Fallen (22 page)

With a groan of breaking wood, the other end of the bannister began to pull from its post.

Eyes bulging with horror, Bottomly snatched for Celia's arm to right himself. He caught nothing but a wisp of her skimpy gown, which ripped away as if it was meant to. Overbalanced by his last desperate grab, Lord Bottomly could only topple over the edge, the splintered bannister still in his grasp.

The sound of his large body hitting the marble floor thirty feet below was like nothing Izzy had ever heard, or wanted to hear again. The entire house shook from the impact, and everyone stayed frozen for an instant in disbelief.

The shocked cries from below meant nothing to Izzy as she rushed to her friend's side.

"Celia? Dear one, are you injured?" Gently brushing the golden hair away from a bruised cheek, Izzy ducked to look into her friend's dazed blue eyes.

"I—" Wincing, Celia pressed a hand to her throat. "I'm fine, I think. Just a bit sore." Her beautiful voice was nothing but a painful croak, but the woman didn't seem permanently damaged. She shook back her tumbled hair and looked around.

"Where is he? Where did he go?"

Izzy could only shoot a horrified glance at the segment of balustrade that gaped like a broken tooth. Celia's eyes widened. She tried to stand but her knees sagged weakly and Izzy had to prop her on one side. Together, they staggered to the opening and looked down.

Bottomly lay centered in a starburst of shattered marble, limbs spread out like a pinwheel. But the red pooling beneath his head and the staring of his eyes gave lie to that impression.

"As dead as dead can be," Driscoll said in horror.

"She killed him!" cried another man. "She pushed him right over. We all saw it! Get her put away, Driscoll, put her away and no one will believe her about the plan."

"Shut up, you fool. None of it matters now. Bottomly
was
the plan. The last thing any of us need here is the law." Driscoll looked up to where Izzy and Celia peered over the edge. "Do we, my lady?"

"Lady Bottomly did nothing wrong—" Celia's grip on her arm halted Izzy's words, as did the subtle shake of her golden head.

"An unfortunate fall, sirs. Most unfortunate. Had my husband a great deal to drink this afternoon?"

The query was light enough, despite its hoarseness, but Celia's grip on Izzy did not loosen until Driscoll began to nod slowly. She turned to the butler.

"His lordship was so very fond of his port, wasn't he, Madden?"

Madden stared down at the man who had owned his loyalty for years. Then he gazed without expression up at the woman who now owned the house.

"Perhaps a bit overfond, my lady."

Celia sagged against Izzy in relief, but kept her voice neutral. "I'd say someone ought to send for my husband's physician, then. I'm terribly distraught of course, and must go to my rooms. Madden, would you kindly call Ellie for me?"

Then she fainted dead away. As she slipped gracefully through Izzy's grasp to the floor, something tumbled from her grasp to gleam in dented glory on the carpet.

It was a candlestick.

«
^
»

The house was full of mourners, although Izzy saw no real grief in anyone's bearing. Running her gaze over the guests, spying who was new come and who needed refreshment, she signaled to a serving maid.

"Running things, Izzy?"

The voice brought her up short. She hadn't spoken to Julian since That Morning. Composing herself, she turned with a polite smile.

Longing swept her. He was a little bleary-eyed, and a little rumpled, and his valet would have conniptions over his cravat, but he looked wonderful to her.

She wanted to straighten his mussed hair so badly that her fingers twitched. He needed fussing over.

Izzy pressed her hands together, and only raised a brow. "Have you seen Celia? I'm sure she would like to say hello." Why was she pushing that encounter? Was she mad? Then, she reminded herself that she was soon to be gone, and Julian would surely be better off with the sweet-natured Celia than someone of his father's choosing.

The pain of that thought surprised her, nearly stealing her breath away.

"Are you well, Izzy? You look pale."

She forced a smile. "Of course, I'm well. Just a bit distracted, what with… everything."

She was babbling, now. She had to get away before she flung herself on him, begging him to love her. "So much to do, I really must get on—"

He grabbed her hand and her heart tore directly in two. He was so
warm
. Why was he always so warm?

