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They walked in silence to the other wing, and Isabelle’s fury pulsed in every sinew.
Fury and…
Fear.
Because while the duke was away, she was at the mercy of these nobles.
“Search her room,” commanded Lady Bronwen as they reached the door.
The stout cub of a footman who had stalked the hallway by day before Miss Pritchard’s departure mumbled his apology but Isabelle waved a hand. “I know you have no option, Delwyn.”
They entered her bedchamber, the footman’s cheeks flushing as he commenced opening drawers, obliged to poke around.
Humiliation seared Isabelle’s innards, a smarting at her eyes that she refused to allow, so she held her head high as Lady Bronwen sniggered at the meagre total of three gowns in her wardrobe, of the sole drawer from six that was used for toiletries.
She endeavoured not to feel shame. Why should she? She’d worked hard for her scant belongings, her–
“A red garter?” Lady Elen raised her brows as Isabelle’s undergarments drawer was tugged open. “Really, Miss Beaujeu. The duke assured me your French upbringing had not corrupted you in any way.”
“A charlatan,” Lady Bronwen snarled, “you’ve harboured a charlatan in the bosom of your home.”
The footman left that drawer for Lady Elen to search and moved onto the desk.
A pitter-patter of feet and abruptly there was Mari, tugging on her arm. “Oh, Miss Beaujeu, we went to find Cousin Hugh but he’s been called away.” A tear trailed her cheek. “And Lady Gwen is in the village with Mrs Craddock. We can’t find anyone.”
But Isabelle’s eyes moistened, for precious Mari and Mrs Pugh had not abandoned her, but sought to stand by her.
“Do not fret. They will discover naught.”
“Er… Miss Beaujeu?”
The footman held the silver cologne flask aloft.
“That is mine. It was my papa’s.”
He nodded, biting his lip. “And this?”
A gold necklace encircled his fingers, rubies as red as the Llanedwyn coat of arms.
Isabelle closed her eyes, felt her throat cl–
“My necklace! And I doubt that flask is her father’s! She stole it from another household. Let me see–”
“No!” Isabelle snapped her eyes open. “Don’t you touch that!”
The lady paused. “She’s deranged, keep her from me.” Then grabbed out for the flask.
“Don’t touch it, I say,” And Isabelle rushed, fingers outstretched, when a firm arm gripped her waist. “Let me go!”
“Miss, no. You mustn’t.” An urgent rasp in her ear. “Please, Miss Beaujeu. She wishes you to cause a scene and make matters worse. Do not indulge her. The duke will soon return.”
A butler’s innate wisdom and indomitable calm, and Isabelle hung in Morgan’s grip for a moment, knew he spoke the truth, for he was a servant also and understood full well the ways of nobles.
“I…yes. You are correct,” she whispered, straightening and pressing flat her hair before his arm released her. “Thank you, Morgan.” And she twisted to Lady Elen – placid but resolute.
“I did not steal that necklace, my lady. Someone has placed it there. That flask was my father’s.”
Lady Elen stepped forward but would not meet her eye. “I only have your word, Miss Beaujeu, against…evidence. I fear, we will have to summon the magistrate.”
