“What can you tell me of him?” William asked.
“Very little, I fear, other than the fact that he is a viscount and lives in a country estate called Sharottewood. He is in London at the moment. I can give you the address, for only recently I received an invitation from him to attend a soiree for many of us Tories.” The earl rose, crossed the room to a brass-inlaid writing desk, and scribbled words onto paper.
When he handed it to William, however, more than just the address was enclosed. A bank note. “Sir, I do not want—”
“You shall need funds for your journey.”
“But I—”
“You have told me very little about your circumstance, my son, and I shall in no wise prod.” He pressed his hand to William’s shoulder. “But you have arrived at my estate in dire shape. You are weary, haggard, and very much distressed. That much is clear.” A squeeze. “Tonight, you shall wash, rest, and eat. The funds are yours.”
“I shall repay you with my return.”
“I have no doubt but that you will.” Lord Manigan smiled. “Now, what say you to a hot meal and a game of cribbage?”
William forced a smile, nodded, and followed the earl from the drawing room. He tightened his fist around the address. Like fire, it scorched his skin, spreading through him in hot and bursting flames.
His father had not wanted him. Had never wanted him.
Mayhap now, however, that was not enough.
Mayhap now he wanted his son dead.
Another minute of this and she’d die.
Isabella rippled her fingers down the length of the ivory keys, pounded the last high note with strength, and zipped from her chair so fast she nearly toppled it over. She was tempted to rip the sheet music for “Robin Adair” in two, the dashed song. Why was Father so insistent she waste beautiful daylight making such raucous noise?
At home, she would have rushed out to the stables. Or begged Bridget into accompanying her in a search for wildflowers. Or trekked alone to the seashore, where she would have unlaced her half boots and ambled across the burning sand.
A sigh filled her. No such diversions were available in London. Tonight, Lord Livingstone had promised to escort her and Lilias to the theatre, where a five-act Shakespearean play was on the program.
But that was hours away. She had need of something to do with herselfnow.
With a listless hum, she roamed through the different rooms—peering into Father’s empty study, slipping to the kitchen to tease the ill-humored cook, and visiting her own chamber to find Bridget dozing over more needlework.
Finally, Isabella pulled on a bonnet and went outside, slipped around the small iron fence, and moved beneath a townhouse window. Colorful daffodils, roses, syringa, and cornflowers all lifted their faces toward the late morning sun. Green vines dangled from the flower box, swaying below the window, leaves jiggling like tiny hands clapping their joy.
She plucked a pink rose, careful not to prick her fingers, then turned—
On the walk, a gentleman leaned against a streetlight. His eyes brushed hers.
She whirled around, pretended interest in a drooping cornflower. Then, when ample time had passed, she glanced back over her shoulder.
This time, the gentleman did not meet her gaze. His stance had straightened. No longer leaning against the lamp, he faced the Gresham townhouse with his shoulders squared and his eyes pinned to the door—almost as if it daunted him.
She didn’t imagine the man could be daunted by anything, though.
Not by the look on his face. What was he about? Why did he not knock? He was not tall, yet taller than herself or Father, with no top hat and windswept, deep-golden hair. His features were pleasant, jaw defined, eyes darkly lashed and serious.
That is, until they sought hers again. A flicker of amusement entered his gaze, and he acknowledged her gaping with a slight bow.
Isabella frowned, and as he approached, she returned to her flower box with exaggerated concentration. How bothersome of him to laugh at her for staring, whenhewas the one who stood beforehertownhouse without invitation.
Unless he was another prospect from Father. But surely not two at the same time. Had Father forgotten about Lord Livingstone so quickly?
“A wise friend once told me that if you speak to flowers, they shall grow all the better for it. But judging by your great interest in these, they must be speaking back.”
Isabella snapped her gaze to him, brows rising. Was he teasing her?
