AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Isabelle softly smiled. “I can understand, Captain.” She raised her hand to his shoulder. “Thank you for your words and for being our witness today.”
He nodded and bowed.
The captain was clapped on the back by the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader who had vouched unequivocally for his character when Isabelle had been a little unsure. “Well, I for one fancy some tea,” he said, now rocking on his heels. “And perhaps one or two of Mrs Pugh’s delectable cinnamon biscuits.”
“The pain…” Further gurgling rose from the grass.
Isabelle cocked her head. “I happen to know she’s made some delicious griddle cakes as well.”
“But she adds currants to them,” the duke bemoaned. “I abhor currants.”
Captain Brecken frowned. “Er… Should we not…er, fetch a doctor, perhaps?”
“Yes, yes, with all urgency.” The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader placed an arm to the captain’s shoulder and led him away. “Have you sampled Mrs Pugh’s oatcakes, by the by? They are simply to die for.”
Isabelle twisted to her duke. “The plan worked well, did it not?”
“Argghhhh.”
Rhys hauled her into his arms and kissed her with a fierceness that made her dizzy. “I love you, Isabelle. My fearless governess.”
* * *
“Well, I’m simply aghast.”Cousin Elen folded her arms and huffed. “Never would I have expected that from an ancestor of Prince Anarawd ap Rhodri. I want those two removed from this house forthwith, even if I have to clear the storm debris myself.”
Rhys’ lips twitched. The plan’s participants had all gathered in his study to celebrate their success, but Cousin Elen had discovered their whereabouts and demanded an explanation as to why everyone had disappeared from afternoon tea.
“The road will be cleared by dawn tomorrow, Elen. I will ensure they begin to pack immediately.”
“I’ll help her,” Mari added.
“And in cahoots with the magistrate?” Elen harrumphed. “The blackguard!” She tugged her bodice straight and pulled down her cuffs. “Now… I believe I owe you an apology, Miss Beaujeu. I was unduly influenced by such impeccable lineage.”
Isabelle smiled from the fireside. “Thank you, my lady.”
“We’ll find a trail of bribery, I’m sure,” said Hugh who sat with Lady Gwen and Mari upon the chaise. “Then we’ll have the magistrate replaced. But as for Lord Powell…”
“There is nothing we can do,” finished Isabelle quietly as she sipped her tea. “He is a peer of the realm and will go scot-free.”
Rhys exchanged a glance with his heir.“Not necessarily. Hugh has many connections in London and we’ll start with a chat to this hell owner he owes money to. Powell will get his just deserts.”
“But… But what on earth did he have against you, Miss Beaujeu?” Elen shook her head in confusion. “That is what I do not understand.”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “Elen, have you not noticed?”
His niece rolled her eyes. “Surely you’ve noticed?”
“Noticed what?”
With a grunt, Rhys strolled over to Isabelle, cupped her cheeks in his palms and lightly kissed her. “Cariad,” he softly uttered. “My beautiful cariad aur.”
Elen squished one eye shut and sighed. “Oh, really, Rhys… A governess?”
“A fine governess indeed, Elen. But in addition, may I present to you…” His beloved startled as he took her hand. “The distinguished Mademoiselle Isabelle Violette de Beaujeu, daughter of Philippe-François de Beaujeu, the Vicomte de Clermont-ferrand. Nobility of the Sword. Distant cousin to the Duc de Beaumerle, I’m told.” And he kissed her wrist.
“Monsieur Turenne, I presume,” muttered Isabelle, and he smiled.
Elen’s eye snapped open. “Well, what subterfuge. Why was I not informed? What is the world coming to when one can’t even trust a governess to be a gover… Beaumerle, you say?” She frowned. “You mean as in the Beaumerles of Provence?”
Isabelle nodded. “Though it is all quite meaningless now.”
“That’s as maybe but I’m quite sure it was those same Beaumerles of Provence who aided the Northern Welsh princes in the uprising of 1256.” She cocked her head, perusing Isabelle’s features and peering at her hair. “Might there have been some…intertwining of bloodlines in-between skirmishes, do you think?”
Mari giggled, Hugh groaned and Rhys buried his face in Isabelle’s neck.
“Hell,” he murmured. “She’ll have you pegged as a Welsh princess by Christmas.”
