‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me I look such a fright, Bessie! she exclaimed the instant she had returned to the others. ‘Not only is half my hair dangling about my ears, I’d flour on the end of my nose!’
Bessie almost found herself gaping. In all the dozen or so long years she had known her young mistress, not once had she ever heard her voice the slightest concern over her appearance. Furthermore, she very much doubted the first two callers were behind this surprising show of disquiet over grooming.
‘Chances are he never noticed,’ she returned above Josh and his sister’s impish chuckles. For all the effect the assurance had, however, she might well have saved her breath.
‘Not noticed …?’ Isabel was momentarily lost for words. ‘Lord, Bessie! Where have your wits gone begging? I’ve no notion where or what Lord Blackwood has been doing in recent years. But by the look of him I’ll lay odds he hasn’t been enjoying life’s luxuries. What’s more, I’d wager those blue eyes of his miss nothing!’
Isabel’s assessment was remarkably accurate. As it happened his lordship hadn’t enjoyed a comfortable existence during the past half-decade or so out in the Peninsula, spying for Wellington. Working mostly alone, he had needed his wits about him at all times, and had become intensely observant as a consequence.
Determined to discover the answers to several puzzling questions, Lord Blackwood returned directly to the Manor, and sent for his aged butler, the person he considered most able to satisfy his curiosity over certain matters.
He awaited his arrival in the library, which had been the first room in the house to be redecorated in readiness for his eventual return. Although age-old tomes still completely lined the shelves on two of the walls, everything else was new. His lordship had even ordered the painting of a hunting scene, which had graced the area above the hearth for many a long year, removed and replaced with one of his adored mother resting her arm about the shoulders of a handsome boy with jet-black locks and strikingly blue eyes. The pose instantly conjured up a much more recent memory, and his lordship smiled to himself as he poured a glass of wine.
The door behind him opened, and he turned to see his aged butler, who had now officially retired and was remaining at the Manor only until such time as his promised cottage on the estate was ready for habitation.
Knowing Bunting was a rigid upholder of the old order, whereby a servant knew his place and never attempted to get on a more familiar footing with his master, his lordship neither offered him a glass of wine, nor the chance to rest his aching joints in the comfort of one of the easy chairs. Any such consideration, he felt sure, would have made the retired major-domo feel distinctly ill at ease, and therefore very likely less forthcoming with information.
Consequently, maintaining the status quo, Lord Blackwood took up a stance before the fire, and rested one arm along the mantelshelf. Outwardly he appeared completely at ease in his surroundings, every inch the relaxed, aristocratic master of the fine Restoration mansion, even though he had utterly loathed his ancestral home as a youth.
‘I recall, Bunting, shortly after my long-awaited return here yesterday, you mentioning that you are acquainted with Miss Mortimer,’ he said, getting straight to the point of the interview. ‘Naturally, I’m curious about her. Not only was she instrumental in clearing my name, but also, as you may possibly be aware, she has been responsible for my wards these past months.’
‘Although Miss Mortimer didn’t make the children’s true identities commonly known, sir, she did confide in me,’ the aged butler confirmed, before frowning slightly. ‘I believe the children have been happy enough living with her, sir,’ he then added, having quickly decided that this must surely be what his master wished to know. ‘At least I’ve not heard anything to the contrary. She brought them up to the house a few weeks back, and asked me to show them round, as it would be their home sooner or later. She wouldn’t look round herself, sir. Not one to take liberties, Miss Mortimer isn’t. Never known her attempt to venture any further than the kitchen and my rooms on the ground floor, sir, in all the times she came up to the Manor last winter, when I was poorly. If it hadn’t been for Miss Isabel and that housekeeper of hers, I think the good Lord would have taken me. She’s an angel, sir, that’s what she is … an angel!’
His lordship could not forbear a smile as his mind’s eye conjured up a clear image of the so-called angel brandishing a serviceable pistol in her right hand. And appearing as if she was more than capable of using it too!
‘Evidently a lady of many contrasting talents,’ he murmured, though loud enough for the butler to hear.
‘Well, sir, the poor young lady was obliged to manage for herself from quite a young age. Seem to remember she lost her mother a year or so after the family moved into the house, sir,’ he revealed, falling into a reminiscing mood. He cast his master an uncertain glance. ‘Then, not long after the terrible happenings here, the good doctor took bad, and poor Miss Mortimer, little more than a slip of a girl herself at the time, was obliged to care for him.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s not had an easy life, sir. Maybe if her mother had lived, she might have met and married some nice young gentleman by now. But as things turned out …’
His lordship had little difficulty in conjuring up an image of a face boasting more character than beauty; of a pair of large grey-green eyes whose direct gaze some might consider faintly immodest, of a determined little chin above which a perfectly shaped, if slightly overgenerous, mouth betrayed a lively sense of humour, even when confronted by adversity. When compared to her beautiful young cousin, she did perhaps pale into insignificance. Yet it was strange that it was the face framed in the disordered chestnut locks that should be more firmly imprinted in his memory.
And yet not so strange, he countered silently. After all, he owed that young woman a great deal, perhaps more than he might ever be able to repay. He felt a sudden stab of irritation. That didn’t alter the fact, though, it had been grossly impertinent of her, not to say outrageous, to have embroiled him in an affair that had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with him. Had it been anyone else he might well have just walked away and left her to her own devices. Yet he had found he could not withstand the look of entreaty in those large eyes of hers.
He shook his head, wondering at himself. ‘I must be getting old,’ he murmured.
‘Beg pardon, sir?’
‘Nothing, Bunting, merely thinking aloud.’ He fortified himself from the contents of his glass whilst he gathered his thoughts and focused on what he wished to know. ‘Now, the cousin who’s living with Miss Mortimer has been acting as governess to my wards, so I understand. The girl, Alice, seems to have become quite attached to her.’
‘That wouldn’t surprise me, my lord, though I couldn’t say for sure,’ the aged servant responded, scrupulously truthful as always. ‘I’ve only ever met the young lady once, and then only briefly. But she seemed a very gentle-mannered young woman. What I can tell you, sir, is the boy is very fond of Miss Isabel. Why, I’ve seen her time and again striding across the park towards the home wood, Master Joshua skipping happily alongside, and that great dog of hers not too far behind.
‘Not that I think they were up to no good, my lord,’ he hurriedly added, suddenly realising he may have revealed more than he should have done.
The Viscount, however, merely smiled to himself before dismissing the servant with a nod.
The following morning Isabel spent far more time over her appearance than she had ever been known to do before, a circumstance that certainly didn’t escape the keen eye of the housekeeper, when her young mistress finally came down to the kitchen shortly before eleven.
The new gown her cousin had made for her suited her wonderfully well, emphasising the perfection of a slender, shapely figure, the colour enhancing the green flecks in her large eyes. Around her shoulders she had draped one of her late mother’s fringed shawls, a stylish accessory she rarely donned, and her radiant, dark locks, although not artistically arranged, were for once neatly confined in a simple chignon.
Bessie almost found herself gaping at the transformation.