Page 40 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Twenty-One

The house was in uproar. Isobel was jerked from an uneasy sleep by the sound of doors banging and raised voices.

It was full daylight, and no one had woken her, so her status as a guest—rather than a servant—must have been made known to the rest of the household. But surely, if the house were under threat, someone would have thought fit to tell her?

Dizzy from her sudden rising, she shuffled into her shoes, threw her skirt and bodice on over her nightgown, and hunted through the attic rooms in search of a poker, recalling Will’s advice of the night before. Thus armed, she descended the stairs until her way was blocked by the sturdy form of Manners, standing with his back to her.

Peeping around his elbow, she saw Will, in nightshirt and hose, being confronted by a mob of his neighbors. Elbow to elbow with him stood Aloysius Maybury, staring blearily at the Mathieson family, crowded into Will’s hallway. He, too, was not yet fully dressed, but had managed to fling a doublet on before joining in the fray.

Mathieson was saying, “Then I shall hunt through this house until you produce her. You know how much rests on Paulina’s prior claim—I couldn’t have made my message clearer.”

“For the final time, Mathieson, I have no Portuguese mistress, no matter what tittle-tattle you might have heard. I’ve become guardian of an English gentlewoman in a time of great peril for her. I’m only telling you this because I see no need to upset Paulina. Despite the fact she has no valid claim on me.”

Mathieson, whose face was red as a boiled crab, shook his fist. “You do not take me seriously, sir. You have toyed with the affections of a young and vulnerable woman and now refuse to do the decent thing. You do not deserve the title of knight.”

“And you do not deserve the title of gentleman, flying into a rage in my hallway before my household is even up. You have roused me from my sickbed, in truth, for which I do not thank you.” Will’s voice was ice, his body rigid. Isobel saw Maybury place a restraining hand on Will’s arm.

Paulina, who stood behind her father, leaning on her mother’s arm, let out a wail at this. “Oh, you’ve been injured. My poor lamb!”

Isobel’s mouth twisted. Will was anything but a poor lamb. Paulina was deluded in more ways than one.

“You see how upset she is? You should be visiting her, courting her, conversing with her, or she will fade away from misery. There, there, my pet.” Mathieson turned and gave his daughter an awkward pat on the shoulder.

“I have, indeed, been injured. I was venturing out on behalf of the lady I mentioned—as I said, I have proof positive she’s in mortal danger. Her wellbeing is of greater importance to me than is Paulina’s—if you’ll forgive me. I’m duty-bound to the lady, and anything you may have heard about her being Portuguese was a deception to keep her presence here a secret. Now, what with your gossiping servants, and whichever one of my own revealed the information, I imagine half of London knows. God be thanked you don’t know her name or her story—and I don’t intend to give it to you.”

Mathieson pushed his shoulders back. “You have no honor, sir.”

“Nor have you, to accuse me of leading your daughter to false expectations.”

Will’s opponent looked fit to explode. “You’ll answer to me for that, sirrah.”

“No!” Isobel pushed past Manners, catching him off guard, and rushed down the stairs, coming to a halt between the two antagonists.

“I am the English gentlewoman in question, and every word Will says is true.” She had the foresight to keep her hands behind her back, so none of the Mathieson family could see the gold ring on her finger. Or the poker she held. “As he says, you shouldn’t listen to the gossip of servants. Sir William is, indeed, my current protector—for I have been in need of a champion—and you impugn my honor by suggesting there is anything more than friendship between us.”

Will would not be hurt by this pronouncement, she hoped—after last night, there evidently was more than friendship between them. But for now, she’d say anything to be rid of the troublesome Mathiesons.

Mathieson sucked in a breath, and his shoulders drooped. She’d taken the wind out of his sails, but for how long?

“Forgive me, Mistress.” He gave her a curt bow. “You neither look nor sound like a foreigner. I regret to inform you, however, that your presence makes no difference to my daughter’s situation.”

She felt Will’s hands on her shoulders and shook them away, irritated. Why was he giving the lie to what she’d just said by touching her in such a familiar way?

Mathieson’s eyes narrowed. “Standing between me and your protector will avail you nothing, Mistress. He and I know that I have the means to ruin him, should I choose to do so.”

This man was infuriating. No wonder Will was so angry—she could feel the tension radiating from him, pulsing in his pent-up breathing.

“You do not have the means to ruin him. You’re mistaken on that score.” It was hard not to grind her teeth in annoyance. “I can refute anything you consider proof. That’s if you have any at all, which I doubt.”

“Isobel, don’t say anything more, I beseech you.”

Once again, she shook herself free of Will’s hands. Her dander was up. She could not have these people invading this house and casting aspersions about. “I know you think there is a dubious association between Sir William and the Earl of Leicester. Let me assure you there is none. Sir William has been acting as an agent for my recently deceased brother.”

Will groaned softly, but she ignored him. She’d made a decision, and she intended to stick to it. “Edward Marston, of Marston House in Holborn, died in a raid. He was in the service of Robert Dudley in Holland. As Sir William was over there on business, he was chosen to bring back news of my brother’s death, and a memento for me—my brother’s sword.”

“My condolences.” Mathieson bowed but looked unconvinced.

“That’s enough.” Will moved her out of the way. “Isobel, you’re upset. Pray, go to your chamber while I make this knave see sense.” He stared down at Mathieson.