Dusting off his breeches, William grunted and pulled himself to his feet. He swung back atop Duke, pain lancing through his bullet hole as he grabbed the reins and tugged them toward the road.
Two, perhaps three days at the most. If he could make it that far, he’d reach home. He only hoped he would not have to fight for his life yet again when he arrived.
“Oh dear.”
“What is it?” From across the drawing room, ensconced in his favorite chair, Father glanced up from his own stack of letters. “Miss Trewman is not unwell, I hope?”
“No, she is as well as can be expected.” Isabella smirked at the words, then twisted around in her chair at the satinwood writing desk. “It is this second letter which distresses me. Can you guess who it is from?”
“I am sure I would not know.”
“Lady Sarsfield.”
“Oh?”
“You remember. Her husband, Lord Sarsfield, sits in the House of Commons and is always speaking at those political rallies you bid me never to attend.”
“Oh yes. No, I certainly would not have you near such rallies. It is half-witted fools like Lord Sarsfield who disgrace crown and country by trying to pass outlandish bills. Pray, what does his wife want?”
“For me to attend their house party in two weeks. Everyone likely has just returned to their homes after the season, and I suppose Lady Sarsfield cares not a whit that all her guests will have to pack and be off again.”
“I imagine most will not mind.”
“Well, I do.”
Father chuckled. “I daresay, it is not the traveling you mind so much as the lady herself. Is she not the one who—”
“Yes, she is the one.” Isabella turned back to the offensive invitation, biting her lip. Last season, the prune-faced woman had accused Isabella in a ballroom full of people of stepping on her ladyship’s hem.
Maybe Isabellahad, quite accidentally of course, but she would never admit such a thing. The fussy old woman deserved a rip in her finery anyway.
“Perhaps you should accept the invitation after all.”
The serious note made Isabella glance at Father.
He held a letter open before him, lips pinched, as he leaned forward in the chair. “I did not relate the reasons to you before, as I did not wish anything to spoil your gaiety in London. But the same reason that drew me to Bath, it seems, is calling for me again.”
Isabella stood. “What is it?”
“It seems yet another manor house has been raided and plundered.”
“How dreadful. I have heard whispers of the infamous marauders. Lilias calls them pirates, though that certainly seems a bit old-fashioned and theatrical.”
“Pirates, marauders—whatever they are, they are a threat to any landowner of substantial wealth.” Father rose from his chair, crumpling the letter. “This is the second friend they have attacked. I must go at once to Cumbria and offer any assistance I can.”
“Of course you must.” Isabella sighed. “And though Lady Sarsfield is not my ideal companion, I shall write Lilias and beg her to join me. The diversion will do me good.”
“Indeed. You have been …” Father hesitated, then offered a smile, as if to take back his words. What had he been ready to say? That since Mr. Kensley had departed, she had been aimless, listless, bored?
The absence of Mr. Kensley had quite the opposite effect on Father. Indeed, he’d quite returned to his normal, cheerful self—every hair back in its place, cheeks healthy, eyes no longer wearied from lack of sleep. Could he so easily put it out of his mind and forget he had a son?
Perhaps the house party would put it out of hers.
Yet somehow, she did not imagine it possible she could forget she had a brother.
The sight undid him.
William rode the last few feet with his shoulders hunched, his hand splayed below his rib cage, the throb in his wound matching the throb of his heart.
