapade had been perpetrated upon anyone other than myself, I imagine you would by now have been carted off to bedlam.’

‘How dare you? Do you suppose I did this to play some sort of trick upon you?’

‘We will argue the point when you have changed,’ he said, moving back to the door. ‘And don’t think to try any further trick on me as you doubtless tricked Syderstone, for I shall be waiting outside the door. Don’t take too long, either.’

With which, he extracted the key from the inside of the door and, taking it with him, removed himself and shut the door.

He left Isadora fuming. How dared he treat her so? What, was she a child to be ordered this way and that? Let her but return to the mansion—which she could not doubt was just what would happen—where she was no longer vulnerable to his threats, and then they would see. She would tell him precisely what she thought of him.

Ripping off her jacket, she began savagely to undress herself, raging still. He was hateful. He was a beast. Great heavens, he was so angry! Tears started to her eyes, and her hands slowed in the act of tearing away her improvised cravat. That was the worst of it. God knew she had raged and ranted at him many a time, and once or twice he had hit back. But never like this. And he had called her ma’am. That, distancing her dreadfully, was so extremely painful that the tears squeezed from her tightly shut eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

A rapping on the door brought her eyes flying open.

‘A little speed, ma’am,’ called Roborough from the other side. ‘There is no necessity to titivate.’

Resentment flared anew. Titivate indeed. As if she were in the habit of spending hours on her appearance. But she began to hurry nevertheless, dragging her somewhat crumpled black gown out of the portmanteau and slipping it on over her chemise. She shook out the skirts, but there was nothing to be done about the creases

Nor was there anything she could do with her hair, she thought despairingly. She had lost most of her pins so that her usual topknot was impossible. The best she could do was to pin back the front curls and allow the remainder to hang down her back. She stared critically at herself in the mirror above the dressing-table. It would have to do. Not that it mattered what she looked like. Roborough was intent only on punishing her. He was hardly likely to pay the slightest attention—even had he the least interest in the matter—to her appearance.

The thought caused her eyes to well again, and she realised that her cheeks were a trifle streaked from where she had wiped away the earlier tears. Hastily rubbing her fingers over them, she removed what traces she could see.

Then, seizing the portmanteau, she marched to the door and flung it wide, a touch of defiance returning. Roborough was leaning against the wall outside. He turned his head, and his glance raked her from top to toe, resting briefly on the tresses curling about her shoulders, and then on her cheeks. Did he notice the tell-tale traces of tears? Apparently not.

‘That’s better,’ was all he said, unsmiling. ‘You make, I admit, a fetching boy, but I prefer you as a girl.’

Was that a gleam at the back of his eye? Or was she imagining it, only because it was what she longed to see? She looked down to hide any hope that might be reflected in her face, a faint flush staining her cheeks.

Roborough took the portmanteau from her hand, saying roughly, ‘Come along.’

He led the way back to the main hall above the entrance where the footman had earlier pointed out the private parlour. The room was small, furnished with a table in a window alcove, already laid with a cloth and two places, and a couple of armchairs before the empty fireplace. The viscount set the portmanteau down against the wall near one of these, and turned to survey the table.

‘I wonder what they will produce for luncheon?’ he said musingly, and moved to the bell pull beside the mantel. ‘Perhaps they have forgotten us. I had better ring and remind them.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ exclaimed Isadora, suddenly exasperated. ‘Must you conduct yourself in this tiresomely normal fashion? I know you are angry with me, and if you mean to scold me I wish you will set about it immediately.’

He looked over at her. His voice was even, but she could hear the undercurrent of rage beneath. ‘I dare not, ma’am, for if I start I cannot answer for my temper.’

‘Ma’am again,’ she threw at him bitterly. ‘How can you speak to me in that manner, after all that has passed between us? I must be the last person in the world to be troubled by a little loss of temper. There is nothing I hate more than waiting for a quarrel. Let us get it over with!’

‘I don’t wish to quarrel with you, Isadora,’ Roborough said in a tightly controlled tone. Then, as if he could no longer contain himself, he burst out furiously, ‘What I wish to do is to throttle you!’

