Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (2 page)

“I
will be out of Wren House by weeks end,” Isobel said as she threw a parting,
glacial glance at the usurper.

“Please,
I truly meant it when I said there was no hurry.” The true Lady Warwick added,
knowing her offer would fall on deaf ears.

The
butler, Sloane raced to open the door for his former mistress. “Is there
anything that I can do for Your Grace…” he inquired.

“I
am Isobel Kennilworth, Sloane. Plain,
Miss
Isobel Kennilworth.” And with
that, Isobel left the room, sweeping up the stairs to her rooms where she could
scream in private. Behind her she heard Charles’ voice raised in protest and
Pickens’ measured tones attempting to placate him. She also heard the tearful
apologies
of that woman. Her meaningless, belated apologies.

Stunned,
Isobel sat motionlessly by the fire in her sitting room wondering how her
husband could have done this to her. No, not her husband; Lord Warwick. Correction,
the late Lord Warwick. Her numbness began to wear off as anger boiled inside of
her. How dare he!

*****

Andrew
Stafford, Viscount Saybrooke, sat in the well-worn chair at his club, White’s,
sipping his brandy and trying to look interested in what the prosy bore across
from him was saying. Lord Welford was expostulating at length about the latest
mad-cap phaeton race to Richmond. Lord Saybrooke smiled and nodded at
appropriate moments and fervently wished he could be sitting in his study back
at the vicarage in Surrey reading a book in preparation for a sermon. But he
was no longer a vicar. He missed his church, he missed the pulpit, but mostly
he missed the simpler, yet more meaningful way of life. Since inheriting the
Viscountcy from his brother nine months ago, he had been making an effort to
behave as a peer of the realm and not an insignificant, if dedicated, vicar. In
these past months, however, he had often wondered how many of these idle
aristocrats did not run mad as a result of their vacuous existences.

Lord
Welford droned on and the outwardly attentive Saybrooke now pictured himself,
book in hand, at Brentwood, his newly inherited estate in Kent and also his
childhood home. But, he was not in Kent. He was here in London, feeling it his
duty as Lord Saybrooke to serve in the House while it was in session, as his father
and brother had done before him. But why he had listened to his best friend, Finch,
who was following the story of the race with delight, and come to White’s
instead of remaining home at Stafford House with the longed-for book, he could
not say for sure. But, here he was.

Saybrooke,
hearing a commotion, turned to see three men trying to mollify and restrain a
fourth man, who was clearly distraught and thoroughly foxed. The quartet moved
into view and it was clear the trio was trying to convince their friend to calm
down and leave Whites. The bosky friend would have none of it, however, and his
strident voice, carrying to every corner of the venerated old club, stopped all
conversation and even woke some of the snoring ancients who were scattered
throughout.

“I
will not leave! I am still a member here! No thanks to my brother, damn him. I
swear, if he wasn’t dead, I’d kill him myself!”

“It’s
that rattle, Lord Charles Aiken,” said Finch unnecessarily to their little
group.

“Duke
of Warwick, now that his brother Warwick is dead,” Welford corrected. “The
Duchess failed to give him an heir.”

Another
acquaintance strolled up to Andrew’s group just as Welford made his statement. The
newcomer took great pleasure in setting Welford, the know-it-all, straight.

“Ah,
so you have not heard the latest. Quite a scandal, I assure you!”

*****

Isobel
stayed locked in her room until the late afternoon shadows enveloped the room.
She declined any visitors, even her maid, Manning, was banned. Charles had
persistently knocked on her door, begging her to let him in, but she refused
him. Lady Whitcomb had also tried to breach the privacy of Isobel’s bedchamber,
but had been turned away as well. The last thing Isobel needed at the moment
was sympathy, though now she was truly in mourning!

Mourning!
Isobel looked down at her despised black bombazine dress and smiled
sardonically. If she was never truly married to Reginald, then she need not
wear mourning for him. Standing abruptly, Isobel began to tear at her dress, attempting
to remove it. While she succeeded in ruining the ghastly gown, however, she was
unable to free herself from it. She rang for her maid.

