Ashlyn Macnamara (13 page)

But now, in the face of the uncertainty, confronted with the knowledge she might never see her boy again, she wanted to pull that sturdy body into her arms and bask in the scent of an inquisitive child—grass and earth and the salt of seawater.

Her throat swelled achingly tight, and she swallowed against a sob. Without warning, a pair of arms enfolded her. George. Why was he still here lending her comfort when she didn’t deserve it?

Another sob wrestled its way past the obstruction in her throat, and she released it on a shuddering breath. The weight of his palm settled on the back of her head. His fingertips burrowed into her hair, exerting gentle but insistent pressure until she rested her cheek against his shoulder.

The sheer size of him surrounded her. Never had a man held her like this with no expectation of more coming from the embrace. He gave without demanding anything in return. Lord, where had this man been when she was a green little chit, completely unprepared for the lure of a determined rake? Would he have saved her? Or would he have lured her in, too?

At the idea, she stiffened.

“Come into the house, and we’ll see if Biggles ever made us a pot of tea.” She pulled out of the embrace and attempted a smile—a hostess’s sort of smile, one that would have done her father proud, if she succeeded. She feared she’d managed no more than a grimace.

George—heavens, she was referring to him by his given name in her head—gave her an odd look, somewhere between a question and approval. “A cup of tea would be just the thing.”

H
E
hated tea, unless it was liberally laced with brandy, hated the stuff because it reminded him of social calls where his mother forced him to sit and make stilted conversation with retiring young misses fresh from the schoolroom. Come to think of it, he wasn’t much for scones, either, and those fussy little slices of toasted
bread bedecked with cucumber and watercress turned his stomach.

Thank God Isabelle’s kitchen contained none of those transgressions—only a stone-cold teapot and a flustered Biggles.

“Ye didn’t find hide nor hair of him?” Her hands twisted a tattered bit of linen—no doubt it had been a handkerchief in its misspent youth. “Oh my poor, poor Jack, spirited from his bed. And what can we do? They’ll have all night to take him Lord knows where, and then we’ll be in a pickle. And what could anyone have wanted with a mere little scrap like that?”

She sank to a bench by the fireplace. “What is the world coming to that strangers make off with children in the night?”

Isabelle let out a choked sound and pressed her knuckles to her mouth.

“That will do.” George looked hard at the older woman. “No sense in working yourself into a dither. We need to think about this.”

“And while we’re thinking, that poor boy is getting farther and farther away,” Biggles muttered.

“No, I don’t believe that’s the case.”

Isabelle pulled her fist away from her mouth. “What makes you say so?”

“There wasn’t a sign of a carriage in the road. No hoof prints if they went off on horseback. No sign at all. They have to be on foot, and if they are, how far can they get with a small boy who’s used to sleeping at this time of night? No, whoever did this is still nearby. They probably won’t move before sunrise.”

Isabelle’s eyes glittered as they hardened into a glare. “Then why aren’t we out trying to find them before they discover a better hiding spot?”

“How do you propose we do that in the dark? We’ve searched this property and the nearby lanes as well as
we may. Are you prepared to rouse your neighbors with a search?”

“No.” She heaved a telling sigh. Given her situation, her neighbors might not be so inclined to help, at least, not in the middle of the night.

He laid a hand over hers. “As soon as it’s light we’ll try again, and then, if we’ve still found nothing, we’ll bring in the others.”

T
HE
butler’s glance landed on her, and his eyes narrowed. Isabelle drew her shawl more securely about her shoulders. She ought to have anticipated the reaction. Even in the country, the servants judged her. One look, and they knew, as if the words “scarlet woman” were embroidered across her forehead.

Granted, it didn’t speak for her respectability that she turned up at the front door of the manor at sunrise, hair astraggle, still dressed in yesterday’s garments, trailing after Mr. Upperton. Yes, as long as she was at the manor, she
must
think of him in polite terms. Distant terms. Nothing so intimate as a given name must pass through her mind, much less cross her tongue.

As it was, the women would put their heads together and whisper. No need to fuel their speculations by treating George—Mr. Upperton—as anything more than a helpful stranger.

