The Sweetest Revenge Page 8

  Even if the people overhead did not hear his words, they must hear something—enough to rouse their curiosity. Yesterday, he’d shouted that he’d give a hundred guineas to the man or woman who released him. The sum went up gradually as the hours passed, until he had promised a thousand. No luck. Even if they could only hear his muffled shouting, certainly it must have been enough to rouse their curiosity. But it didn’t matter. Whoever these servants were, they were loyal to their mistress.

  He resolved to save his voice.

  The human sounds faded, and his mind drifted back to Belle.

  She would be changed.

  It hit him like a punch in the gut. He had set her on the highest pedestal, far above all mortal women. He remembered nothing of her flaws. In fact, soon after her “death,” he became convinced that she possessed no flaws whatsoever. She represented all that was sweet, kind, beautiful, and perfect in womankind. No lady he met could hope to come close.

  He released a long breath. Of course she would have changed. He had not set her in stone for seven years, only to restore her in some magically unaltered state. She was just a few months younger than him, so she would be nearly twenty-six by now. If she wasn’t married—and he thought it highly unlikely that she was; otherwise, why would she involve herself in this conspiracy?—she was heading toward spinsterhood. And a bitter, angry, cold-blooded spinsterhood, at that, given her participation in the villainous scheme to kidnap him.

  All that he knew of her now was at odds with the perfect image of her he kept locked in his mind. How could he reconcile them?

  He could not.

  Yet something in her voice, in the way her fingertips had grazed his foot, the way she touched his jaw as she shaved him… Something reminded him of his Belle.

  No wonder her touches had disconcerted him so thoroughly.

  He was too confused, too agitated, to think it through. All he knew for certain was that she lived. It was enough to revive some tiny feeling within him, something he had long thought dead. For the first time in many years, he had a goal. He had a purpose.

  He had to see her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A hundred candles blazed in the crystal chandelier in Susan’s drawing room. Isabelle sat by Susan on a soft, peach-colored sofa, watching Anna play the pianoforte.

  Lord Archer gazed at Anna from his chair, all his concentration focused completely on her. Mr. Sutherland, a friend of Lord Archer’s, stood behind Isabelle with his hands resting on the back of the sofa.

  After their introduction, Isabelle hadn’t dared to cast a glance at Mr. Sutherland—in fact, she had hardly looked outright at either of the men, but from glimpses out of the corner of her eye, she saw enough to know he was quite handsome.

  He was tall and well formed, with hair and brows as black as pitch, a startling contrast to his dancing blue eyes. When he and Isabelle were first introduced, some indecipherable expression had crossed his pleasant face, and his eyes had widened for an instant, but he smoothed it over in a blink and treated her with unflinching courtesy all evening.

  She couldn’t credit his reaction during their introduction. Had she met him before? She didn’t think so—he was quite a memorable man. Perhaps Mr. Sutherland knew Leo. They were of an age and had a common acquaintance in Lord Archer. But still, Isabelle doubted that Leo would have spent any amount of time discussing her with any of his friends.

  Butterflies flitted about in her stomach. What would these men think if they knew the three women they’d dined with tonight had kidnapped the earl and held him trussed up in the cellar?

  Isabelle clenched her hands in her lap, as always feeling like the outsider. She didn’t belong here, with these affluent, aristocratic English folk. But where did she belong? A part of her screamed that she belonged in the cellar with Leo, but that wasn’t quite right. She was not of his ilk either. He was a peer—an earl, no less—and a heartless rake. What was she? An old spinster, too timid to look a strange man in the eye.

  No, she didn’t belong here or in the cellar. Perhaps she did belong in Scotland with the sheep after all.

  Still, given the choice of being here with her friends and the two pleasant gentlemen, or being down in the cellar, she would choose the cellar in a heartbeat. Guilt flushed through her at that thought. But she couldn’t help it—there was something about Leo that comforted her. She longed to sit beside him again as she had when she’d shaved him. She longed to touch his firm, warm skin. She could stare at him all night, wondering what his eyes looked like behind that wretched blindfold. Were they still such a compelling silvery blue? Had they changed? What she wouldn’t give to find out.

