That was true enough, Izzy conceded.
“So whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together—agreed?”
Izzy sighed. “Agreed.” But she still wasn’t comfortable with the deception, even though it had been her own idea to enter society this way, via the back door. It was all very well for Clarissa to insist that she needed Izzy with her, but what would happen when the axe finally fell and their mendacity was exposed—as it was bound to be eventually? It could get very nasty—peoplehatedbeing tricked—and Clarissa wouldn’t be able to handle that at all. She was the softest-hearted creature in the world. And it would all be Izzy’s fault.
***
Well, it’s very good of you to visit, melord,” Leo’s tenant farmer said, “but I don’t take to them foreign newfangled notions. My father farmed this land and his father before him and his father before that, and what was good enough for them is good enough for me.”
Leo knew there was no point in pushing his suggestions. Change happened slowly in the country, and once this fellow saw how other farmers on the estate were increasing their harvest and their profits from those same “new-fangled notions,” he’d change his mind. Profit was a great innovator.
He took his leave, climbed into his carriage and droveaway. And stopped at a crossroad. The right-hand turn would take him home. The left-hand one led to the village where Isobel Burton had spent the early years of her childhood.
After a brief wrestle with his conscience, Leo took the left turn.
It was a neat little village, with a low-beamed half-timbered inn opposite the village green. He pulled up there, handed his horses over to an ostler and went inside.
A tankard of home-brewed ale and a tasty meat pie later, he ventured a few questions to the landlord about a Miss or Mrs. Burton who used to live here ten years or so ago.
“Mrs.Burton?” A nosy oldster sitting nearby scoffed. “Weren’t no Mrs. about that one. A miss she was when she came here and a miss when she died, child or no.”
“I see,” Leo said. “And the child?”
The landlord shrugged. “Was took away when her ma died. Don’t know what became of her.”
“Wages of sin,” the old fellow muttered. “Mother and daughter both.”
“Now, Abel, they did no harm to anyone,” the innkeeper said pacifically.
“ ‘No harm’?” the ancient repeated. “ ‘No harm’? She were a whore, and no doubt the child will follow her down that same sinful path.”
“ ‘A whore’?” Leo repeated. He was shocked. It was one thing to be a fallen woman with an illegitimate child, but quite another to be known as a whore.
“Just village gossip, your honor,” the innkeeper said apologetically.
“Gossip my aunt Fanny! And din’t the squire come callin’ every week after dark and stay there half the night, leavin’ in the small hours after takin’ his fill of her?”
“You don’t know that for sure, Abel,” the innkeeper said.
The old man made a derisive noise. “I do! The wholevillage knowed it, George, and it’s no use you tryin’ to pretty it up for the gentleman.” He turned to Leo. “If you want to know more, sir, you ask Agnes Purdey in the white cottage at the end of the lane, the one half-smothered wi’ roses. Ask her about the little visitor who stayed with her every Thursday night, and why the little visitor’s mother could pay all her bills of a Friday mornin’.” He snorted and took a deep draft of his pint of best bitter. “Whorin’ she was, ain’t no doubt about it.”
Leo was of two minds whether to speak to Agnes Purdey or not. It felt... grubby.
He wished now he’d never come.
But he had, and now... He was torn. None of Sir Bartleby’s former servants had spoken ill of Isobel, just that she was mischievous and adventurous and bold—none of which were criticisms, more like descriptions of a lively and intelligent child. And their continuing concern for the welfare of both girls spoke volumes. Servants might be paid to take care of children, but they weren’t paid to care about them, or be fond.
His friend, Race, also liked her and saw nothing disreputable in her behavior. His aunt also liked her, and though Aunt Olive was eccentric, she wasn’t stupid or easily deceived.
As for his own feelings about Isobel Burton, they weren’t... simple. He was strongly attracted to her, and that was unsettling enough, given his position as her sister’s guardian. And there were times when her mischief and defiance found him torn between itching to throttle her and wanting to kiss her senseless. His feelings? They were a tangle of contradictions.
As for her feelings about him, he had no idea. And it drove him crazy.
But before Leo could sort out his feelings, let alone act on them, he needed to know the truth about her past. It would help him clarify... what? He wasn’t sure. It was just that having heard this about her mother...
It was probably just spiteful gossip. He should just walk away and forget what he’d heard.
But he couldn’t. The thought made him sick, but he had to know. He found the rose-covered white cottage at the end of the lane, and knocked on the door.