‘Throttle me? When all I have done is to try and help you to be rid of Syderstone?’

‘This is your notion of helping me, is it? Doing your best to ruin yourself?’

‘What do you care if I ruin myself?’

‘I will tell you—’ he began, but broke off as the door opened and one of the inn servants entered, armed with a laden tray.

The viscount cursed inwardly. He had known what would happen if he allowed rein to the fury consuming him.

The servant, excusing himself, went to the table, casting as he did so a surprised glance at Isadora, who had flounced away to the other side of the room. Of course he had not been expecting a female. No doubt he had heard their voices, too. Not that it mattered. Better to be overheard here, where they were not known, than at home where the repercussions might be endless.

Although he was still excessively angry with the little monster, he was so relieved to have found her this easily that his murderous fury was muted by now. Never in his life had he spent a more painful journey, racked both by rage and a very real fear for Isadora’s safety. He could swear that it was only the thought of the severe chastisement he planned to administer that had kept him from insanity. He had very nearly done it too—when she had dared to defy him even at the last. She must have known instantly that the game was up. But no, Isadora could never give in without a fight. Which was why, of course, he felt as he did about her.

His rage began to slide away from him. But what other weapon had he? She must learn that he was not to be trifled with, and only a fury greater than her own appeared to do the trick. He began to chafe. Damn the servant! Would he be forever at his work? He glanced across at Isadora. She had paced to the fireplace and was standing with her back to him, looking down into the empty grate.

At last the man finished laying out the luncheon, and Roborough slipped him a coin, saying, ‘I do not wish to be disturbed again. Unless I ring let no one enter this room, if you please.’

That took Isadora’s attention. She turned quickly, waiting only for the door to close behind the servant before rushing into speech.

‘Roborough, you don’t understand. I know you think I have behaved—’

‘In a manner that reflects upon your sanity,’ he cut in swiftly.

‘In a way that must seem as if I have tricked you,’ she finished. Then she realised what he had said. ‘What do you mean, reflects upon my sanity? It was a carefully thought out plot.’

‘That is just what I mean. No one but a madwoman would devise such a plot. And do you know what lacerates my feelings the most? That you should so underrate my intelligence. How dared you, Isadora, suppose that I might take on trust all that utter nonsense you wrote to me?’

‘It was not nonsense. At least, I did not tell you quite all my intentions, of course, but how dare you doubt my purpose after all I said?’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. If I believed for one moment that you meant what you said in that foolish note—’

‘Why shouldn’t I mean it?’

‘Don’t try me too far, Isadora.’ He moved a few steps closer. ‘If you knew what I itch to do to you!’

Isadora shifted back involuntarily. ‘Are you daring to threaten me?’

‘Yes, I am threatening you, and with good reason.’

‘Oh! You hateful man! You had much better have gone for Syderstone and threatened him.’

Roborough uttered a short laugh. ‘You don’t imagine I would waste my time chasing after Syderstone, do you? I know you a little too well, my girl. Your letter reeked of some idiotic plan afoot.’

‘It was not idiotic at all,’ protested Isadora indignantly. ‘It was a very clever plan.’

‘It was an extremely stupid plan—besides containing a gross miscalculation.’

Isadora stared at him blankly. ‘How so?’

He seized her shoulders and shook her. ‘You little fool! Syderstone had never any intention of marrying you. He had his own axe to grind. Unfortunately for him, he is not as well acquainted with you as I am, or he would have seen through your game and anticipated this.’ Releasing her, he made an airy gesture as if to encompass her escape.

The tiny doubts that had beset Isadora at the outset came hurtling back, in full flower. She had not convinced Syderstone. But why had he agreed to elope with her, then? And how was it that Roborough knew all this? He meant, of course, that he had seen through her game. But not all of it.

‘Even you could not have known that I would disguise myself as a man,’ she told him, with a resurgence of her usual defiance.

