Deceived. Nicola Cornick
tasteless opulence. Isabella found it disconcerting that someone should know so much about her life.
“Miss Penelope Standish, Your Serene Highness.”
The butler’s smooth tones broke into her thoughts. Belton spoke with the air of a man announcing news in somewhat dubious taste. It had been clear to Isabella from the beginning that Belton was a servant of discrimination, who felt it might be slightly beneath his dignity to work for a family where the genes of King George’s fishmonger were combined with the poor reputation of a third-rate European prince. After all, he had served the most high-ranking families of the land. This could only be construed as a comedown.
The butler’s tone was not lost on the young lady who entered the library, for she gave him a twinkling smile. When he responded with a faint but irresistible twitch of the lips, she went into a peal of laughter.
“Good evening, Belton. I always have the impression that you wish you had a respectable duchess to announce.”
“Madam…” the butler said repressively. “It is scarcely my place to express a preference.”
Pen gave him another melting smile, very like her sister’s, and came forward to kiss Isabella.
“You look very doleful this evening, Your Serene Highness,” she said. “Have you lost a guinea and found a groat?”
“Please drop the Serene Highness nonsense,” Isabella besought. “I have asked Belton time and time again, but he insists that it is not appropriate merely to call me madam.”
“I should think not,” Pen said cheerfully, throwing herself down on the sofa with hoydenish abandon. “The least you can do is give your servants the gratification of addressing you properly if they have the privilege of working for a princess. There is nothing worse than a lady of consequence who will not accept her own importance, you know.”
“You talk a great deal of nonsense,” Isabella said. Nevertheless, she felt cheered. Until Pen had arrived she had been drinking a solitary cup of tea and staring blankly at the newspapers, wondering what the Gentlemen’s Athenian Mercury would make of the real truth. She had importuned a former lover to marry her; she had contracted the marriage in the Fleet Prison and she intended to have it annulled as soon as she could. If the editors of the papers knew the true story, their gossip columns would likely burst into flames.
“You look tired,” Pen was saying solicitously.
“I have not slept,” Isabella said with a sigh. “It puts me out of countenance.”
It was not in fact accurate to describe the last night as sleepless. Her bouts of wakefulness had been punctuated by broken dreams about Marcus of such astoundingly erotic content that she had been dizzy and aroused upon awakening, unable to banish him from her mind. She had been forced to dredge up her Latin declensions in order to try and bore herself to calm. It was the third night it had happened and thinking of it now was sufficient to put her out of countenance all over again.
“Are we not to attend the Duchess of Fordyce’s rout?” Pen inquired, stripping off her gloves. She gestured to her rose-pink gown. “Here I am dusting down the only dress in my wardrobe worthy of the occasion and I find you sitting here with a face like a December morning.” Her comical expression faded. “Oh! I forgot—you were to see Mr. Churchward this week about Ernest’s debts, were you not? Was it so very bad?”
“Worse than very bad,” Isabella confirmed.
Pen made a tutting sound. “Then I am surprised not to find you at your packing,” she said. “Was Mr. Churchward’s advice not to return to the continent?”
“It was one of the suggestions that he made,” Isabella said evasively. She did not intend to tell Pen about her marriage of convenience. This was no altruistic move designed to spare her sister the shock, but sprang from the certain knowledge that Pen would disapprove and, further, would express that disapproval in very pithy terms. And since Isabella intended to dissolve the marriage before the ink was dry on the certificate, there was no need for Pen to know anything. It would have been nice to have a confidante, but in recent years Isabella had become used to keeping her own counsel and, besides, she knew the one thing it would be dangerous to discuss was Marcus Stockhaven.
“This house is to be sold,” she continued. “Not that I regret that particularly, since it was Ernest’s and he furnished it in his customary deplorable taste.”
Pen looked around at the ostentatious golden ornaments and flamboyant decor. “It would be appropriate for a bawdy house,” she conceded, “but I cannot favor it for a residence.”
“Mr. Churchward thinks that a nabob may buy it,” Isabella said gloomily. “Home from home, so to speak.”
“A sound idea.” Pen reached over and rang the bell for another cup of tea. “And if you need additional funds,” she added, “you could sell off those gaudy knickknacks Ernest bought one by one.”
Isabella shook her head. “They are worthless. Just as my jewelry is mostly paste, so are the ornaments all made of gilt. The Di Cassilis treasures were pawned years ago to pay for Ernest’s pleasures.”
Pen sighed. “How very frustrating. You must have been tempted to go upstairs, cut up all of Ernest’s English clothes and throw them into the streets out of sheer revenge.”
Isabella frowned. “I cannot destroy those,” she said. “I need to sell them.”
The door opened to admit a footman carrying a tea tray with a fresh pot, a china cup and several floury scones.
Pen poured. “Scones at this time of the evening!” she said delightedly. “What a marvelous way to fortify oneself for a ball.” She stirred honey slowly into her tea. “Where will you live when the house is sold, Bella?”
“I intend to live quietly at Salterton Hall on the money that Aunt Jane left me,” Isabella said. “I rather fancy becoming a recluse.”
Pen, who was about to take a mouthful of tea, almost choked.
“You have windmills in your head, Bella, if you imagine that retiring to a seaside resort will turn you into a recluse,” she declared. “Surely you realize that you will always remain an object of curiosity, especially in a small society like that of Salterton?”
“After racketing around Europe in Ernest’s shadow, I assure you that a little peace and quiet is what I require,” Isabella said. “I am persuaded that Salterton will not find me in the least bit scandalous or even interesting.”
Pen gave a disbelieving snort. “And I assure you that they will. If I had any money I would bet on it.” The derisive note faded from her voice. “You will become bored, you know, Bella. It may seem appealing now to settle in a quiet backwater, but in a short while you will be looking for occupation.”
“I am sure that I will find something with which to occupy myself,” Isabella said comfortably. She had thought long and hard about her future and the idea of a quiet retirement was hugely attractive. “The sea cure, the circulating library, the visitors from Town…All will provide me with distraction.”
Pen’s face lit with a smile. “You could always write letters, I suppose. I remember that you were a prodigiously interesting correspondent during your marriage.”
Isabella grimaced. “I thank you, but no.” She tapped the newspaper. “It seems that some enterprising person has already chosen to profit from my activities. It is only a matter of time before my letters make it into print. It is most vexing,” she added. “Such a shoddy little publication, as well!”
“Would it have been better had the gossip been printed in the Times?” Pen inquired.
“Certainly. One gets a better standard of scandal in those sorts of papers.” Isabella sighed gustily. “It cannot be helped. My entire married life has been dogged by quizzes and gossips. But you will forgive me if I do not set pen to paper again.”
Pen’s brow was