  Anna finished the song with a flourish, then looked up, her smile simply lovely.

  Lord Archer rose to his feet, clapping. “Bravo!”

  As Susan had predicted, the man hadn’t taken his eyes off Anna all night. He clearly wanted her, and it roused a surprising feeling of protectiveness in Isabelle. Though she knew of Lord Archer’s past kindness toward Anna, and though he had conducted himself as nothing but a gentleman tonight, he invited depravity into his home. He was a known comrade of Leo. She couldn’t trust his intentions.

  And from what she had surmised yesterday about how Anna felt about Lord Archer, the younger woman was vulnerable when it came to him. Isabelle didn’t want to see her hurt by yet another unconscionable rake.

  Anna flushed at his clear admiration as Mr. Sutherland joined Lord Archer’s applause. “That was wonderful, Miss Tomkins.” He turned to Isabelle. “Do you sing or play, Miss Frasier?”

  “Oh, not at all, sir.” She had no talent for such pursuits. “I fear my talents lie in sewing and knitting rather than performing.”

  Oh dear, what an awkward thing to say. Knitting! Ladies didn’t knit. She had learned how to knit the year she’d returned to the Highlands, when she busied herself by making mittens and scarves for the poorest of the villagers every year. But of course nobody here cared a whit about any of that.

  Mr. Sutherland smiled at her, then turned to Anna. “And you, Miss Tomkins? Do you sing as beautifully as you play?”

  Anna grinned. “You’d need to be the judge of that, sir.”

  “Will you sing to us, Miss Tomkins?” Lord Archer asked.

  Anna batted her lashes. “I might be coerced.”

  Susan rose. “I shall play, and you sing, Anna.”

  Anna nodded and exchanged places with Susan at the pianoforte.

  Isabelle released a breath, happy to be given a reason to stay silent for the next several minutes.

  The deep red of the ribbons trimming Anna’s satin gown accentuated the rich russet of her hair. She poised one delicate hand on the pianoforte, her beribboned sleeve showing the slender length of her arm to great effect. Her voice was a lovely soprano, high and sweet.

  One would never have known she was a fallen woman.

  But who judged her as fallen? Who scorned her? Nobody here. She was a lady, and a bonny one at that. Isabelle glanced at Lord Archer, who stared at Anna as if spellbound. Where Anna was dark, Lord Archer was light. His hair was golden blond with pale, nearly white, streaks. His eyebrows and beard were golden.

  Anna’s hair was burnished mahogany in the light of the chandelier, her eyebrows dark slashes over her eyes. Where Anna’s eyes transformed from brown to moss, Lord Archer’s were a steady, translucent green. Where Anna’s skin was pale and delicate, Lord Archer’s was tanned dark from the sun and rough with beard. He looked like the quintessential military man, hardened by many battles. Anna looked like the privileged, sheltered society miss, hardened by nothing.

  That was only on the outside, Isabelle thought. On the inside, Anna was as hard as a diamond.

  Anna finished the song, everyone clapped enthusiastically, and Susan called for refreshments.

  Earlier today, the three women had discussed the evening amongst themselves, focusing particularly on their uninvited guest. Lord Archer had advised, through a brief morning correspondence,
that Mr. Sutherland would also be attending dinner, subject to Lady DeLinn’s approval. Of course, Susan could not object outright—to do so would be terribly rude, but she seethed at what she saw as yet another example of male arrogance. She swore if her husband still lived, Lord Archer would not have imposed on him in such a way, with so little notice.

  “How is your son, Susan?” Lord Archer asked over his porcelain teacup.

  Susan smiled, her eyes softening. “He is wintering with his father’s family in Derbyshire. I miss him dreadfully.”

  “Why do you not join him, then?” Lord Archer dropped another lump of sugar into his tea.

  “Wintering in Derbyshire?” Mr. Sutherland said, all agape. “Surely one would be mad to choose to do so voluntarily.”

  “No doubt about that.” Susan shuddered. “My poor son’s inheritance lies in an icy wasteland.”

  “And a dull one at that,” Lord Archer added.