“Is Revelstoke about?”

The butler snapped his attention to George and drew himself up until the top of his head nearly reached George’s chin. What he lacked in size he more than made up for in imperiousness. He sniffed, actually sniffed at George. Her father would have given their own butler a sharp reprimand for such an offense to a guest.

“I shall have to inquire.” Frost edged his reply. The man turned and left them standing on the doorstep.

“Can you imagine that?” George muttered. “The fellow suddenly thinks he’s in Grosvenor Square and not in the wilds of Kent.”

Isabelle cleared her throat. “Perhaps I ought to leave. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what—”

“Hush.” He turned to face her and curled his fingers about her shoulder. Warmth seeped through the layers of fabric separating his flesh from hers. Thank goodness. Direct contact would be as hot as a brand. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. You need company to distract you, and I can provide that while we look for Jack.”

She shrugged, but his grip merely tightened. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

“What makes you say such a thing?”

“Be honest. You’re friends with the man’s employer, are you not?”

“Yes, of course. Revelstoke and I have known each other since our school days.”

“And has he ever left you cooling your heels outside before? He does know who you are.”

George’s brows lowered. “Certainly he knows who I am. He’s been with the family for years. I might have walked right in just now, but for—”

“But for me, which explains why we haven’t at least been shown into the foyer.”

He dropped his hand and focused on some object over her shoulder—a tree or perhaps the gamesman’s house they’d passed on the way up the sweeping drive.

“You can’t come up with a good answer to that, can you?” she pressed. “Or you won’t because you don’t wish to insult me. They know. Even the servants take one look at me and they know. What are the ladies here going to make of me?”

“Revelstoke’s wife isn’t like that.” Isabelle shook her head, but George continued, “Give her a chance, will
you? Once she hears what has happened, she’ll be all sympathy.”

“Once she hears what has happened, she may well consider I only got what I deserved. Oh, she’ll be too polite to say so, but she’ll think it. They all will.”

“You are insulting a dear friend of mine by even implying such a thing, and sight unseen, no less.”

“Is she such a paragon she’d overlook a fallen woman with a bastard son?”

“Has it ever occurred to you to lie about your circumstances? Say you’re a widow. Who would be the wiser?”

Heaven only knew she’d thought of such a ruse on her arrival in the village, and she’d tried to hide her relationship to Jack through appearances. Only her ingrained pride had kept her from lying outright.

Rather than admit to that, she diverted the subject. “Why are you doing this?”

He shook his head slightly. “Doing what?”

“Helping me? Last night was one thing, but this …”

“What a thing to ask,” he practically spluttered. “What sort of gentleman would I be if I left a lady in distress?”

What sort indeed? The sort that expected something in return. She opened her mouth to retort, but the butler’s reappearance stopped the words cold.

“Lord Benedict is out at the stables at this hour. I’ve sent the hall boy to fetch him. I daresay you might await him in his study. As for your companion—”

At the hesitation, Isabelle’s cheeks burned.

“This is Mrs. Mears,” George broke in. “She lives in the village.”

“I believe most are aware of Miss Mears’s situation.”

A hollowing in George’s cheek belied sudden tension in his jaw. “It’s a disgrace to your profession to pay such heed to gossip. Mrs. Mears is here on a matter of utmost
urgency. Now, you will let her pass, or I shall not be responsible for my actions.”

The butler stepped aside, but his eyes glinted. Clearly, he did not approve, but he’d already trod too close to the line of insolence. “She might await you in the foyer.”

“She will accompany me to Revelstoke’s study. What I need to discuss with him concerns her. And I might recommend it does not concern you in the least.” George stalked past the butler, his Hessians thumping loudly across the parquet.

The cavernous hall stretched toward the back of the manor, the ceiling soaring to twelve feet and yet, to Isabelle, the space felt confined and comfortless. The stone of the outer walls imprisoned the chill air from the Channel. Dankness crept into her bones.

