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Mrs Pugh – she couldn’t call her Blodeuwedd, even in thought – nodded. “Told me you had more honour in your little finger than Lady Bronwen had in her centuries of lineage. That kind of perception is born into butlers.”
Feeling more than a dash of remorse, Isabelle’s brow knitted. “In that case, I wish I’d not teased him about pirate Morgan.”
“Hah!” Mrs Pugh grinned. “The haughty so-and-so is cock-a-hoop that someone has noticed his wicked pedigree. It’s the gossip of the kitchens.”
Isabelle stared agape and accepted an oatcake.
The three of them munched quite contentedly for nigh half an hour, chatting of the land and its legends, Lady Gwen reminiscing on the antics of the twins as lads.
“You sound as though you miss Lord Tristan very much,” said Isabelle.
“I… Yes.” The lady’s eyes drooped with such sorrow. “His death was a great loss to me.”
In silence, they all turned to gaze out once more – to a sea that could give such life and yet steal it away within the blink of an eye.
“There you are!”
Mari came scampering down the steep steps like a mountain goat in petticoats and Isabelle shook her head: Miss Appleton had an entire chapter devoted to the demure descending of stairs so perchance that should be this afternoon’s lesson.
“Cook says the bread is in the oven, Mrs Pugh. And Cousin Hugh is to take me riding, Miss Beaujeu, along the coast, so you have this afternoon to yourself as well.”
Isabelle frowned but nodded – should it not be her who sanctioned the day’s agenda? Though the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader and his bonhomie was good for Mari.
“I’d best be off then, so I had,” declared Mrs Pugh, knees creaking as she stood, and they all aided Lady Gwen in packing away the remains of the oatcakes.
Not one hour ago, Isabelle had wished to be alone, to ponder on last night and gather her resolve, to not allow such indecorous conduct to happen again. However, now she was glad that the housekeeper and Lady Gwen had come to join her, their fine company imbuing cheer.
Isabelle stowed away the unread Moral Instruction tome into her satchel.“Mari, how did you know I was here? Did Morgan inform you also?”
“Hmm?” Her charge glanced aside from peering through the spyglass. “No. Uncle saw you up here. Said he caught the flash of glass when he was swimming and recognised your grey dress on this bench.”
Isabelle closed her eyes.
Zut.
Having wished Mari a pleasant afternoon,Isabelle wended her way back to her chamber, humming a tune. Content and… Yes, she felt at home within this household, this land. The rain didn’t always fall and the people were unfailingly kind.
She merely had to thrust that passionate kiss with the duke to the recesses of her mind and all would be well. Gentlemen, she knew, could kiss a woman and forget about her within an hour, so she would endeavour to do the same.
The door to her bedchamber lay ajar.
Odd.
And she tilted her head.
“Hello?”
Perchance the maid had brought the towels, and she pushed it open to–
Her eyes darted back and forth…
Garments were strewn.
Her Welsh language book ripped on the floor.
Drawers dragged out.
A red garter cut to pieces.
And–
Glass crunched underfoot as she darted to the desk…
“No. No. S’ilvous plait. Non!”