‘I should have thought of it,’ he said grimly. ‘I guessed you would give Syderstone the slip. Oh, it was not difficult to fathom that,’ he added, seeing the frown of annoyance descend upon her brow. ‘You told me, Isadora. I was not to concern myself over your future. You would be doing what you always wanted. There could be only one interpretation.’

She had not fooled him at all. He had outwitted her again. Disgruntled, she said, ‘Well, how should I know you would read so much between the lines?’

‘That is exactly what I complain of,’ he returned drily. ‘But I dare say it is too much to expect your lunatic mind to encompass that I might add two and two to make four.’

‘But how was it that you tracked me here?’

‘It wasn’t difficult. Since I knew your purse could not possibly run to hiring a coach, or even a horse, the stagecoach was the obvious solution. London, given your ambitions, had to be your objective. I had only to check at each stage of the route. Fortune favoured me, however, for my coach must have passed you on the road. I arrived here ahead of you, and was thus able to search for you among the passengers as they alighted.’ A slight quirk of his lips signalled, for the first time today, a smile. ‘I confess I had not quite bargained for the sight that met my eyes.’

Isadora was silent for a moment or two, thinking it all out. She paced about the room, barely conscious of the viscount’s gaze. She did not know whether to be glad or sorry that her plan had been foiled. But a sneaking pleasure grew in her that he had cared enough to come after her. Not that she could set much store by that. He had made his views on her ambition to become an actress very clear indeed.

His voice recalled her. ‘Why did you do it, Isadora?’

He was no longer angry. There was a touch of that gentleness in his tone that she knew so well now. It caused her heart to swell and tears to prick at her eyes.

‘I told you in my note,’ she said gruffly.

‘And I told you,’ he said in a harder tone, ‘that I do not believe your sacrificial faradiddles about getting Syderstone off my back. Tell me the truth!’

The truth? Great heavens, how could she? Indeed, how could she get out of answering him on this head at all? Then his mention of Syderstone brought back to mind what he had said of him.

‘What did you mean when you said Syderstone had no intention of marrying me? How can you know what he intended if you have not even seen him?’

The viscount’s jaw tightened. ‘I am indebted to Syderstone himself for the information. I received two notes, Isadora.’

‘He wrote to you?’

‘I don’t know what you said to him, but he allowed you to believe you had won him over, and then—’

He broke off and, coming up to her, took her by the shoulders again, gently this time. ‘Isadora, I had hoped to spare you this. The fact is that Syderstone wrote that he would ruin you if I did not follow. He meant it literally, for he used a low term which I shall not distress you by repeating. I was to catch up with you both, and write an undertaking to pay him his money from the proceeds of the Pusay house.’

Isadora stared up at him in mounting puzzlement. She saw that the anger was back in his eyes, but she recognised that this time it was not directed at her. Only she could not understand Syderstone’s reasoning.

‘He must have been mad. How could he suppose you would agree to that? You would catch him up, of course you would. But surely you would call him out? Any man would.’

‘Very true, but he had thought of that.’ Roborough released her, his voice taking on an edge. He moved a little away, looking at some vision in his mind rather than at Isadora’s face. ‘He had, he said, no intention of making the matter public. It was enough that I should know what he had done to you. He knew perfectly well I would pay. Either that or I would have had to kill him.’

Isadora stared. He spoke with an intensity that astonished her. ‘I don’t understand.’

The viscount turned to look at her. There was a look in his eyes that she did not recognise.

‘Don’t you? Let me see if I can make it clearer. It appears that Syderstone saw which way the wind was blowing even before I did myself. That is why, I surmise, he set up a mock-rivalry between us for your favours, and told you of the debt.’

‘Are you saying he set out deliberately to make mischief between us?’

‘Exactly. I do not suggest he had it in mind even then to elope with you. I think he was rather testing my reaction to check his own judgement. Unfortunately, this time, he must have been certain of it—as who could not be?—and you, Isadora, played right into his hands.’

She scarcely heard the last. Testing what? Certain of it? Could he mean…?

‘Roborough, don’t trifle with me,’ she burst out. ‘Syderstone was right about what?’

The expression in his eyes was compound of entreaty and some species of pain.

