Beatrice was still watching her through narrowed eyes.
“Something is bothering you,” she stated. Isolde shifted, not quite able to meet her mother’s stare.
“I’m fine,” she muttered. “Only…”
Before Isolde could say anything further, there was a rap on the door and the butler appeared.
“Lord Raisin, your Grace, my Lady,” he announced ponderously, and stepped aside.
Isolde closed her mouth with an audible clack, glancing over at her mother.
It was the first time Lord Raisin had called since the wet day in Kew Gardens. Or, as Isolde had taken to calling it in her head, the Ice Queen event.
She was just wondering if she could claim a sudden megrim and flee when the man himself came bursting in, all smiles.
“Lord Raisin, what a pleasant surprise!” Beatrice announced, standing with a smile. “We thought you’d quite abandoned us.”
“Never, your Grace. Lady Isolde, you are looking well.”
No doubt the compliment was meant to be an apology of sorts. Isolde smiled coldly, and he beamed, obviously assuming that his apology had been accepted. She couldn’t think of anything to say that would convince him otherwise.
Well, nothing polite to say.
“Sit down, Lord Raisin, please. I shall ring for tea.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary, thank you,” he said, sinking down beside Isolde. He sat on the edge of her book, and propriety forbade her from yanking it free. “I’m only here for a moment. Have you been to Vauxhall Gardens, Lady Isolde?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Oh,” Lord Raisin looked disappointed. She wanted to ask him how he thought a twenty-three-year-old lady such as herself could have gotten to such an advanced age – living in London, no less – without seeing Vauxhall Gardens at least once.
“We should love to see it again, naturally,” Beatrice put in, shooting Isolde a disapproving stare.
It worked. Lord Raisin seemed mollified, inclining his head.
“Well, I should like to invite you all to come with me to Vauxhall Gardens on Friday. What do you say?”
He twisted to look at Isolde, smiling expectantly. She could feel her mother’s eyes boring into her.
“I should love it, Lord Raisin,” Isolde managed at last. Really, there was nothing else to say, but Lord Raisin smiledknowingly, as if she’d agreed to marry him after all.
“Excellent! I shall make the arrangements.”
***
Bells’ Circulating Library was shut up for the day, but light beamed out of every window, even creeping out under the door. Despite her worry about wretched Viscount Henley, Isolde felt herself begin to relax. Climbing down from the carriage, she hurried across the dark street with her maid in tow and rapped on the door to the library. It was always locked, with only select members permitted inside for the literary salon. Strictly invitation only. Isolde had broken the rules to invite Clayton, a fact which still baffled her.
She was let in, and found Maria waiting eagerly for her.
“Your Viscount Henley is here already,” she whispered. “He was early. He’s brought his stepmother, which is a surprise, but the woman is an absolute delight. Can you believe that she’s brought The Vampyre? I don’t know whether to be scandalized or thrilled, truly! My Bride of Lammermoor pales into insignificance besides that.”
Isolde had no chance to say anything. Maria dragged her into the main room, which was lit up with countless candles, a fire burning in the hearth. Chairs had been arranged artfully, most of them occupied. She spotted the Viscount at once. He and his stepmother – a beautiful, middle-aged woman that Isolde vaguely recognized – sat together on a two-seater sofa, sipping tea.
His stepmother was engaged in a vigorous debate with a pale-faced, yellow-haired debutante by the name of Miss Smith, who was clutching what seemed to be a copy of Pamela.
Poor Miss Smith seemed to be terrified. She shrank back, pressing her book to her chest as if the feminine virtues of the titular Pamela would somehow protect her from the enthusiasticCountess of Wrenwood and her leering Vampyre.
It did not seem to be working.
