‘Lady Watson.’ Lady Herridge bowed her head in acknowledgment. ‘And the lovely Miss Adams.’ Though the lady smiled, her tone was icy and her pale-blue eyes were hard as flint.
‘Well, ladies…’ Lady Watson addressed the small circle of women in their colourful evening gowns and headwear. They reminded Isabella of a picture she’d once seen in a book about parrots in a jungle. ‘May I ask what you were discussing?’
‘My dear Lady Watson’ – Lady Herridge drew herself up to her full height and paused for effect – ‘we were discussing the latest arrival in London.’
The ladies tittered and fussed and Isabella glanced quickly from one hard face to another. There was much flickering of fans and exchanging of knowing smiles.
What did they know? She felt her vulnerability once more, as the unswallowable lump rose in her throat and began to choke her. Was it someone from her past? Was there a chance that her former shame would be resurrected and bandied about this season as well? Her head began to ache and she felt certain that her knees would give way.
Lady Watson applied a gentle pressure to her hand, squeezing it just a fraction in the crook of her elbow.
‘The latest arrival.’ Lady Watson stared hard at Lady Herridge. ‘And whom might that be? The Duke of Wellington, mayhap?’ She smiled broadly at her suggestion, well aware that the snobbery of this club had kept that honourable gentleman from entering its social circle.
‘Oh, no, Lady Watson!’ Lady Herridge announced triumphantly. ‘Someone far more interesting. At least, someone you will find far more interesting.’
Lady Watson shook out her golden fan with its decorative yellow feathers and raised it to her face.
‘Pray tell me the name of our new arrival, Lady Herridge.’ Lady Watson’s voice was calm but Isabella sensed her tension. It made her long to stand between the two ladies in order to block out the mocking face of Lady Herridge. She wanted to whisk her saviour away from this gladiators’ arena because she feared what knowledge Lady Herridge was about to impart, but she forced herself to stand still and silent and to imitate the unflinching dignity that Lady Watson displayed.
‘None other than…’ Lady Herridge sniffed and her companions giggled behind their fans. ‘Lord… James Crawford.’
Isabella heard the collective intake of breath and waited as it was held. But if the colourful vultures expected to feast upon the remains of a devastated Lady Watson, then they were as disappointed as the hyenas at their edges, because the lady showed no sign of weakness or surprise. Instead, she smiled, as if already privy to the information.
‘Oh, I say, Lady Herridge, that is no news to me; I thought you spoke of another.’ She chuckled. ‘Of course I am aware of my nephew’s return. And, I believe, he will make an appearance here this evening.’
Lady Herridge frowned.
‘You knew of his return?’
‘Of course, Lady Herridge.’ With a proud nod of her head, Lady Watson smiled at the circle of disappointed women, then turned on her heel, practically dragging Isabella behind her.
As soon as they had escaped to the coolness of the hallway, Lady Watson peered around to check that they were alone, then leant against the wall and fanned her face furiously.
‘Lady Watson?’ Isabella’s stomach churned and her hands shook as she reached out to still the lady’s fluttering hands. ‘What is it? Why did that disturb you so?’
Lady Watson was silent for a moment then she turned her moist grey eyes to Isabella and held her gaze. Isabella watched as a tear escaped and ran down the withered cheek, leaving a pale trail through the pink circle of rouge.
‘Because, dear girl, I knew nothing of his return. He has not contacted me to inform me that he is here in London, nor to make arrangements to see me before we meet up in society.’
Isabella’s heartbeat quickened as she registered the insult to Lady Watson and a slow anger began to burn in her belly at the poor manners of the man she had yet to meet. But her desire to comfort the old lady dominated.
‘Well, perhaps he has not had time, Lady Watson, or perhaps…’
‘Perhaps, nothing,’ the old lady shook her head. ‘It is clear that my dearest nephew, once the light of my life and my pride and joy, has not yet forgiven me. He still blames me, perhaps he even hates me. I have not set eyes on him in five long years and I had hoped that time would help him to heal, but for him to slight me in this way is evidence that I am out of his favour still.’
Isabella’s eyes filled with tears of compassion.
‘But what did you… what could you have done to make him treat you in this way?’ Lady Watson was so kind, so compassionate and so sincere that she could not imagine her doing anything so wretched as to merit this ill treatment.
‘None of us are straightforward, Isabella, and we learn, hopefully, from our mistakes. I have never set out to hurt anyone but, at times’ – the lady stared off into the distance and her eyes clouded over – ‘my decisions may not have been the right ones.’
Suddenly aware that someone was standing right behind her, Isabella twisted around and found herself staring into a familiar face. Instantly, colour rushed into her cheeks and her fan took up its defensive position across her chest.
‘Why, Miss Adams, is it not?’
She fell back against the wall next to Lady Watson as she tumbled into the intense, dark-brown eyes of the horseman from Hyde Park.
‘And Lady Watson.’
He bowed to them both and Isabella noted that he was wearing a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.
‘Good evening, Nephew,’ Lady Watson’s response caused Isabella to stare at her, open-mouthed.
Lord James Crawford stood in front of his aunt and the young lady he had nearly mown down that afternoon. If he hadn’t been so agitated himself, he would have found their expressions amusing. Lady Lydia Watson was looking at him with a mixture of affection and bewilderment. His quick assessment of her informed him that she was either completely shocked or the yellow of her gown was having a draining effect upon her complexion. Typical of his aunt to choose a dress that would have made even a debutante appear less than her best. The old lady was sparky and defiant and had always refused to conform. It had been one of the things he had loved about her.
Isabella Adams was moving her head from him to his aunt, and back again, and she appeared to be totally confused. Her face was pinker than the rosebuds on the trim of her gown and her eyes carried a wariness that he had only seen before in the eyes of a hunted deer. He realised that he recognised the look; she had worn it this afternoon in the park when she became aware of the stares of the afternoon walkers.
What was it that she had to fear?
‘You have already met?’ Lady Watson asked.
Isabella had opened her mouth to answer when James jumped in. ‘Indeed we have, Aunt Lydia. We met this afternoon at Hyde Park, though our introduction was somewhat unconventional.’ He offered a conciliatory smile.
The comely young woman nodded her head at his aunt and sudden understanding filled the elderly woman’s face. ‘So you were…’
‘Yes, it was a most unfortunate incident,’ James agreed. ‘But thankfully both Miss Adams and my stallion, Loki, escaped unharmed.’
‘Thankfully,’ his aunt’s companion echoed, though he noted that it was not gratitude that passed across her pretty face. In fact, she actually appeared to be annoyed