‘Can’t you yet guess? Oh, Isadora, what is the use of concealment? If I distress you by this, I beg your pardon. The truth is that Syderstone guessed that I am in love with you.’

Isadora’s knees almost buckled under her. It was what he meant. She had hardly dared to give room to the burgeoning thought. But now—! Her heart leapt. Her pulse throbbed painfully and her throat ached over a rising lump.

‘Distress me?’ she said huskily. ‘I have never been so happy in my life!’

Then, as his features broke into a radiant grin, she flung herself across the room and burst into tears on his chest. She was clutched so tightly she scarce had room to gulp in her breath on the sobs that rose up to choke her.

Suddenly the hold relaxed, and her face was seized between two firm hands.

‘I had not dared to hope. You can’t imagine what I’ve been through, you wicked little devil!’ He kissed her hard. ‘I could willingly slaughter you!’

But his lips were again at her mouth as he dragged her back into his embrace. Isadora’s tears were arrested. She was unable to utter anything at all beyond a hungry groan, and, conscious only of warmth sweeping through her, she gave herself up to the violence of Roborough’s passion.

It was some time before he could abandon his repeated assaults upon her lips, punctuated with the most gratifying statements of his emotions towards her. At length he did stop kissing her, but only so that he might look down into her wondering features.

‘But what about Lady Ursula?’ was the first thing Isadora managed to say.

The viscount, playing with her loosened tresses and smiling at her in a manner both foolish and endearing, merely uttered vaguely, ‘What about Ursula?’

Isadora brought her hands up to grasp the lapels of his coat. ‘Roborough, don’t you see? She is the reason I conceived my plot.’

‘Are you mad, Isadora?’

Her voice began to shake. ‘I thought—I believed you were in love with her, and I couldn’t b-bear to remain to watch you making love to her and—and marrying her when her mourning was over.’

His expression altered and his fingers closed over hers. ‘Marry Ursula? You are joking!’

‘I am not. Even your mother seems to think you might do so. And—and Cousin Matty is convinced that Lady Ursula is already your mistress.’

‘And you believed it?’

An unmistakably astonished laugh shook him. Nothing could more surely have convinced Isadora of the folly of her belief. The glistening tears receded.

‘Now I see what you were driving at the other day.’ Drawing her fingers up to his mouth, he kissed them, saying lovingly, ‘You little idiot.’

Isadora heaved a sigh, protesting nevertheless, ‘I don’t see why you should call me an idiot. How should I have known? You certainly greeted her in a highly suggestive manner.’

‘Ursula is a dear friend, Isadora, as was her husband. When my father was alive, their house was my second home—the only place I felt truly comfortable.’ He cupped her face with one hand. ‘I am extremely fond of Ursula, but I don’t love her.’

‘Don’t you?’ she asked rather wistfully.

‘No, I love you. I want you, not Ursula. She would positively stare at the notion of becoming intimate with me. Besides, although she shows a laughing face to the world, she was broken by Stivichall’s death, and mourns for him still.’ He grinned. ‘In any event, if you must know, she has spent the last few days carping at me for hesitating to tell you how I feel about you.’

‘She—what?’

‘Yes, I tell you. She guessed the state of my heart within minutes and I have been subjected to all manner of scolds. Although she was quite unable to discover, which she said she tried to do, what your sentiments were.’

So that was it. All those silly questions, which Isadora had been unable to understand, about the sort of man the viscount ought to marry her to. That was what Lady Ursula had meant.

Then the thoughts flew out of her head, for Roborough drew her back within the circle of his arm, his fingers pushing up her chin so that he might look deep into her eyes.

‘Speaking of your sentiments,’ he said softly, ‘am I to assume that they are what your recent conduct in this room seems to indicate?’

Isadora gazed balefully up at him. ‘If you mean what do I think of you, Roborough, let me tell you that you are a hateful wretch. In fact, you are the most abominable man in the world—and I love you to distraction!’

‘Thank God for that,’ he said, relieved, as he claimed her lips once more. He added, as he released her mouth, ‘Because, you see, I am about to order you to marry me.’