  “Indeed,” Susan agreed. “My preference is to stay in London always. In any case, as much as I wish to be with young Harry, I cannot stay there. My late husband’s mother despises me. She has told all the gentlewomen of the county that I read too much and it has softened my brain.”

  Mr. Sutherland grinned. “No offense to your family, my lady, but if she read any books at all, she would know brains are soft by nature.”

  “No offense taken, Mr. Sutherland, for you are absolutely correct.”

  Lord Archer leaned back on the sofa. “And how old is the little scamp now, Susan? Is he walking and talking yet?”

  “Why, you do not visit him enough, coz.” Something dark passed over Susan’s face, and Isabelle heard the unsaid words clearly: Instead, you busy yourself participating in orgies with your rakehell companions. The shadow passed, and Susan continued. “He is almost four years old now. He is quite a conversationalist, and he runs more often than walks, but the word ‘scamp’ is an accurate description of him, I am quite sorry to say.”

  Susan and Lord Archer then fell into an impassioned conversation about the scampish disposition of their family’s blood, which led to a debate about a distant cousin who had cuckolded her husband with a Bond Street merchant. Susan claimed the woman had good reason, for the husband was abusive, but Lord Archer said there could be no reason good enough for a woman to betray a spouse.

  Isabelle watched in fascination as Susan tensed, grew more defensive of the cousin and more annoyed with Lord Archer. Isabelle could not help but admire the other woman’s pluck, her ability to debate, and her courage. Susan was a woman to be reckoned with. She would have made a brilliant barrister or statesman, if women could serve in those positions.

  Susan and Lord Archer agreed to disagree on the moral standing of their cousin, and the conversation moved to more mundane subjects. Isabelle’s mind wandered downwards, beneath the house, back into the cellar, and to Leo. Had he heard the activity in the kitchen this afternoon? Did he know about Susan’s dinner party?

  What was he doing now, while they all lounged, unchained, engaged in pleasant entertainments, drinking tea? Was he hungry? Was he cold? Susan and Anna had used the preparations for tonight’s party as an excuse for not seeing him, but Isabelle knew this was just another part of the scheme. It would drive him mad to have identified one of his captors yet be unable to speak to anyone about it or use his newfound knowledge to bargain for his freedom.

  “You look a hundred miles away from here.”

  Isabelle’s body jerked, her mind jolted back into the present. Mr. Sutherland had come around the sofa and had lowered himself beside her.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed softly. She licked her dry lips, and glanced to where Lord Archer, Susan, and Anna were discussing acquaintances Isabelle didn’t know. “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s quite all right. My mind wanders, too.”

  She released a relieved breath and tried to smile at him, but her lips quivered.

  He leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. “So, what were you thinking about, Miss Frasier?”

  “Oh…uh…” Her mind worked frantically, but it was so muddled, having this man near. “Knitting?” she said feebly, then winced.

  “Ah, I see. Are you considering knitting something in particular?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  He raised a quizzical brow.

  She wrung her hands in her lap, then caught herself doing it and forcibly stilled them. She gave Mr. Sutherland a rueful look. There was no way she could continue to pretend she’d been thinking about knitting when she’d actually been having obsessive thoughts about the earl trussed in the cellar. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breathless with humiliation. “I am terrible at dissembling.”

  Mr. Sutherland leaned back against the seat cushion. “Ah, well, unfortunately, I am also an ineffective dissembler. It is a great weakness, is it not?”

  Isabelle laughed despite herself. She didn’t believe him for a second.

  He raised his eyebrows in mock offense. “You do not believe me, Miss Frasier? But it is the truth.” He raised an index finger to his eye. “I blink, you see, with my right eye, whenever I attempt to lie. My sister claims it’s a nervous reaction. It’s quite unconscious.”

  “Truly?”

  He nodded solemnly. “Yes, it is true. And now that you know my secret, I must always be completely honest with you.”

  The low timbre of his voice sent foreboding skittering along Isabelle’s spine. The words themselves were innocent enough, but the way he had said them—

  “Oh.” All coherent thoughts fled from her mind, leaving it hopelessly blank. She gazed down at her hands clasped in her lap.

