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Chapter Nine

J acob was distantly aware he was in the woods surrounding Eversea House when he at last pulled his mare to a halt.

He slid from the saddle, staggered, then dropped to his knees and retched as if he’d been poisoned.

He swiped his hand across the back of his mouth, then sank down onto the long grass and rolled over on his back.

His eyes burned from the breakneck gallop into the wind. For a blessed moment he was captive to physical sensation only: his breath moving in and out in ragged gusts. The blood ringing in his ears. His heart like a fist thrown against his ribcage over and over and over.

The smell of grass and earth after weeks at sea was like oxygen and he gulped it desperately in.

Finally, he wrapped his arms around his body, and for a long, long time, he remained as still as a dignitary lying in state while inside him, ugly, jagged emotions collided like flotsam on a boiling sea.

And to think he’d believed he’d come home a man.

He was neither man nor boy. He was something worse: he was a knave.

So what if he had fought pirates and survived illness and witnessed death? It seemed he had learned nothing of importance. It was all for naught if it meant losing Isolde.

Pure hate surged and bubbled up from the morass of things he felt. Was it for Redmond? Certainly.

For Isolde?

No. Never, never, never.

Mostly he hated himself . For the absurd hubris of leaving such a woman behind for any amount of time. What the bloody hell had he been thinking?

And yet: Had he really asked too much of her? Was waiting for someone you love ever too much?

Did she simply fall out of love with him, and Redmond was there to swoop in?

A fresh wave of sick horror coursed through him at this notion.

If this were true, why then would her face go incandescent with joy when she’d seen him standing by the willow?

And she’d recoiled as if he’d slapped her when he’d told her he nearly died.

And as he sifted ruthlessly through the murk of his emotions, he encountered the worst of his suspicions.

In his heart of hearts, he was certain whatever lay between Isolde and Isaiah was not frivolous.

It was real feeling.

This realization sank through him like a long, slow machete slice.

If he could have blamed Redmond for trifling with her in order to best him, maybe he could have borne it.

He was glad now that he hadn’t heard the content of the conversation.

Because he’d seen how their bodies canted toward each other when they spoke.

He’d witnessed Isaiah Redmond’s softly enthralled expression.

He’d seemed so at peace in his skin, so illuminated and animated by some spirit he’d never publicly shown, it had been like looking at a different man entirely.

A man Jacob might have actually liked.

And this made it so much worse.

Jacob was a betting man only when he was fairly certain of a win.

And he would wager Redmond was in love with Isolde.

The realization made his gorge rise again.

Was she in love with Redmond? Had she merely been lying to Jacob to placate him?

To what end?

Jacob pressed his palms against his eyes and moaned.

He stayed like that until the sweat chilled on his body and something tickled his cheek.

His sticky eyelids fluttered open. Two huge brown eyes were staring into his.

He lifted a hand to touch the soft nose of his concerned mare. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

It wasn’t.

Ironically, the one resource he could call upon he hadn’t learned in the West Indies or at Cambridge. He’d been born with it: courage.

He would need it tonight.

Because he would be going to the assembly to see if he could discover the truth.

On a clear day, from a certain room at the very top of the Redmond house, one could see a shining sliver of ocean, glints of the Ouse as it meandered through the undulating green of the Sussex Hills, and here and there, portions of the roads that wound through town.

And if Isaiah angled his head just so, he could also see the roof of Miss Marietta Endicott’s Academy.

He’d driven the curricle dutifully home without saying good-bye to Isolde, but his neck still felt stiff from the effort not to turn around to look at her.

It had felt churlish to simply abandon her without a word.

Inwardly, resentment, even anger, still simmered at the way his sister had essentially collected him.

He hadn’t said a word to Diana on their journey home. All the questions he wanted to ask her—how did you know? What are your suspicions?—would simply have incriminated him.

What are you doing, Isaiah? He still didn’t know.

He’d gone straight up to this room because afforded him a God-like view over the tops of the trees flanking the rose garden, and the road alongside them.

Any minute he might catch a glimpse of the carriage carrying Fanchette and her parents.

He could feel his pulse in his throat.

A few moments ago, he’d seen nearly a dozen women dressed in spring frocks promenading alongside each other toward the rose garden, trailed by footmen bearing hampers.

