Page 36 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Nineteen

It had been four days. Will should have returned by now.

Isobel had become increasingly worried, but what could she do? She was supposed to be a servant who neither understood nor spoke much English, and she couldn’t reveal her concerns without exposing not only Will’s secrets but her own.

How could one feel so alone in a house full of people? The only person she could confide in, who knew her story, was Manners. Though he, too, was puzzled by Will’s tardiness, he refused to go off in search of him, as he was duty-bound to remain in London, keeping a wary eye on Isobel.

After supper on the fourth day of Will’s absence, Isobel retired to the housekeeper’s room and took up her sewing, hoping it would calm her. She cheered a little as she surveyed her handiwork on the falling band of one of Will’s shirts; the repairs had been done in her finest stitching and concealed entirely with cut-work embroidery. As she ran her hands over the linen, she pictured Will as he’d looked when she first became really aware of him, with the lamplight flickering over his face in their room at the inn.

She stroked the soft fabric of the shirt and envied it its closeness to Will’s body. What did it feel like for a woman to get as close to a man as his clothing, to touch his naked skin with her fingers?

With a whimper of dismay, she flung the shirt down and stalked around the room. She could not go on thinking about him like that—it was sinful. Nor should she have any hopes where he was concerned—not when they both had the sword of Damocles hanging over them.

She shouldn’t shed her heart’s blood over a man who had simply been kind to her, out of obligation to her dead brother. Admittedly, he’d become carried away and kissed her, but that didn’t give her the right to want him the way she wanted him now.

She clenched her fists. “I will forget him this instant. What am I? A green, untried girl, in thrall to the first personable man who shows me kindness?”

Nay. She was Isobel Marston, sister to a war hero. If Edward could find the courage to sacrifice everything for the greater good, then she could, too.

But what if Will was in terrible danger and needed help? What would Edward do in her position? Well, if he couldn’t persuade Manners to leave, he’d either go himself, or rally the male servants in the household and send them off on Will’s trail.

That was the answer. She must escape Manners’ vigilance, obtain a mount and head for Hertford. As he was obliged to look after her, the muscled giant would be forced to follow. Would he throw her over his saddle-bow when he caught up with her, and bring her back, or would he finally see sense and accompany her on her quest?

Praying he would do the latter, rather than cause a scene on the highway and risk the wrath of the law, she made her plans. First, she must pack some essentials, then she must find something to sell to pay for the hire of a horse, and finally, do what she could to leave the house without attracting anyone’s attention.

What could she sell? There was her silver locket, but Will had borrowed that. The only other item of value was the gold signet ring. Her lip trembled. It would be agony to sell it, this tiny part of Will, this memento of their adventures together. And there was also the problem of it being stuck on her finger. However… if she went to the stables to hire a hack, would they not have a farrier there? What better person to help remove her ring? Blacksmiths and farriers had innumerable tools and pincers, did they not?

Satisfied that this would serve, she stole from the housekeeper’s room, and into the parlor. She must find the documents from Marston House—the copy of her aunt’s will and the document Hubert had forged to make her sign everything over to him. He’d be looking for these vital pieces of parchment as soon as he discovered them missing, and would doubtless come to Will’s dwelling first. If Manners were absent, there’d be no one to guard these essential pieces of evidence. It was best she take them with her.

There was a loud knocking at the front door. Heart hammering, she threw open Will’s chest of papers, and stuffed the two documents down the front of her bodice, then hovered by the door. She couldn’t leave now—the hall would be filled with servants, attending to the visitor.

What if that visitor was Hubert? She pressed her ear against the door, her heart in her mouth.

“Sir William, welcome home. Mercy, what has happened to you?” Goodwife Cooper’s voice was tight with concern.

Forgetting all else, Isobel charged out of the parlor.

“Will!”

He looked unwell, but his face brightened when he saw her. He was not alone, however, so she had to curb the urge to throw her arms about his neck and kiss him—he was being supported by Aloysius Maybury. If it weren’t for the fact there was no smell of alcohol on the two men, they could have been taken for a couple of drunken sots staggering home. But the bruises and grazing to Will’s face told a different tale.

“Isobel! Forgive me—I’ve failed in my duty. Nay, there’s no need to fuss, Goody. I’ve been at Maybury’s and, with the help of his doctor, am over the worst of it.” He waved a dismissive hand at his housekeeper, then clamped his mouth shut as a startled look crossed his face.

In the heat of the moment, Isobel forgot she was supposed to be a Portuguese seamstress. “I’ve been so worried. Why is Mistress Hollingsworth not with you?”

Will shot her an agonized look and waggled his brows in Goodwife Cooper’s direction. Alas, it was too late. The housekeeper wore a knowing expression.

“I do declare, Mistress—your English is rather superior for one of foreign extraction. And the name Isobel is not the one I was given.”

“I’m sorry, Goody.” Will sounded breathless. “We’ve been forced to deceive you. I’ll explain why later. Isobel is English, but in grave danger, hence our need for subterfuge. If you could let the other servants know, I’d be in your debt.”

Isobel bit her lip. He looked exhausted—there were bloodstains on his thigh and scabs of dried blood on his knuckles. He’d been in a fight. But what manner of skirmish had he fought? And how came Maybury to be with him?

“Mistress.” Maybury gave her a bow. “Goodwife Cooper. Following the physician’s orders, your master should take to his bed for a couple of days. No broken bones, but bruised ribs, and some blood loss from a wound in his thigh—an old wound reopened in the scuffle. It has been cleaned and looks to have knit well.”

Will took a few shallow breaths. “Make up the room next to mine for Maybury. He must stay the night. Ah, Manners. All’s well?”

Isobel stepped aside, her face coloring as she remembered the trick she’d been preparing to play on her bodyguard. But that was all forgotten now—Will was back, and nothing else mattered.