What sort of people would tolerate life in such a dreary pile of stone high on a cliff, exposed to the ravages of the sea wind? A shiver passed down her spine. The man might well be a friend of George’s, but once he realized who she was, he’d cast the sort of speculative eye any other man did, a leisurely perusal that began and ended with her breasts and made her all too conscious of her shame.

And his paragon of a wife would take note—they always did—and cast her own sort of speculative eye on Isabelle. A supposition, a judgment, and a warning.
You succumbed to temptation once; you’d best not tempt my husband to stray
. The shopkeepers’ and artisans’ wives in the village were bad enough. How much worse would a daughter of the
ton
treat her?

“Good God, where have you been all night?”

A broad-shouldered man clad in tight breeches and boots strode down the hall to meet them. Black hair flopped roguishly over his brow. Then he noticed her. His perusal swept over her from head to foot and back, coming to rest on her face. No doubt her countenance
was haggard enough to draw his attention from her other attributes.

His eyes flitted from her to George and back again, while one dark eyebrow eased heavenward. “And who might this be?”

His tone was as cool as his glance, the speculative note nearly lost behind the casual façade. Nearly, but not quite. By all appearances, she’d just passed the night with this man’s friend.

“This is Isabelle Mears. Mrs. Mears, Lord Benedict.”

At the blatant lie, she nearly forgot to incline her head. She hadn’t asked it of him. It was one thing to alter the truth for the butler; his friend was another matter. Indeed, the lie made her look just as bad as the truth, since it implied she’d just passed the night committing adultery.

“And haven’t I seen you somewhere?” Revelstoke asked. “You look familiar.”

“I live in the village, my lord. Perhaps ye’ve seen me selling my sachets and posies. Believe I’ve sold a few to yer lady wife.” She did her best to imitate Biggles and the other locals, but she didn’t know if she could carry off the sham for an extended period of time. Her cultured,
ton
ish accent was too deeply engrained.

Upperton narrowed his eyes at her, but she ignored him. If he could lie without warning, then she could dashed well carry herself off as a servant. In any case, servants stood a greater chance at passing unnoticed, and that was what she wished now in the presence of these titled people. To escape their scrutiny. To escape their judgment.

Upperton cleared his throat. “Mrs. Mears’s son has gone missing. I thought to enlist your help as someone of influence in the community, and if not, at least you’ve another pair of eyes.”

“I’ll do you better than that. You can have my brother
and brother-in-law as well. And any other guest you might name.” He turned to Isabelle. “Do not worry, madam. We’ll find your boy safe and sound.”

She curtsied. “I thank ye, my lord.”

“Allow me to show you into the morning room. My wife and her sister will keep you company.”

“Oh no, my lord. I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”

“I insist. A little company will help you pass the time.”

She caught her lip between her teeth and inclined her head once more to hide the reaction. She could only let him see gratitude, not consternation. What had given her away and so quickly? If she’d really been a servant or villager, a woman reduced to selling what she could grow in her garden for a few pence, he would never have addressed her as madam and proposed she keep company with his wife. He ought to have sent her to the kitchen with others of her station.

But no, he insisted, and with one hand, he gestured to the corridor that led to the back of the house. She had no choice but to let him usher her into an airy room. Beams held up a high vaulted ceiling, and the morning sunlight fractured into a multitude of rays as it shone through two large diamond-paned windows. A fire crackled on the hearth. The air here was fresh with the scent of summer flowers—honeysuckle, lavender, and rose. Fresh-cut bouquets adorned several tables scattered about the room.

Near the windows, in twin armchairs, sat two women, close enough to Isabelle’s age. One was blond-haired and blue-eyed with flawless skin, a true diamond of the first water, fit to grace any
ton
ballroom.

“Julia, my dear.” Surprisingly, Lord Benedict addressed the second lady—no less lovely, but her darker hair and eyes made her looks pale in comparison to her sister. “This is Mrs. Mears from the village, and she has lost her young son.”

“Oh dear.” His wife rose from her seat with difficulty, hampered by her swollen belly. “How awful for you. We must do everything within our power to get him back.”

“I’m about to organize a search party with the other men,” Lord Benedict informed her. “Would you mind terribly if Mrs. Mears joined you and the other ladies?”