Page 12 of The Baron’s Halo

“Yes, miss.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and ran out the door.

“I think the gold combs will complement the gown better than the silver, don’t you, Cooper?”

“I do, miss.” The maid inserted two delicate gold combs into the coil of hair and gave them a firm pat. “Now you’d best go down.” Cooper’s gaze met Isabelle’s in the mirror. “You think it’s Lord MacKay waiting, don’t you miss?”

Unable to stop herself, Isabelle smiled broadly. “I do, Cooper. He must be eager to see me if he’s come to escort us without prior arrangement.” Isabelle’s heart beat faster just supposing what that might mean. She rose, checked in the mirror again, and bit her lips to deepen the color. Truly she looked her best tonight. What a fortuitous thing that her gown arrived just in time. After one last glance in the looking glass, she turned for the door.

“Don’t forget your shawl, Miss Devereaux.” Cooper draped a lacy pink and white China silk shawl over her shoulders.

Isabelle gathered her reticule, made sure her fan and vinaigrette were in it, then tied the little bag to her wrist. “Let us hurry, Cooper. I don’t want to keep Lord MacKay waiting.”

They descended the stairs swiftly, Isabelle’s excitement growing with each footfall. Tonight would certainly be the night she asked him to use her first name. That thought brought a smile to her lips while heat touched her cheeks, though there was nothing to be embarrassed about surely.

She reached the first floor, Cooper right behind her, then slowed when an odd, unexpected sound reached her. Cocking her head, Isabelle approached the front parlor with mounting trepidation.

Someone was sobbing.

Isabelle glanced back at Cooper, whose brows had pinched together. So, her maid had heard it also. Isabelle stopped just outside the door, trying to understand why her mother—for it was unmistakably now her mother—was weeping. The sobbing was punctuated at intervals by low mutterings Isabelle could not understand.

Completely unnerved now, Isabelle gave Cooper another fearful glance, but there seemed nothing for it but to enter to discover what was the matter. Lifting her head and straightening her shoulders, Isabelle entered the parlor and stopped dead upon seeing her mother in the arms of a gentleman who was assuredly not Lord MacKay.

This gentleman, to whom Mama was clinging like the Rock of Gibraltar, stood almost a foot taller than Lord MacKay. His head was bent, hidden by her mother’s, so she couldn’t see his face. He appeared to be a burly gentleman as well as tall. Attired in a dark grey pea coat, he must be a naval officer of some sort. Perhaps a merchant friend of her stepfather’s. But what was he doing here, at this time of night, with her mother crying in his arms.

“Mama? Whatever is the matter?”

Startled, her mother jumped away from the man, and wiped tears from her eyes as her mouth tried to pull upward in a smile. “Oh, Isabelle!” She glanced up into the man’s face and the smile jerked wider. “It’s a miracle, my dear.”

“What miracle, Mama?” Her mother’s words and countenance made no sense.

“I am the miracle, Isabelle.” The gentleman straightened and turned toward her.

Isabelle’s legs turned to water. Her heart gave a great surge and for a moment, the world around her turned gray. Clutching her chest, she stumbled backward into Cooper, who caught her, but Isabelle continued to back away. It couldn’t be true. Her heart now sped up, beating so fast she couldn’t catch her breath. He couldn’t be here. He was dead.

“I’ve come home, daughter.” The ghost of Ambrose Grey, her stepfather lost at sea over three years ago, smiled at her.

Her legs buckled.

The tall figure came toward her as she slumped to the floor and the world went gray—then blessedly black.

*

With a gasp, Isabelle sat up, the awful acrid smell of sal volatile in her nose. Cooper stoppered the vinaigrette and slipped it back into her reticule. “Are you better now, miss?”

“What happened?” Isabelle’s head was spinning, the sharp smell of ammonia seemingly clinging to her nose. Stomach roiling, she hoped she wouldn’t shoot the cat all over her new gown.

“I’m so sorry, my dear.”

The voice. Dear Lord, it was his voice. The memory of seeing Ambrose Grey just now, apparently back from the dead, surfaced in her mind.

“After seeing me alive and well, you were overcome, my dear.” Her stepfather came around the chaise they had laid her on. “I am truly sorry to have startled you so badly.”

Slowly, Isabelle lifted her gaze to his face, the blandly pleasant features, slightly protruding eyes, and snub nose she remembered too well. Now, however, his face seemed more gaunt, older, the fine lines around his eyes deeper. But it was the same face nonetheless.

This must be a nightmare. She prayed it was a horrible apparition brought on by who knew what trick of the mind. But she could feel the cushions of the chaise beneath her, smell the lingering odor of the smelling salts, and sense Cooper’s steadying hand on her shoulder, thank God. Very well. Despite what she’d believed true and privately rejoiced over, Ambrose Grey had returned from the dead. So what in God’s name was she going to do now?

“Isabelle.” Her mother’s strained voice gave truth to the horrendous reality. “Can you believe it, my dear?” Mama took Ambrose’s arm. “Lucy told me a gentleman had come and of course, I thought it was Lord MacKay. I told her to put him in the parlor thinking he was here to escort us to the ball.”

Exactly as Isabelle herself had thought.