"You've been avoiding me, Izzy. I've called numerous times in the last week, but you would not see me. I've left many a note for you, but never had a reply."

"Well, it has been just as busy as can be about here!" she chirped brightly, then realized how inappropriate her tone was in a room full of mourners. Abruptly she turned to go, but he still held her hand.

"You cannot avoid me forever, Izzy. You
will
talk to me."

A group of guests passed them, looking curiously at their clasped hands.

"Well, thank you so much for your sympathy, Lord Blackworth. I shall be sure to pass your condolences on to Lady Bottomly!" Pulling free of his grasp, she slipped into the crowd and escaped through a servant's passage.

Once she was safely free, she leaned against the wall, arms wrapped about the ache in her middle.

Since that night she had managed to avoid him, refusing his offers of escort, until Celia's crisis had legitimately demanded all her time. She could not bear to see him, speak to him, or touch him, knowing that another woman would shortly be doing so.

Well, she might as well adjust to his absence. It would be permanent soon enough, though she had not yet publicly broken the engagement. The agony that sliced her heart at the thought was another thing to which she must become accustomed.

Standing with Celia, Izzy helped her friend send the last of the lingering guests on their way. The callers had been streaming in for days, until Celia had decided to put about word that she was retiring to the country in mourning for the remainder of the season.

"Honestly, I quite desire it. And it will take the greater part of the autumn to hire all new staff. I believe I will enjoy that."

Izzy had to laugh at her friend's vengeful expression. The servants who had helped Lord Bottomly make Celia's life so miserable were about to suffer for their lack of foresight—termination without references.

"What then, dear? After your mourning, you will be eligible, wealthy, and of course, beautiful. The suitors will be coming out in throngs."

"Oh,
bother
."

Izzy laughed again to hear her favorite expletive on Celia's ladylike lips.

"To be truthful, Izzy, the last thing I desire in my life is another
man
. I believe I shall visit my family for a time. I must see to dowries for my sisters, and find a way to assist my mother without letting my father gamble it all away…" Celia wandered off, listing her tasks aloud to no one in particular.

Gambling fathers. Brutal husbands. Izzy shook her head, newly reminded of how lucky she was to be her own woman. She would never be forced to the will of any man.

With that thought, Izzy decided to sneak off to her bedchamber for a nap. She was quite worn out from the tension of the past weeks.

She had not felt able to leave her friend when the tasks and responsibilities of bidding farewell to a member of the nobility had fairly overwhelmed an unprepared Celia.

Having never been allowed the duties and the organizational demands of running a household, she had relied heavily on the experienced Izzy. Izzy had been glad to help, and she'd made sure that Celia learned as much as possible at the same time.

Celia had blossomed, showing a regal ability to command and the canny financial judgment of a tradeswoman. Izzy had no doubts that her friend would be fine.

But now it was time to face her own future. Summer was half gone, and she feared Julian's father would not allow her to postpone breaking the betrothal for much longer. It was time, anyway. She needed to make a list herself, of all the things necessary to do before she departed. After her nap.

Wearily climbing the stairs to her chamber, she wondered at her lack of energy. Only a few months gone from her hardworking life, she was already turning into an indolent lady of the
ton
.

Well, emotions were every bit as exhausting as actions. She had certainly been prey to those lately. Sighing, she admitted to herself that she missed Julian desperately.

Wandering slowly into her room, she smiled wearily at Betty, who was busy at the many tasks surrounding the upkeep of a luxurious wardrobe. Izzy would be glad enough to leave that behind, although she would miss the loyal little maid.

"I believe I shall sleep a while, Betty. Would you mind finishing that later?"

Betty shook her head. "No, miss. I can take your slippers down to the shoemakers. They'll be gettin' a bit worn in the toe."

Izzy rolled her eyes. "Useless things. One cannot even step into the garden wearing those." She had a new thought. "Betty, perhaps you could ask him to make some sturdy shoes to those measurements. I believe two pair would be practical." Feeling satisfied at having finally made some tiny arrangement for her journey, Izzy relaxed limply on the bed.