“I
want to change into the peacock blue sarcenet, Manning,” Isobel said to the wary
maid.

“The
p-p-peacock, Your Grace?” the surprised woman stammered.

“Manning,
I am no longer the Duchess of Warwick, in fact, I never was. You must call me
Miss Kennilworth,” Isobel said wearily. “And yes, the peacock. I am no longer
in mourning.”

Manning
dressed her mistress as quickly as possible and left, inwardly shaking her
head. She had no great affection for her temperate, but remote mistress, but
she did feel sorry for her. The master was virtually a stranger to her, rarely
gracing them with his presence. How he could do such a thing? A duke! As long
as she lived with these privileged people, she doubted she would ever
understand them. Her Grace - Miss Kennilworth - was such an unhappy person and,
her, with all the money she could ever need. Manning shook her head once more,
this time outwardly, and walked down the long hallway toward the servants
stairs.

Isobel
looked at her reflection in the cheval glass. The bright blue-green suited her,
coaxing a bit of blue from her gray eyes. Her thick honey colored hair was
artfully piled on the top of her head with intricate braids woven through and
soft curls framing her face. Manning had added a peacock blue riband to
complete the look. She looked well enough, she supposed. She had come a long
way from the country girl who had arrived in London for her first season almost
seven years ago. What an uncivilized, reckless hoyden she had been. She had
been happiest when in a simple cotton frock, her hair unbound and free. But her
mother and governess had taken her in hand and she had conformed. Conformed?
She had excelled! She had married the Marquess of Crewes, future duke of
Warwick! No! She had not, she corrected herself. She was not a marchioness. She
was not a duchess. She was plain Miss Kennilworth. “Damn Reginald! If he was not
dead, I would kill him!” Isobel said to the enraged countenance of her reflected
image. A brief moment later, however, a mischievous smile transformed the angry
reflection. Evidently there was still a bit of the hoyden lurking inside after
all. Life had dealt her a cruel blow, but she would not sit here and feel sorry
for herself.

Her
chin high and eyes blazing, Isobel left her bedchamber and descended the grand
staircase, noticed only by the footman, James. She entered the Blue Parlor with
purpose. Lifting the glass lid of the display case containing her husband’s
priceless snuffboxes with her dainty hands, she swept the bulk of them onto the
Turkish carpet. The butler, Sloane, hearing the commotion, peaked into the room
and watched with alarm as, one by one, his mistress stomped her tiny slippered
foot on each of his master’s beloved collectibles, crushing the fragile pieces.
And the words coming out of her mouth! Sloane, of course had heard the words
before, but never from the refined Lady Warwick. Miss Kennilworth, he amended
in his mind, as if the change in her status explained the outburst.
I really
must do something,
thought Sloane in panic and indecision. 

“Good
Lord, Sloane, what goes on in there?” an aging, but authoritative female voice
rasped in his ear. With that he was shoved aside and Lady Whitcomb, quickly
surveying the damage, entered the room.

“Now,
now, Isobel! We know you are upset, but those pieces are worth a pretty penny.”
Lady Whitcomb shouted, her words briefly stopping Isobel from her destructive
rant. Isobel looked at her aunt, who had also changed out of mourning into a
chartreuse and jonquil striped horror of a gown that made Isobel’s eyes ache.

“Not
to me, they are not!” Isobel replied, applying herself to her stomping with
renewed fervor.

“Isobel,
my dear. Vengeance is never the thing.” Lady Whitcomb said.

Isobel
stopped again and looked at her aunt, her eyes flashing with a mixture of rage
and confusion. “Aunt Maude, I have played by the rules. And look where it has
gotten me. Well, no more.” And with a flourish she grabbed the fireplace poker
and smashed the twin Sevres vases sitting on the table just inches from Lady
Whitcomb. Lady Whitcomb had all she could do to move her rotund body out of the
path of flying glass shards.

“Well,
well. There is the Izzy I remember. Back to being a little hoyden are you?”
drawled a voice from the doorway.

