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After a fifth cup of tea together, Mrs Pugh had then snatched away all Isabelle’s clothes from the night before and vowed to fumigate them for prison fleas.
Then there was dearest Mari, who now stalked the schoolroom rug in a similar vein to a London thief-taker, notebook in one hand and magnifying glass in the other. She paused on a heel, swivelled and stalked back again.
“Never fear, Miss Beaujeu, for I told Lady Bronwen to mind her step…” She halted, twisted and held the glass up to her eye. “As I shall be watching.”
Isabelle blinked at the magnified convex green eye staring back at her.
But a warmth arose within and she smiled because so many people beneath this roof were assured of her innocence. As a rule, a governess had to fend for herself against accusations of any kind, with no assistance from those of the household. Here, Isabelle felt…cared for, a part of them, part of a family.
“Well, thank you. I’m certain the duke will be able to get to the bottom of it all.”
“Hmm. I saw Cousin Hugh enter the study on my way up here, and when I…stumbled over a tuft of rug and my ear fell against the door, I heard Uncle saying no rather a lot.”
Truly, Isabelle should not encourage eavesdropping but… “No to what exactly?”
“Cousin Hugh must have been telling one of his tales.” Mari wrinkled her nose. “As he mentioned flies.”
“Flies?”
“And honey.”
Ah.
Isabelle rose to her feet. It could be an erroneous conjecture, but it seemed the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader with wily intent wanted to use Isabelle as a honied lure to the pestilent fly that sought to aggrieve her. Equally, it seemed the duke, with chivalric intent, did not want it.
Yet what did she herself want?
Mari wrinkled her brow, licked her pencil and scribbled into her notebook, muttering how the clue was always to be found in what wasn’t there, rather than what was.
Shaking her head, Isabel smoothed her skirts. “I should inquire what His Grace and Mr Cadwalader are planning.”
Especially if it involved herself.
Mari nodded sagely. “I’ll stay here and practise my stalking.” She narrowed her eyes. “In the Art of Acting it says one must feel the part, and I will endeavour to feel like a bygone wolf set amongst a house party of rabbits.”
Despite the precarious situation Isabelle found herself in, she grinned and kissed Mari’s forehead, uttering a soft thank you, and as Isabelle made for the door, her charge cast sideways lupine glances to the schoolroom mirror, baring fangs.
Having descended the servants’ stairs, she tiptoed past the closed drawing room door where the guests were partaking of a cold collation, and hovered outside the study.
Grumbles could be heard, so she lightly knocked and waited till the duke bade her enter.
Would his gaze be similar to last night, filled with devotion and passion?
A growl boomed so she opened the door.
The scene that met her eyes was one of disarray.
A vague map of the estate, tower and cliffs was tacked to the panelling with colour-coded symbols inked on. To the side was pinned an inordinately bad sketch of a fly with crooked wings and protuberant eyes.
Ugh.
Isabelle cleared her throat. “Can I assist in any way?”
The duke twisted, his stare not one of devotion or passion but of aloof detachment.
A bereft sensation beset her.
“No!”
