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Chapter 16
Isaac stood before the hearth,seeing nothing but the fire licking the air...and the way Lady Nightingale’s face had looked all scrunched up with ashes across her cheekbones and eyes. The way her expression had soothed beneath his hand, and the surprise and horror when she’d realized he knew.
Lady Nightingale had been Mr. Allen all along.
Devil take him. Why hadn’t he seen it from the start?
Mr. Allen’s boyish face, the clear lack of whiskers no matter the time of day, the thin frame. How had he been so completely taken in—again—by a Grant? Isaac ground his jaw and shut his eyes. He knew she’d be trouble the moment he’d learned who she was. He should have followed his initial instinct and steered clear of Lady Nightingale and her supposed cousin.
As frustrated as he was at Lady Nightingale, he was equally upset with himself. It was his own fault he’d been duped. He’d known better, and yet, he’d allowed himself to become friends with Mr. Allen. He’d allowed himself to wonder if Lady Nightingale wasn’t quite different from her father. Well, she’d certainly shown him that such wasnotthe case. She was her father’s daughter, through and through.
“There you are,” Aunt Margarette said, leaning heavily on a cane as she moved into the room. “We best be going if we don’t want to be late.”
Isaac nodded but didn’t move otherwise.
Aunt Margarette moved up beside him and rested a hand on his arm. “Are youcertainyou are all right?”
She’d asked him that same question countless times since he’d stormed back into Cresthearth Manor three days ago. She asked whenever another letter from Evergreen arrived; Lady had Nightingale said she wished to explain, but he wasn’t willing to listen. She asked whenever he turned agitated at Parsons expounding on how thrilled he was Mrs. Turner was recovering and Miss Turner had accepted his hand. She asked whenever he stayed silent too long or stared out the window at the drifting snow. He didn’t tell her that his mind too easily moved to building a snowman, to dozens of engaging conversations, and to one wholly upending kiss.
He still couldn’t believe he hadn’t put the pieces together before now.
“Most women wore white paint on their faces when you were younger, right?” he asked, fully aware that the question would appear out of the blue to his aunt.
Sure enough, her eyes widened slightly. “Yes, it was all the rage when I first had my coming out.”
“I always imagined it would be easy to tell if a woman wore paint or not. Is that not the case?”
Aunt Margarette still appeared confused, but blessedly answered. “Normally that was true. But once in a while, there would be a woman with the right receipt and the right skill and no one—sometimes not even her own husband—would suspect she wore white paint.”
Isaac pulled his lips to the side. Apparently, either Lady Nightingale herself held such a talent, or someone close to her did.
“Why the questions regarding women’s white paint?” Aunt Margarette asked.
“No reason, just random curiosity.” She wouldn’t believe it—he knew her too well to assume otherwise. But with any luck, she wouldn’t press the point either. Just to be safe, however, Isaac extended his arm her direction. “You are right; we’d best be off immediately. Parsons would never forgive me if I showed up late to his engagement party.”
Soon, Isaac, Aunt Margarette, and Robins were all sitting in a fine coach. The drive to the Turners’ home was short, and though snow fell, it was light and proved no real danger.
“I expect Miss Dowding will be in attendance tonight,” Robins said, wagging his eyebrows Isaac’s direction.
Would she be? He hadn’t really considered it. “I suppose so,” he said.
Robins studied him closely. “Now that Parsons has spoken for his lady, you’d best do so soon as well.”
He could feel not only Robins’s careful eye on him, but Aunt Margarette’s as well. He might as well tell them; it wasn’t as though it would be a secret for long. “I have decided not to pursue a match with Miss Dowding.”
“Oh?” Aunt Margarette exclaimed while, at the same time, Robins said, “You what?”
Did they really have to get into this right now? He was rather preoccupied with other matters. Still, the look on their faces told him he wasn’t getting out so easily. Isaac drew in a breath and faced them. “I can no longer deny that my heart truly isn’t engaged in the furthering of our connection, and to seek one regardless would make me...a fortune hunter.” The words he’d shared with Lady Nightingale a couple of days after he’d kissed her hadn’t left him. All she’d said about fortune hunters and what it felt like to be married to a man who’d only wanted her wealth. Granted, he’d thought he was speaking to a gentleman—to Mr. Allen—at the time. But what she’d said had struck him forcibly that day.
Once he learned of Mr. Allen’s true identity, her words had carried even more weight.
Through his association with Lady Nightingale, especially his conversations with Mr. Allen, Isaac had come to find a marriage of convenience held no interest for him. He wasn’t the same person, and he could no longer do what he’d set out to accomplish.
Isaac cast his aunt a sideways glance—those in this carriage weren’t exactly free of blame either.
“I suppose,” he said at length, since both his companions were clearly waiting for more of a reply, “the thought of marrying only for wealth has lost its gleam.”
“Whatareyou planning to marry for then?” Robins asked, disbelief heavy in his tone. “For poverty’s sake?”
