'Apparently no one knows, or if they do, they're not talking. That's all we've been able to find out.'
'Is that the whole truth?' Isabella searched the faces of her companions, looking for any indications of subterfuge. 'I'm not a child,' she reminded them. 'I'm aware of what Dermott wants and doesn't want. You're not going to break my heart any more than it's already broken if you're honest with me. I fully realize he doesn't want to be with me, that he doesn't love me. But I'd like to know how badly he's hurt. For God's sake, tell me. I
'They don't expect him to live,' Molly whispered.
Isabella sank to the floor, her legs suddenly gone weak. 'Oh, my God…' Looking up at Molly, tears streamed down her cheeks. 'It's all my fault…'
'Don't even think that, darling.' Rushing to comfort her, Molly dropped to the floor and took Isabella in her arms. 'It's not your fault,' she soothed. 'Don't for a minute blame yourself. Everyone knows Dermott and Lonsdale have long been enemies, since their public school days at least. And Dermott pleases no one but himself. Tell her, Joe, she mustn't take responsibility for this.'
'He's met more than one man on the dueling field, Miss Isabella. This weren't the first time by a long shot.'
'You see,' Molly insisted. 'You're as guiltless now as with any of the others.'
'I won't even be able to see him before-' Convulsed with a sob, Isabella couldn't conceive of so strong and vital a man facing the awful finality of death. Perhaps he was already dead… Whimpering, she clung to Molly, terrified of so fearful a thought.
'Come, darling,' Molly cajoled. 'Come sit and have a glass of wine to ease your nerves. We'll see if we can find out more.' Rising, she tugged on Isabella's hands.
Numb with grief, Isabella allowed herself to be helped to her feet and led to a chair, where Molly wiped the tears from her face. When she was handed a glass shortly after, she drank the wine, though it was tasteless in her mouth. Like dust.
She answered when spoken to, but she neither heard nor cared what was being discussed. All she could see was Dermott's cold body laid out in death. All she could think about was how sad and dreadful and devastating beyond belief the waste of his life.
And she couldn't go to him because she didn't know where he was.
Because he didn't want her to know.
'I can't stay here,' Isabella abruptly declared, interrupting the murmured conversation, feeling a desperate, inexplicable need to flee. 'I'm going to the country.'
Molly looked at Joe and then at Isabella. 'I'm glad.'
Isabella came to her feet, her spine rigid, her shoulders stiff as a soldier on parade, shield against the collapse of her soul. 'I'm going right now.'
'Wouldn't you rather-' Molly's words died away at the look of anguish on Isabella's face. 'I'll have the maids pack your clothes.'
'Don't,' she brusquely retorted, a kind of defensive anger in her voice. 'I'm not taking anything.' She didn't want to be reminded of Dermott, how he'd looked the day she'd been trying on the black lace gown at Molly's, or the way he'd stripped the white dress from her at Bathurst House and made her love him, or the scent of his hair and cologne that still lingered in the silk of her clothes. 'Joe, please call for my carriage.' Her voice was sharp and crisp. If she could pretend she'd never known Dermott, if she could obliterate any memory of the last unbelievable weeks, if she could physically separate herself from the people and places that reminded her of his beauty and tenderness, his playfulness and essential goodness, maybe with time she could learn to bear the unbearable pain.
Or if she couldn't, at least she could hide her misery from the world.
Dermott, traveling south, was undergoing his own unbearable torment, each revolution of the wheels an agonizing shock to his ravaged body, each bump in the road racking torture. Despite the doctor's protests, despite Shelby's pleadings, despite the horror in Charles's eyes, he'd insisted on leaving once he'd regained consciousness. He'd wanted to find a solitary cave where he could lick his wounds, a hermitage and refuge away from the world, away from prying eyes and gossip, away from help he didn't want and decisions he couldn't make. And if he were to die-he'd heard the doctor through the shifting levels of his consciousness-he'd take that final journey alone.
He didn't wish his mother alarmed. She was to be told only that he was recuperating at the seashore.
And so he meant to. His spirit willing.
He was unconscious more than he was conscious on the road to the south coast. A blessing, the doctor declared, seeing that Dermott swallowed another dose of laudanum each time he woke. And on that painful journey to the Isle of Wight, when those with him never knew if his next breath might be his last, Dermott's opium dreams were peopled with familiar images of his wife and son, the sweet visions bringing a smile to his lips. But another face intruded in the habitual, well-known fantasies-a beauty with golden hair and gentian eyes and the strength to draw him away. Sometimes he fought against her lure, and other times he willingly followed her. But their path always took them to the very edge of a high, rocky precipice shrouded in fog, and he found himself unwilling to follow her when she took that last fatal step. Invariably, he'd wake with a start, only to be met with a more brutal kind of pain, a clawing, fiendish pain that mercilessly ripped through his body and brought him panting, begging for oblivion.
The same evening Isabella was on her way to Suffolk, her uncle's family was dining at home, gloating over the events of the day.
'Herbert, tell us again when you first heard of Bathurst's mortal wounds,' his wife cheerfully said, glancing at her two beaming daughters.
'And tell us, Papa, when we may attend the more refined society entertainments now that Bathurst is no longer your nemesis.'
Their father cast them a lowering look. 'He's not dead yet.'
'But he's as near dead as ever may be, Papa!' Caroline exclaimed with considerable glee. 'I heard it from Harold's valet, who heard it from any number of his friends. It's quite certain.'
'So he can't hurt you now, Papa,' Amelia declared. 'It's so exciting! Just think, we can mix with the very best of the ton now.'
'Don't set your sights too high, my dear,' her doting papa remarked, more sensible than the females in his family of their station in life.
'But, Papa, you're ever so rich and you know that means we'll have our pick of a number of eligible parties. Now that we aren't obliged to go to those dreadful routs in the City.'
'And have to talk to mushrooms without titles.'
'Abigail,' he sternly noted, 'I suggest you set your daughters on a more realistic path. The world of the ton doesn't offer many titles to bankers' daughters.'
'Oh, pooh on you. Papa. Just think of Evelina Drucker, who married a viscount only last year.'
'A very poor and old viscount.'
'Well, who would give a fig how old or poor they might be if one could wear a coronet,' Caroline maintained.
'And you know the aristocracy never even talk to each other,' her sister chimed in. 'They live in separate parts of their great mansions and see one another only at ceremonies.'
'So you girls know it all.'
'Enough, Papa, to know that the only thing that matters is your money. And now that Bathurst is almost dead, we will be allowed to dance at the very best balls.'
'Isabella is gone as well, Herbert. You said it yourself. Your watchers told you. So surely there are no further impediments to our daughters' season.'
'Where did she go?' Harold had just come down from his chambers, his dandified attire having taken considerable time to adjust on his porcine body.
'You've missed the first course, Harold,' his mother admonished him.
'Save your reproach for Steeves,' he protested, sitting down across from his sisters. 'He ruined a dozen of my neckcloths before managing to make me presentable. So where did she go?'