"You've been powerfully weary lately, miss. Do you think you might be… Be there anything new, miss?"

Izzy yawned. "It is kind of you to worry, Betty, but I'm quite well. Just worn out, I suppose."

"Yes, miss. Have you plans to see His Lordship soon, miss? I mean, will you be wanting a gown readied?"

"No thank you, Betty. I think I shall stay in a few more evenings."

"Yes, miss."

Dimly, she heard Betty leave before the soothing velvet mist of afternoon sleep took her.

Julian reached for the decanter, only to send it tumbling to the floor. No matter, it was already empty. He debated yelling for more. It likely wouldn't work anyway.

Greeley was showing his disapproval for all this overindulgence by dragging out every request, and frequently bringing the wrong item. Julian would ask for brandy, and Greeley would bring bread. Or barley soup. Or any other nutritious item beginning with B.

Izzy would laugh at that. Julian scrubbed his face with his hands, hard. Her laughter haunted him. She wasn't laughing with him now. She wouldn't even see him.

Well, let her stew for a while. He didn't trust himself around her anyway. She would no doubt do something enticing, like walk her graceful, swinging walk, or tilt her head and wrinkle her perfect little nose at him, or God forbid,
laugh
. He didn't need that, not a bit of it. He would just hole up here until she wore off, like ink from his fingers.

It shouldn't take long, no woman ever had.

"Greeley!
GREELEY
!" Nothing. Mutiny in his own house. He would just go down to the cellars and fetch his own bottle. Maybe two. He wasn't drunk yet. He could tell, because he could still see her writhing beneath him, her eyes dark with passion. He could still feel the raw, aching void of his own need.

No, he definitely was not drunk enough yet. Not nearly enough.

Aside from her brief stay with Lady Greenleigh, Izzy had never known such ease. Here she sat, in a sunny breakfast room, with a dear friend, with such a meal before her that she could never consume it all. Indeed, her wardrobe was beginning to show the effects of such magnificent fare. The waists and bodices of all her gowns needed letting out already.

Sipping her tea, she realized that even this had changed. No more of Hildegard's "new tea," which was really old tea leaves, dried and re-dyed. Guests had been served a more presentable brew, but even that was nothing like the fragrant liquid now swirling in her cup.

No, her dispiritedness had nothing to do with where she was. It had more to do with why she was here. This could only be a stopping place for her. She needed to make her own way, and she needed to begin soon.

Izzy absently thanked the fresh-faced new footman who handed her the folded missive from her new solicitor. Smiling calmly at Celia, she excused herself from breakfast. In truth, the note was only a pretext. Never had the early meal appealed to her less. Perhaps Betty was right and she
was
ill.

It had proved quite a feat to swallow her nausea this morning and present a serene front to her friend. Not that Celia was particularly attentive at the moment. The blonde head bent over the accounts beside her plate never lifted, merely murmured an appropriate response.

Izzy was grateful for Celia's new dedication to independence. It relieved her from worry and left what little energy she had these days for her own plans. She closed the door firmly upon reaching her room and unfolded the note.

Oh, bother. It was written in lawyer language. Fishing through the florid prose proved tedious but she finally extracted the germ of the matter, which was that passage on a suitable ship had been finally obtained for her. Departure was slated for the first week of August.

Izzy bit her lip in uneasiness. Three weeks off. That was not nearly as soon as she had hoped. Apparently, the solicitor had imposed stringent standards on her requirement of "suitable." She knew Lord Rotham had expected her to cry off the betrothal by now.

If she did, she would have to stay and face the gossip until her ship left. As little as she cared for the cost to her, she dreaded the damage that would ultimately be done to those who had aided her. Would the ladies Calwell come under fire? And what of Celia?

The inevitable storm of speculation would die more quickly if she were already out of sight. She absently tossed her solicitor's letter onto her escritoire when she entered her room.

Betty efficiently picked it up and began to refold it neatly. She paused and cast Izzy an odd glance before slipping the paper into a drawer.

"What is it, Betty?"

"Nothing, miss, except, may I have the afternoon off today, if you're not going out?"