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And Lady Elen.
Before, one by one, every remaining guest was on their feet.
Mari grinned, and Morgan nodded as he circled the table to refill the guests’ glasses for their toast.
Isabelle’s cheeks burned, fingers trembling as she likewise stood. “I… Thank you. Thank you all.” She cleared the lump in her throat. “Your words mean more to me than you realise. And no apology is needed. I…” She blinked back tears. A professional governess should never cry.
Mrs Craddock raised her glass once more. “We salute your poise and grace, Miss Beaujeu.”
“Well said, Fiona.” The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader patted Mrs Craddock’s hand, leading her to blush like a schoolgirl.
Mari rolled her eyes.
“And if I may,” he continued, “I have a further toast…” He smiled, vivid blue gaze alighting upon each of them in turn. “May kindness guide us, may love come to us in its own good time, and may our hearts be as full as our glasses. To friendship!”
* * *
Surroundedby dusty thirteenth-century historical records, Lady Elen busied herself at a desk in the corner of the drawing room, searching for further evidence of French and Welsh interbreeding within Isabelle’s family, while Captain Brecken and the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader had eschewed the after-dinner port for cards with the Craddocks.
“My father,” the young Miss Vaughn was confiding to Isabelle and Gwen on the chaise, “only allowed me to attend in order to gain some polish. I was to learn from the other ladies, not draw attention to myself and obey my chaperone.”
“Why would your father not wish you to attend?” asked Gwen.
“I was only seventeen last month and I’ve not yet had a Season but I longed to join in for the experience, to meet…fine ladies.” She frowned. “So I persuaded him.”
“Well,” said Lady Gwen with a grin, “you won’t forget this one in a hurry.”
“No, indeed. And if this house party has taught me anything, it’s that no one is who they seem.”
“If I may interrupt,” interrupted the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader, who arrived with two glasses of wine, “would you two ladies mind if I spoke with Miss Beaujeu in private for just a few moments?”
Isabelle looked askance but the ladies nodded their assent and departed to chat with Miss Brecken at the pianoforte.
“So, the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader,” teased Isabelle, inviting him to sit. “What can I do for you?”
“Call me Hugh for a start?”
“I couldn’t.” She flitted a look. “How about the Scandalous Hugh?”
He chuckled, azure-blue eyes genial, chin lightly stubbled and skin golden. Isabelle had no doubt that quite a few of those tales of sighing wives and gnashing husbands were true.
With lips settling, he handed her the glass of wine. “Forgive this intrusion, but… Could I ask, what colour hair did your father have?”
An odd question and Isabelle sipped. “My memories are vague but I remember auburn. In some lights you can glimpse the red strands in my own hair.”
The Scandalous Hugh perused her chignon, his luminous eyes dimming to serious. Then he nodded.
“I wish to tell you a tale, Miss Beaujeu. Of a man who is a legend within…circles known to me.”
His eyes bored into her and Isabelle tilted her head in acknowledgement, having grasped by now that the Scandalous Hugh’s yarns of flummery, his secrecy, his ingenuity with plans, and his battered body hid some form of dangerous vocation. A spy’s life, perhaps?
Stretching out his legs, he placed his wine glass down. “They called this man Le Chat Rouge. I was but a young sprig when he lived, but his methods are still taught, his unique ability to disappear, to smuggle himself and others from place to place, his aptitude for meticulous preparation.” He smiled. “A Frenchman by birth, he could see what was happening within his own country – the unrest and poverty. But the wheels of revolution were not to be halted. During those bloodiest of times, he did what he could to aid any who needed to flee France, be they nobleman or modiste.”
Isabelle placed her own wine glass down. “Why…”
“His most fabled rescue was that of his own wife and child, for they had been taken to one of the most heavily guarded prisons in the north. Yet one morning, would you believe, as the soldiers came to change guard and descended the steps…” He stared to her. “The prisoners were gone. Even the night-time guards had disappeared as if magicked away on the breeze. Men still scrutinise the prison plans and wonder how the devil he achieved it.”
Isabelle swallowed, a knot in her throat, a…numbness inveigling her body. “I…”