  After a lengthy pause, Mr. Sutherland said, “Lady DeLinn mentioned you are lately of Scotland.”

  “Aye, that is true.” Isabelle bit her lower lip.

  He seemed to sense her reluctance to speak about Scotland and smoothly steered away from the topic. “Have you enjoyed your visit to London?”

  She glanced up at Anna, Susan, and Lord Archer, who were still deeply involved in their conversation. “I have been here since the spring. I do visit when I can—my great-aunt lives here.” Although Uncle Ewan rarely allowed her visits to England anymore. Of course, she couldn’t explain that to these people. “But I have found it especially pleasant this visit, ever since I became acquainted with Lady DeLinn and Miss Tomkins.”

  “I am pleased to hear it. Will you be returning to Scotland soon?”

  Before she could stop herself, she sighed deeply. “Aye. In less than a month, I’m afraid.”

  Mr. Sutherland stared at her with an expression she could not decipher. “You do not wish to return to Scotland?”

  She hesitated, then said carefully, “Scotland is my home.”

  There was far more tied to her feelings about Scotland than she could ever admit to anyone, especially this virtual stranger. Scotland was her homeland, and she was tied to it on an intrinsic level. Yet the place was so lonely to her now. It had never been the same to her after the summer she’d spent with Leo.

  He nodded. “I understand. I feel somewhat the same about London. Of course, I am frequently forced to leave, as I have an estate near Bath.”

  “Do you? I have never been to Bath, but I hear it is lovely.”

  “I would love to take you there,” he said.

  She felt her eyes widen. Did he mean…?

  “Mr. Sutherland, I—”

  “You and Lady DeLinn and Miss Tomkins,” he amended quickly, shifting in his seat. “And Archer, too, of course. We could make quite a holiday of it.”

  “Yes.” Isabelle searched his face. “Quite.”

  He gave her a friendly smile. He had attempted to cover it, but she was certain he had just made her an invitation.

  How disconcerting. She felt warm and jittery, like she’d just swallowed a gallon of strong tea.

  She ought to be deeply offended, but for some reason she could not decipher, she wasn’t. Maybe because Mr. Sutherland was a
handsome man, a rich man, clearly a gentleman. A part of her liked having his attention. She hadn’t experienced the attention of a gentleman for so long.

  It made her feel powerful.

  Yet it was so odd it was happening now. Now, after seven years of being ignored by the male sex. When Leo just happened to be in the same house.

  She looked up into Mr. Sutherland’s eyes and returned his smile.

  Susan’s voice cut into their exchange. “…Lord Leothaid…” Isabelle swung her head toward Susan and Lord Archer. “I heard he was away in Scotland?”

  Susan glanced over at Isabelle and gave her a terse nod.

  “Yes.” Lord Archer ran his fingers over his chin. “He did say he might be gone for some time.”

  “So you do know him, then!” Susan exclaimed, feigning surprise.

  “I do.”

  “I thought you might,” Susan said. “Did you know I was once acquainted with him as well, coz?”

  “I did.” Lord Archer’s soft voice penetrated the otherwise silent room. His gaze dropped away from Anna.

  “You must be friends, then, Thomas. Very good friends, in fact.”

  Lord Archer glanced at Mr. Sutherland. “Indeed. I have known Leo for some years now.”

  “Well, is that ever a coincidence? Why, I once knew Lord Leothaid myself,” Anna said.

  Lord Archer’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

  Isabelle slanted a nervous look at Mr. Sutherland and discovered him watching her.

  “Yes, well, Leo is quite a familiar figure here in London, after all,” Lord Archer said. “Quite a dandy, he is. They say he will be the next Brummell.”

  Anna laughed delicately.

  Isabelle thought of Lord Leothaid, dirty and unkempt in a dusty cellar, of how much it must chafe him to be there, in that state, in the presence of ladies.

  Susan lifted a graceful hand to her mouth, stifling her own laugh. “Do you truly think so, coz? I have trouble imagining Leo sitting in the bow window at White’s with such an arrogant look upon his face.”