Isadora giggled. ‘What, now?’

‘Not now, you little monster, but in the shortest possible order. You need not imagine I have any intention of waiting for our mutual mourning to be over. I swear I could not tolerate many more rides with you without abandoning all claim to be called a gentleman.’

Isadora blushed, but said shyly, ‘Nor I prevent you from doing so, to be truthful with you.’

A remark which caused Roborough to seize her mouth in a very fever of passion.

‘If you only knew the torture you have put me through,’ he groaned.

‘You can’t have suffered more than I,’ retorted Isadora. ‘I thought I had utterly alienated you by the horrid things I said. It did not seem possible that your affections could ever animate towards me—especially after that dreadful quarrel in the library at Pusay.’

‘Oh, don’t speak of that. I left you in a mood of murderous rage, but barely had I shaken the dust of Pusay from my carriage wheels than I realised that I had fallen hopelessly in love with you, Isadora.’

‘What, even then? But you never showed by the slightest hint that you felt that way about me.’

‘No, because I thought I had ruined any chance I might have had of attaching you. Nothing, I believed, would serve to eradicate your ill opinion of me. Even when you knew the truth, I could not begin to suppose that you had changed towards me.’ He hugged her tight. ‘I am not even going to ask you when you began to care.’

When his hold relaxed, Isadora’s brown eyes were moist as she looked up at him. ‘I didn’t know it then, but I think it was the very first time you smiled at me—for I find the way your eyes crinkle at the corners quite irresistible.’

Roborough, unable to help himself, did smile then. Sure enough, the corners of his eyes crinkled and the tingling warmth that Isadora had always felt—and which she only now recognised for what it was—swept through her.

She drew a breath of deepest satisfaction. ‘You may plague me beyond bearing, but that teasing look will ever redeem you.’

‘And you, my adorable Isadora, will undoubtedly drive me into an early grave. But I shall die the happier for having taken to wife a female that will bedazzle Society with her acting skills.’

Light flooded across Isadora’s face. ‘You will not mind it if I perform in public?’

‘I shall take delight in showing you off—in your very own theatre. I shall build one especially for you just as soon as I have recovered the family fortunes.’

‘Well, you may easily do that now,’ Isadora said eagerly, ‘for you need not provide me with either a dowry or settlements.’ She gasped, reminded of the ramifications of her own plot. ‘Great heavens, I used just that argument to persuade Syderstone that you were importuning me to marry you.’

‘Did you indeed?’ he responded drily. ‘Pray don’t ever hesitate to vilify my character any time it seems to you expedient to do so.’

‘I won’t,’ Isadora promised.

‘If I could stop kissing you for one moment,’ Roborough told her ominously, suiting the action to the word, ‘I should certainly slap you instead, you vile female.’

‘Not if you don’t wish me to scratch your eyes out,’ she retorted. Then she frowned. ‘But what of Syderstone? What are we to do about him?’

‘You may leave Syderstone to me,’ he said grimly. ‘When I have finished with him he will dare neither to utter a word in your disparagement nor to importune me for his debt—which I shall choose when to pay.’

‘Yes, but he will have discovered my absence by now, and perhaps he may search for me.’

‘Let him do so. He won’t find you. Besides, after we are married, I will be searching for him. And he won’t care for that, I promise you.’

He almost ground his teeth as he spoke and Isadora thrilled to the possessive intensity she sensed within him. How he must love her. She lifted a hand to touch her fingers to his cheek, her heart melting as she smiled.

‘You will tell him, I hope, that your scheme to entrap me has succeeded? After all, he imagines you wish to marry me for convenience only.’

‘Which I do, of course. Marrying you is much cheaper than throwing you on to the marriage mart. In fact, that is the real reason why I did not offer for you. You might have refused me. By ordering you to marry me, on the other hand—’

‘Roborough, you are abominable,’ interrupted Isadora, on a gurgle of mirth, ‘and I hate you.’

‘I know,’ he said, the warmth crinkling at his eyes, ‘and I shall be at pains to ensure you never cease to care for me in just that way.’