Isabel had been certain she’d colored. If anybody had heard anything at all about her family’s long and winding history, it was most assuredly from the duchess. It always caused a sort of embarrassment. It presented her as this elevated creature, all the while failing to mention her real circumstances.
How charmed would Lady Fitzwallen be if she understood that Isabel had no more means than a laborer’s daughter and had often gone hungry or depended upon the charity of others to avoid it? Or that her household did not employ servants, other than a butler who ought to be retired and the occasional day hire from the village? Or perhaps the lady would be interested in the idea that she had no horse and carriage and her clothes, were it not for the duchess, were more repairs than original? Isabel felt a fraud at such moments.
Upon entering the drawing room, she noted the card tables set up, each with fresh packs of cards and stacks of paper and graphite to keep the scores. There was a sideboard running along the side of the room, piled heavy with sweets and savories, hot and cold dishes, an enormous cake, bottles of Canary wine, a punch bowl, and both a tea and coffee service. The evening would not likely be wildly entertaining but, however it was, she would not go hungry.
Just as she was considering whether a fruit tart or slice of cake would suit, she saw him. Harry Vance.
He was just this minute talking to Lord Ryland. Then he saw her too.
He excused himself from Lord Ryland and came toward her.
“Oh, why?” the duchess muttered.
“Your Grace, Lady Isabel,” Mr. Vance said, bowing. “I did not expect to find you here.”
“Your surprise could not possibly match my own,” the duchess said drily.
“It seems Lord and Lady Langley bowed out,” Mr. Vance said. “I am only an afterthought as a replacement. Do you play piquet, Lady Isabel?”
“Yes, of course,” Isabel answered.
Before the duchess could interrupt any further inquiries, Lady Fitzwallen blew through the room. “Duchess, you’ll want to be over there, with your duke and Lord and Lady Heathway—I remember the rivalry between you ladies and your husbands and fully expect you will trounce the gentlemen. Mr. Vance, what is your preferred game?”
“Piquet, my lady.”
“Ah, perhaps Miss Thompson—”
“Lady Isabel prefers piquet as well,” Mr. Vance said.
“I did not hear the wordpreferred,” the duchess said, looking very irritated.
“Lady Isabel?” Lady Fitzwallen asked.
“Wherever you would like me to be,” Isabel said, not certain where she herself wished to be.
“Piquet it is, then,” Lady Fitzwallen said. “There is a table for you right there.”
Isabel could practically feel the steam coming from the duchess. Though, it was too late now to do anything about it.
For his part, Mr. Vance looked rather amused at her fury. He really must be the only person in London who had not the slightest care for the duchess’ opinions. Her disapproval seemed as water off a duck’s back.
“This way, Lady Isabel,” he said cheerfully.
They made their way to the table Lady Fitzwallen had directed them to. Mr. Vance said, “What would you prefer from the board? Tea, punch, wine?”
“Wine, I think,” Isabel said. She might have been inclined to tea under different circumstances, but being so near Mr. Vance made her nerves jittery. Wine might go some way to calming them.
He returned with the wine and broke the seal on the deck. They drew cards and the deal went to Mr. Vance. He said, “I find myself glad that looks and frowns cannot physically injure a person. Else, I’d surely be dead by now, a victim of the duchess’ narrowed eyes.”
Isabel could not help but laugh. It was true the duchess was staring at him like he was the devil himself.
Perhaps he was, a little. Who but the devil could tempt one to overthrow a carefully laid out and eminently sensible plan the way he did?
Isabel examined her hand, discarded three and took from the stock. Mr. Vance discarded four and picked up. They then proceeded to call for point, sequence, triplets or fours.
Isabel put all her concentration on what Mr. Vance was calling. Piquet was impossible to win if one’s mind wandered.
It seemed, at least for now, that he had not been dealt a very wonderful hand.
