His jaw tightened. “I wasn’t aware I needed help.”
“You are not the only person in England this war has scarred, my lord.”
“How would you help me?” he bit out angrily. “My life is over.” He glimpsed at her lips. When his gaze touched hers, she knew with a certainty he recalled everything that had happened outside her house that long ago night. The intensity of his stare both frightened and thrilled her.
Isabel let out a shuddering breath. Alas, she’d learned her lesson where he was concerned. “You once told me you considered Will a brother. As his sister, I would be happy to—”
“Don’t—patronize me,” he growled, staring at her as though she had slapped him. “I’m not one of your bloody charity cases! If I were the man I was four years ago, you’d be thoroughly compromised by now.”
Isabel flinched, taken aback by the force of his fury. “Forgive me. I never—”
“Go home, Isabel, and don’t come back here ever again. The Gargoyle deserves neither your pity nor your ridicule.” He strode out of the sitting room, dismissing her altogether.
“Did I not instruct that no one was to be admitted inside this house?” The enraged bellow would send rats scurrying into holes in the walls, if there were any. Furious, Ashby pounded up the stairs, cursing under his breath. Damn that chit! Why did she have to burst into his life again?
Hurrying after him, Phipps gasped, “She threatened me with bodily harm, my lord.”
Ashby turned around so abruptly, his butler nearly tumbled down the stairs. “And another thing—didn’t I specifically tell you to keep the drapes drawn at all times?”
Phipps gripped the handrail, wheezing. “You did, my lord, but I couldn’t very well admit Miss Aubrey into a dark room, could I?”
“You shouldn’t have admitted her in the first place, you…abject meddler!” His temples throbbing, Ashby reached the second floor and headed for his bedchamber. He needed to…smash something, anything, to get the image of Isabel Aubrey standing in a halo of sunlight out of his head. Christ, had she changed! He’d hardly recognized her. Little Izzy was a beautiful doll with shining eyes and ribbons in her hair. The full-grown woman he’d just met was…heart-wrenching. Perhaps it wasn’t the nicest compliment a gentleman ever paid a lady, but that was exactly how it felt, seeing that vision of femininity brightening his parlor, her exquisite oval face framed with soft, sunny tendrils, her perfect pink lips parted in astonishment, her tall, lissome, shapely figure ripe for plucking. He couldn’t believe she actually suggested he consider her a sister. She didn’t think of him as a brother that long ago night, when he was young and whole. Bloody, bloody hell. She made him feel like a relic, a doddering old man broken beyond repair, when what he ached to do was finish that kiss she had begun seven years ago.
Ashby ripped the mask from his face and threw it over his shoulder, knowing his shadow would be there to catch it. “Is there a specific reason you’re tailing me around my own house? I assure you, I am perfectly capable of finding my way around.”
“I should like to clarify, if I may, that Dudley was all against impersonating you, my lord.”
Ashby snorted with disgust. “Where the devil is that intrepid valet of mine?”
“Gone into hiding, my lord.”
“Good. Keep him there.” Entering his bedchamber, Ashby strode to his dresser and pulled out a drawer. He rummaged around it, but didn’t find what he was looking for. Phipps coughed. Annoyed, Ashby glared at him. “Why are you still in my doorway, huffing and puffing?”
“I’d be in a much better form were I required to admit callers on occasion, my lord.”
“You’d be in a much better form if instead of putting on charades, you ran this household proficiently.” Ashby pulled out the second drawer and continued his search. Unsuccessfully.
Watching his master methodically take his dresser apart, Phipps said meekly, “Most men would be in a happier state of mind after an impromptu visit from a pretty butterfly, my lord.”
“A butterfly!” Ashby smirked. “She and her maid have all but done away with you.”
Phipps shrugged. “I did provide her with ample reasons to think ill of me.”
“You provide me with reasons daily, and yet I don’t take parasols and flower vases to your person. I am, however, seriously considering packing you off to Ashby Park.”
The butler started. “I wouldn’t dream of abandoning you, your lordship.”
“Pity.” Unable to locate what he was seeking, Ashby moved to search the closet. And the pest still hovered. “Speak your mind, Phipps, before I grow old and gray.”
“It concerns Miss Aubrey, my lord. I believe her purpose in coming here was not entirely impersonal.” Phipps produced a calling card out of his vest pocket.
“So you’ve been eavesdropping. What a shock.” Ashby pushed aside the superfine jackets hanging in the closet and bent down to search the boxes neatly stacked at the bottom. He opened one after another, crushing new cravats he would never wear and tossing them over his shoulder.
Phipps went on. “Miss Aubrey’s reaction upon discovering the charade was…well, she was quite distraught.”
“Obviously. She believed you and Dudley were a pair of criminals, Phipps.”
“That’s precisely my point, my lord. She should have been frightened, but instead, she was furious and—well, I couldn’t help noticing—genuinely grief-stricken.”
Not allowing his butler to see his expression, Ashby rationalized, “She lost her brother not too long ago. He was very dear to her. I was his closest friend, his commander.”
“Then why did you send her away…in tears, your lordship?”
He’d been half tempted to lock her in and swallow the key, but then he would have had to spend the rest of his life behind a mask. Sweet, kindhearted Isabel who took stray puppies off the streets would drop in a dead faint if she saw him unmasked. He was not a bloody charity case!
Gritting his teeth, Ashby confronted his butler. “Where the devil did you put it, Phipps?”
“Which item would that be, my lord?”
Ashby fixed his butler with an exasperated glare. “You know bloody well which item!”
The butler hurried forth. “In the trunk under your bed, where you keep your regimentals and medals, but do you think it’s wise, my lord? The last time you—”
“I’ll decide what is and isn’t wise in this house. Now bugger off!” Ashby nudged him aside and dropped to his knees before the bed. He pulled the heavy trunk and cracked the lid open. He hadn’t touched it in two years and his hands shook as he did so now.
“It’s wrapped in the shabraque, my lord.”
Ashby lunged to his feet. He turned Phipps around, pushed him out the door, and kicked it shut. On second thought, he turned the key in the lock. The daft man thought his duties included those of a nursemaid. It was the story of his life: servants who raised him, coddled him, saw to his every need, and never knew when to leave off. Exhaling haggardly, he dropped on the bed and stared at the open trunk. His regimentals were folded inside, with his fur cap, Mameluke saber, flintlock pistol, and his medals on top. The sight brought back a range of memories, few pleasant, most of them…unbearable. “What precisely are you hoping to find?” he asked himself.
The last time he performed this self-destructive idiocy, he ended up smashing every mirror in the house, except for one—his mother’s hand mirror. Ashby buried his arm in the folds of the shabraque, his ornate saddle cloth, and there it was. He took it out, not yet daring to look at it.
Three different