His sister was at the head of the parade, gesticulating and chatting the way she did when she was excited or happy about something.

Despite their earlier conversation, he was pleased she was having a nice time.

Miss Maria Sylvaine was strolling—not galloping—alongside Lady Fennimore’s daughter. But both were craning their heads as though searching for someone. Then she stopped and turned back toward the house, wringing her hands.

Why wasn’t Isolde with them? His heart was beating sickeningly now.

Where was she? Was she coming?

Then a flash of white near the road made his breath snag. Was it her?

It was! He recognized the way she moved the way he’d recognize a bird by the way it flew. Isolde had just slipped through the trees edging the road, heading for the path he’d shown her into the rose garden.

He pressed his fingertips to the windowpane.

Why on earth was she alone? And late?

He lost her for a moment to the shadows thrown by the trees; he found her again her by the gleam of her bonnet ribbons.

At least she emerged fully in the light, on the path at the far end of the garden.

Suddenly she stopped abruptly and stood frozen.

And then dropped her face into her hands.

She remained that way, as still as one of the statues in the garden.

His heart lurched. Something was terribly wrong.

His muscles tensed in preparation to bolt to her.

“Pretty girl.”

He jerked violently.

Christ. He hadn't even heard his father's approach.

“Then again, everyone is pretty at that age,” his father continued jovially. “Bloody hell, son, I was pretty at that age. Look at the trees out there, Isaiah.”

Isaiah remained rigid, staring at his father in shock.

“ Look ,” his father commanded sharply.

Isaiah managed to dutifully turn his head toward the window.

Isolde had disappeared from view.

He was relieved. As if both he and she were safer if she was no longer visible to her father.

God help him, what expression had he been wearing when he was watching her?

Had his father seen it?

How long had his father been watching him?

Isaiah nearly flinched when his father’s hand fell weightily on his shoulder.

“All those leaves on the trees. So pretty.

And new. And the same . Indistinguishable from each other in their prettiness.

Like most young girls. And most young girls, if they're lucky, will age into comfortable, rather squashy, motherly women, all nearly indistinguishable from each other.

We love those kinds of women! They are the bedrock—nay, the featherbeds!

—of England! They help make our greatness possible.

But that kind of 'pretty' is ephemeral and common , Isaiah.”

Common . The word thrummed with pitying scorn.

He gave Isaiah's shoulder a squeeze, then dropped his voice into the confiding, impassioned hush of a man imparting state secrets.

“Now....the value of r eal beauty is power.

A beautiful wife—a wealthy, exquisitely well-bred, coveted woman, that once-in-a-generation type, the kind your mother was—confers more power to an already powerful man.

There is no circumstance a man can't conquer with a woman like that at his side.

And the envy and admiration of other men—envy and admiration are yet more tools, don't you see, that a clever man can use in business—to persuade, coerce, to beguile.

Imagine how you'll look walking into any ballroom with a woman like that by your side. All the eyes...on you. Wanting to be you.”

It was quite a speech, as his father's speeches went. Isaiah wasn't unaffected.

For the first time, he wondered why his father so badly needed him to believe it.

He'd always assumed he was being taught about life by a master. And why would he, for instance, question what his fencing master, or chess teacher, taught him? Why should he feel anything but gratitude?

“Was?” He said finally.

His father blinked. “I beg your pardon?'

“You said the kind mother 'was',” he repeated evenly.

He knew a dark, small satisfaction when his father hesitated a heartbeat, clearly nonplussed.

“Yes. Still is, of course,” he replied smoothly.

“I thought beauty was in the eye of beholder, and so forth.” Isaiah furrowed his brow.

His father's jovial expression devolved to cold incredulity, then to disdain, then to slackly dismissive. As if he'd always known, deep down, that Isaiah was bound to disappoint him.

Isaiah braced against a reflexive clutch of panic. He knew it for the tactic it was, but God help him, it found its mark every time. If nothing else, he had learned from his father how effectively someone's love and admiration could be wielded as a weapon against them.

“Surely you're not implying that you find Miss Fanchette Tarbell something other than beautiful, Isaiah.”

Unease uncoiled like a snake in Isaiah's gut.

Had anyone said something to his father about Isolde Sylvaine?