“I am sure his apology was adequate,” she forced herself to say, for she would not prevaricate and claim to have read it.
Callie’s smile was knowing. “You did not read it, did you?”
She paused, then made the admission. “No.”
Callie chuckled. “He was rather put out at your lack of response, you know. But you did not hear it from me.”
“I have no intention of my path ever crossing His Grace again, so you are assured of my complete and utter silence on the matter.” She took a calming sip of her tea, wondering why the thought of never seeing the Duke of Westmorland again should seem to swallow her whole.
“I cannot blame you, Isabella dear.” Callie’s face brightened. “That brings me to the second reason for my call. I am hosting a gathering tomorrow at Westmorland House. We will be collecting funds to support relief efforts for the Spanish earthquake.”
Isabella had read the devastating reports of the Christmas-Day earthquake in Andalusia. Lives and homes had been decimated, amongst them some of the country’s poorest citizens. “That is an admirable goal and a worthy cause.”
Still, she did not know what the gathering could possibly have to do with herself.
“I am delivering your invitation in person, hoping you will join us,” Callie said, answering the unspoken question for her. “The Duchess of Bainbridge will be in attendance, as will Lady Ravenscroft and Lady Jo Danvers.”
The same ladies who had been present for the Lady’s Suffrage Society dinner. All of them had been wonderfully welcoming and delightful, just as Callie was. But whilst the offer was tempting indeed, she did not dare accept. The risk of seeing the Duke of Westmorland once more was not worth the reward of spending an evening chatting with such august ladies.
“You pay me a great honor, but I am afraid I must decline,” she told her guest before taking another sip of her tea.
“My brother will not be in attendance,” Callie added. “He is not in London at the moment, having left several days ago on Special League matters. I do not expect his return until next week.”
She ought to be relieved, not disappointed, Isabella knew. But somehow, the revelation that the duke would be absent gave her no pleasure. Rather, it filled her with dismay. Where was her inner fortitude? Why did that dreadful man have such power over her?
“Even so, I thank you, but I cannot think it wise,” she declined gently.
Continuing a friendship with Westmorland’s sister was foolish. Because the time would inevitably come that she would see him again. Her stupid heart leapt at the notion now, all the more reason to stay far, far away.
“Think of the cause,” Callie urged. “It is such a worthy endeavor, and you will be greatly missed by all if you do not grace us with your presence. All the ladies have expressed their desire for you to join us as well.”
It was a worthy cause. Perhaps it was selfish of her to decline the invitation because she did not possess the strength to resist the duke. After all, he would not be there…
She sighed. “I will attend.”
“Excellent.” Callie grinned. “Join us at eight o’clock, my dear.”
What had she just gotten herself into?
Benedict stared out the window of the hired hansom cab he had taken from the rail station upon his arrival back in London. The hour was late, nearing dinner, but he had concluded his business in Liverpool, and his return to Town had been necessary, if unexpected. There had been no time to notify Westmorland House of his imminent arrival. No carriage awaited him. But it was just as well, for he was a man consumed by weighty matters, and riding in his sleek carriage would almost seem a sacrilege given the dire predictions he faced.
Reports from America were mounting, suggesting that the Houses of Parliament had become the next target of Fenian dynamite campaigns. His impromptu trip to Liverpool had been necessitated by word that some associates of Drummond McKenna had recently arrived from America by steamer, and that they were desperate to obtain vengeance for the death of their leader. However, all his inquiries had proven fruitless. The men who had arrived, using aliases, were already gone to London.
Which meant the silent menace was somewhere lurking within his city, plotting the next outrage. He was in the devil’s own mood, weary of forever being one step behind these villains, tired from travel, frustrated from the lack of information he had been able to glean.
He passed a hand over his bearded jaw. There had been neither time nor inclination to shave. He likely looked like a beast, which was just as well, for he felt like one, too. Eight days had passed since he had last seen Miss Isabella Hilgrove. Seven days had passed since he had written to her with an apology and a copy of his proposed commendation of her school in the Times. He had waited for her reply for an entire day before realizing one was not forthcoming and sending the bloody thing to the Times as it was written.
Upon its printing, he had sent her a copy, along with another apology.
This, too, had gone unanswered. And though his work for the Special League and the Home Office had intervened, sending him far from London, thoughts of her had followed him like a veritable plague. Her lush lips, the sweet surrender of her kiss, the way she had felt in his arms—as if she were made to be there, damn it—would not leave him.
Even now, as the cab neared his Mayfair address, he was thinking of her. Longing for her. He was a man consumed, driven by two opposing forces: the