The
voice managed to stop Isobel mid swing, unintentionally saving a Dresden
shepherdess. Isobel turned toward the door, the poker still in midair.

“Drew,”
she said simply and calmly, lowering the poker. “What are you doing here?”

Lord Saybrooke was momentarily at a loss
to answer Isobel’s question. Why had he come? Because Isobel was in trouble and
he could not stay away. But of course, he would never say that to Isobel.

“There were some nasty rumors flying around
Whites concerning you and the late Duke. I wanted to make sure Lord Charles was
not spouting nonsense. So, I came to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

Isobel took a long look at the tall, lean
gentleman who filled her doorway. He was immaculately dressed in a blue
superfine frock coat, most likely from Weston, buff pantaloons and highly polished
Hessians, which of course was all wrong. True, his sand-colored hair was askew,
but it had been expertly cut. The Drew she remembered was careless about his
appearance, but that had never hampered his appeal. Of course, he had not been
Lord Saybrooke in those days, but a second son whose passion had been faith and
learning. And Isobel. She suddenly noticed his honey brown eyes assessing her.
She pulled herself from the past and spoke, her voice composed.

“So, Charles has lost no time in
trumpeting our scandal to the world?” Isobel asked, knowing the answer.

“Well, to all of Whites, at any rate.”

“Only White’s? Well, then we have at
least a quarter of an hour for it to reach the rest of the members of London
society. What a relief to know I have a few precious moments of reprieve until
the
ton
learns of my demise.” Isobel’s sarcasm raised a wry smile from
Andrew. “Where are my manners? Sloane!” The butler appeared within an instant,
as Isobel knew he would. Sloane had a penchant for listening at doors. With all
that went on today who could blame him!

“Yes, Your Grace…” Sloane began.

“Miss Kennilworth, Sloane.” Isobel said
in a deceptively calm, even voice. “Try to remember for the few remaining days
I am in residence. It is a bit of a strain to keep reminding you.”

“Yes… Miss,” Sloane answered obediently.

“I would like tea. And make sure Mrs.
Bromfield includes her seed cake. It is something I will heartily miss.”

The butler looked around at the
destruction in the room. Isobel caught his look and quickly spoke.

“Serve it in the Persian Room, Sloane. It
is much nicer there in the late afternoon.”

“Yes, Your…Miss Kennilworth,” stuttered
Sloane and left the room.

Isobel returned the poker to its rightful
place and turned to face Saybrooke. “Shall we?” she asked as she took Lord
Saybrooke’s arm and led him from the room. “You will join us; will you not,
Aunt Maude? You remember my aunt, Lady Whitcomb, of course, Drew?”

“Of course. Your servant, Lady Whitcomb,”
Saybrooke said as he bowed to the stout matron clad in the most gaudy gown he
had ever seen. “I remember that you used to give me a guinea every time you
visited the Kennilworth’s at The Glen.”

“You have grown a bit since then, I
daresay,” replied Lady Whitcomb with a smile. Saybrooke smiled in return and
taking in her girth thought to himself that she had grown as well. “As to tea,
Isobel, I was hoping to work on my article for the
Women’s Voice
,” Lady
Whitcomb said wistfully.

Lady Maude Whitcomb, gently bred and a
lady in every way, had lately become a disciple of Mary Wollstonecraft. Quite
by accident she had come into possession of the now deceased authoress’ book,
A
Vindication of the Rights of Women
and read it from cover to cover. She had
recently contributed an article to a publication begun by an old school chum of
hers, Theodora Throgmorton, called “The Women’s Voice”. The success had quite
gone to Lady Whitcomb’s head and she was hard at work on her second piece.

“Come now, Aunt, you know I need you as a
chaperone.”

“Now, Isobel, widows do not need
chaperones…” began Lady Whitcomb, then closed her mouth with a snap, but too
late.

“Ah, but it turns out I am not a widow,
after all, Aunt Maude, but a maiden lady. I do not think being the advanced age
of twenty four will excuse the necessity of a chaperone.”