it seems to be someone who has more than a little knowledge of my life.”
Pen bit her lip. “Do you intend to try and find out who it is?”
Isabella raised her brows. “I shall not bother. A little more tittle-tattle can scarcely harm me.”
Pen put the paper aside. “So if you are not to write letters,” she said, “the seawater cure it is. Assuming that you do not expire from the excitement first!” She paused. “You do know that you will have Marcus Stockhaven as tenant at Salterton? Aunt Jane leased Salterton Cottage to him when he and cousin India were married.”
Isabella, whose teacup had been balanced precariously on the arm of her chair, now jumped so much that the liquid cascaded onto the floor.
“Marcus Stockhaven? Why did you not tell me before?”
She realized that her words had come out much more stridently than she had intended. Pen was staring at her, a little flushed.
“Well, upon my word! I had no idea that the matter would be of such great import to you after all these years,” she said. “Is it not Mr. Churchward’s job to acquaint you with your inheritance, rather than mine?” She paused, adding more lightly, “Marcus has seldom visited Salterton since Aunt Jane died. You need have no fear of meeting him unexpectedly, if that is what concerns you.”
“I beg your pardon,” Isabella said, still flustered. Her pulse was thrumming and her heart beating in her throat, and it was the mere mention of Marcus’s name that had done it. God forbid that she should meet him again. She would be a quivering wreck. But of course, she would not. She reminded herself that he was in prison. Perhaps the tenancy of Salterton had been a problem for him. Since he did not own the house, he would not have been able to sell it to settle his debts.
She used the opportunity provided by the spilled tea to turn away from Pen and gather up her shattered control. “I did not intend to sound so sharp, Pen. I was merely surprised.” She looked up, as flushed as Pen from surprise and guilty conscience. “I do apologize.”
Pen looked evasive. “Oh, it is nothing to the purpose. It must have slipped the minds of both Aunt Jane and myself to mention it in our correspondence.”
Isabella hesitated. There was an odd tone in Pen’s voice and an odd feeling in the room, as though something had been left unsaid. She waited but Pen merely avoided her gaze and fidgeted with her teaspoon, smearing honey over the saucer.
“I infer that Mr. Churchward did not mention the matter to you at all?” Pen added.
Isabella’s shoulders slumped. She recalled that on her first meeting with Churchward after she had returned to England, the lawyer had indeed attempted to tell her something of the encumbrances upon her new estate, but she had waved the matter aside. The issue of Ernest’s debts had become far more pressing than any other matter and she had forgotten all about the details of Salterton. It looked as though it would prove to be an expensive oversight. It seemed that she was tied to Marcus Stockhaven in more ways than she had anticipated, and none of them were welcome.
“No, he did not,” she said. “How provoking!”
Pen raised her eyebrows. “That Churchward forgot to tell you?”
“No! Yes!” Isabella collected herself. “I do recall him mentioning something about a tenant, but I did not pursue it.”
“Oh well…” Pen seemed anxious to let the subject go. “I imagine you will not be much troubled by Marcus. Salterton Cottage was damaged by fire a few months ago and is uninhabitable. Besides, Marcus chooses to live elsewhere—or to travel. One seldom sees him in society. I am not even sure where he is now.”
Imprisoned in the Fleet for debt, Isabella thought.
She swallowed a variety of uncomfortable feelings and kept quiet. Her overriding emotion was a deep and heartfelt desire for Marcus to be kept under lock and key. If he were ever to be free…the very thought of it was sufficient to make her insides quake.
At the same time, she was puzzled. What had happened to render Marcus’s financial state so dire? She had asked him but he had declined to explain and she had not pressed. Now she wished she had.
“I imagine you will not be much troubled by him…”
Truth to tell, she was already far more troubled by Marcus Stockhaven than Pen would ever know.
Her sister was fidgeting with her cup.
“I wish I could help you, Bella,” Pen was saying. “Financially, I mean. I know this is not how you would have wished your return to England to be.”
Isabella shook her head. She appreciated her sister’s generosity but Pen subsisted on next to nothing as it was. Their father had left her a small allowance, enough to permit her to live quietly in an unfashionable corner of London, but there was certainly not enough to make any kind of impression on Ernest’s debts.
“You are all kindness, Penelope,” she said, smiling, “but my situation is not too dreadful. I have managed to stave off bankruptcy for a few months and once this house is sold, I shall be solvent again and able to afford to live in the country if I am careful. In fact my plans are falling out rather well.”
Rather well if one discounted the small inconvenience of an unwanted husband, she amended silently. She made a mental note to ask Mr. Churchward for the particulars of annulment at once. She hoped that he might be able to speak of matters such as non-consummation of the marriage without too much personal embarrassment.
Pen’s chatter recalled her thoughts.
“I warrant that some country gentleman will snap you up,” her sister was saying. “A man of fortune and standing in Salterton society, who has great plans for the development of the place as a resort and wishes for a titled wife to add to his prestige.”
“God forbid,” Isabella said, shuddering. “I fear I would be too outrageous for such an upright man.”
Her sister looked at her. “True,” she said, after a moment. “There is something—” she hesitated “—something too sophisticated about you to sit comfortably in a small town with a small-town husband. You would always do something scandalous and shock the local worthies. I know you.”
“I am not scandalous!” Isabella objected. “Ernest was scandalous. I am quite…”
“Quite?”
“Quite respectable.”
“Doing it too brown, Bella,” Pen said with relish. “It is true that you are not disreputable in the sense that Ernest was, but being a princess has conferred certain privileges on you that make you dismissive of society’s rules.”
“I insist that you give an example,” Isabella said indignantly.
“Very well.” Pen seemed calmly assured of the truth of her assertion. “You put your elbows on the dinner table. You address the servants directly as though they were real people. You have been known to attend a sparring match at the Fives Court. You have ridden one of those newfangled hobbyhorse wheeled contraptions, which no lady could consider genteel—”
Isabella waved a dismissive hand. “Such matters are scarcely outrageous!”
“You told the Duchess of Saint Just that she treated her niece worse than a scullery maid—”
“Well, so she did. She forced the child to starch the linen until her fingers blistered!”
“And you told Prince Bazalget that he was an old lecher to consider marrying a seventeen-year-old girl.”
Isabella opened her eyes very wide. “I have strong feelings on such a subject.”
“Understandably,” Pen said. “But you do admit the accuracy of what I am saying?”
Isabella deflated a little. “I suppose so. Manners do not make this princess, do they?”
Pen