And his look.
The way he’d leaned closer, captured her with probing eyes, as if begging her to trust him and disbelieve her own father.
Which she didn’t.
She couldn’t.
Even so, she glanced over at Father now and watched his haggard face. His hair, normally so perfect, was a bit ruffled. His expression pinched. His eyes unfocused and red-rimmed, as if he’d spent a night without sleep. All over a stranger’s false accusation?
Of course. This was a great, delicate matter. An illegitimate child, even rumors of one, could arouse scandal so fierce they could never return to the good graces of society.
And yet …
“I say, child, do not look at me so. You quite remind me of your mother.” Father stood and brushed honey-cake crumbs from his tailcoat. Another oddity, as he was never so clumsy. “There is always next season, Lilias is bothersome, and there are no eligible suitors to tempt you anyway.”
“Yet if we return back home, there is no telling what Mr. Kensley shall do.”
“A chance we must take.”
“I cannot see that such a plan shall resolve anything.”
“You do nothaveto see.” Irritation flamed across his face, and his tone had risen an octave. Something was wrong indeed. He was never cross with her.
Never.
“I am sorry, my dear. All this is just rather … inconvenient. If you wish to remain in London without me and finish out the season, you are quite at liberty to do so. You should not be cheated of your time in town on my account.”
“It could hardly be charged to your account when none of this is your fault.” Isabella stepped around the table and reached for his hand. She squeezed. “If you depart London, I shall go with you.”
A smile broke through the shadows on his face. He patted her hand and—with a great sigh—pulled her against him and hugged her longer and harder than he was wont to do. “My dear child. All I do I do for you. Do you know this?”
“You are far too good to me.”
“It is my wish that you always have what istoo goodfor you.” He pressed her face into his tobacco-scented waistcoat. “And I shall do whatever it takes to see that wish come true.”
Why did the words make her want to squirm away? And why did they pull her back to Mr. Kensley’s eyes, when his gaze had made her half believe he was telling the truth?
Something was amiss.
William strode faster along the line of townhouses, his gaze fixed on one.
From two stories above street level, a maid leaned over an iron banister and whacked at a rug with a carpet beater. Dust showered the air. At another window, a different servant scrubbed the glass, soap suds bubbling and smearing with every stroke of the rag.
William knocked on the door, and when it opened, a lanky footman filled the doorway, white sheets draped over both arms. “Excuse me, but I am here to call on Lord Gresham.”
“Too late for that, sir.”
“Pardon?”
“The Greshams departed for their estate in the country two days ago. Took three carriages to the port in Kent, then sailed back for Sharottewood Manor by ship.”
Disappointment overwhelmed William. He thanked the footman and departed, making his way back to his chamber to gather his things. He should not have waited the two days. He had hoped the small time would soften Edward Gresham to the reality of meeting his son.
Apparently, William had been wrong.
Never mind though.
He would follow by horseback and see Sharottewood for himself. This time, he would not be put off so easily.
