Page 8 of The Lover’s Eye

“Is Pemberton hereabouts?” Giles asked the footman as he handed over his greatcoat.

“In the study, my lord.”

Giles nodded, still glued in place as the footman led Isobel up the stairs. Her hands fidgeted behind her back, and she didn’t give him a backward glance.

Giles drew a steadying breath before proceeding down the hall.

He and Pemberton had been acquaintances for as long as he could remember, and friends since they’d been sent off to attend the same university in boyhood.

Until the last year or so, Giles had never questioned the integrity of their friendship.

Pemberton was known for being an entitled, grumpy arse, but he was still the man who had defended Giles during those university years from hell.

Who had cut him loose when bullies had tied him to a tree.

Who had throttled the same group of hellions when they’d snuck laudanum into Giles’s tea, and hacked off locks of his hair with a dull knife, planning to display the curious silver curls for what they were: a shameful curiosity, when found on a boy of five and ten.

Pemberton was gruff and unrelenting, yes, but he was also Giles’s only real friend.

They could go weeks or months without talking, and neither one would take notice.

They could have a day of shooting or cards, and part ways amicably, with no need for deep conversation on personal affairs or parliamentary business.

It was only recently that this dynamic had shifted, and Pemberton had mentioned all those decade-old favors he’d accumulated, keen to see them repaid.

Giles tried, for the millionth time, to put the memory from his mind.

It was a business settled now. He might be someone who thrived in reclusive solitude, but that didn’t mean he was incapable of experiencing loneliness.

That he didn’t want to keep his one friend.

Especially now that this friend is my link to her.

The study doors were cracked open and smelled of fresh paint. Giles rapped on one, half expecting the white gloss to transfer to his knuckles.

“There you are, good fellow,” Pemberton called in monotone bass. “She already off to see her sister?”

“Yes.” Giles entered the room. It seemed every time he came to Shoremoss in the months since Pemberton’s marriage, things were altered. This time it was new damask silk papering—a rich cobalt blue, redolent of the sea—and a rearrangement of furniture.

“What do you make of the new walls?” Pemberton asked with a snort. “Absolutely bloody pointless. Don’t ask me how much she spent on the paper. Didn’t let her touch my damn chairs though—something’s got to be sacred, hm?”

Giles smiled, having little opinion on stylistic furnishings. For his own part, he liked the crisp familiarity of the changes his mother and grandmother had made to Cambo House ages ago. “How is Lady Pemberton doing? Her sister tells me she’s ill.”

The marquess rose from behind his desk, dismissing the concern with a hand. “You know what it’s about. She’ll be fine. As for me …”

Giles thought he might know what it was about, though he most ardently wished he didn’t.

“So, how was that for you, good man?” Pemberton gave a dry laugh, showing short, straight teeth. “Having a young woman up and interpose on your fine bachelor’s quarters?”

Giles took the proffered seat, a large chair of green leather. It creaked beneath his weight, and he slung an arm across the back of it. “I confess,” he said, “I was cross at first, but my company proved to not be of a bad sort.”

The marquess’s light brown eyebrows rose. Reactions were not often coaxed from his face, which was made of thick skin that looked sun-tanned and brine-splashed year-round. Despite his station, Pemberton was a man of the sea. While his skin might have shown it, his dandified outfit belied it.

“I say ,” he remarked, reaching for a decanter of brandy and two glasses. “Has the young Miss Ridgeway gone and caught your eye?”

Giles only lifted his shoulder and took a sip from the glass presented to him.

Pemberton sat on the arm of an upholstered settee and crossed his tasseled boot over one knee. “Although, ‘young’ might not be the word any longer,” he mused. “She’s two and twenty if I’m not mistaken. Biding her time until she must marry that Sempill lad—best act promptly, my friend.”

Giles lowered the glass from his lips, his expression growing guarded. “I was going to ask if she had any attachments. It did not seem to me—”

“Oh, her grouchy old Pa drew her marriage lines before she was out of leading strings. Him and that wretched Sempill woman.”

Giles was no fool about women; he had seen the interest in her eyes—and her attempts to fight it—and suddenly felt he had been misled. “She mentioned no such arrangement,” he said, taking a long sip.

Pemberton snorted dryly. “I’d find it damned strange if she did, wouldn’t you? Unless the pair of you had some existing acquaintance I’m unaware of.”

“You think Lord Ridgeway would not hear of another suit, then?”

Pemberton’s wide mouth stretched into a knowing smile. He was enjoying this conversation far too well. “I think you’ve been out of company for too long, old fellow, if you’re in such a fix after a day with the girl. Need I remind you how cautious you were with—”

“I thought we agreed to never discuss that again,” Giles interrupted, his voice cold. “Besides … Miss Ridgeway is nothing like her.”

He had interjected in time to spare himself hearing the name spoken, but it swam in his head instead. Aurelia .

She had been different from Miss Ridgeway, but more than that, Aurelia Gouldsmith had been different from him. All her strengths countered Giles’s weaknesses: an articulate ray of sun in social settings; a strong voice with unwavering opinions; a decisive mind that didn’t bow from a challenge.

Giles sometimes wondered what the devil their marriage would’ve looked like, but mostly, his thoughts about Aurelia had settled into ones of regret.

He’d never realized at the time that there was something admirable in her boldness; that he had been intimidated by it.

She wouldn’t want all of society pitying her—or him, either.

And yet, Giles did. She had deserved much better.

Pemberton shrugged, finishing off the contents of his glass. “Lord Ridgeway’s a crotchety old fellow. A man of your worth he might consider, but there’s no telling with these old ones, set in their ways as they are.”

The men passed into a moment’s silence. The nature of their conversation had put a damper on Giles’s mood; it was usually his place to counteract the marquess’s irritable disposition.

The sound of Pemberton’s enameled snuffbox opening broke the silence.

“I do recall when that curmudgeon accepted my offer for Marriane, he said he was glad that ‘ the business over his daughters had been hammered out’. Said he was out of the game, or some other such nonsense. I got the impression he was glad to be done fooling with suitors such as myself.”

Giles eyed the mantel clock, suddenly restless in his skin. “Right.”

?

As Isobel followed the footman upstairs, she expected to be taken to her sister’s bedchamber. Her pulse increased now that she was here, about to face an unknown version of Marriane. She was preparing herself for the worst. A pallid face, a bony figure, a rasping cough or recently broken fever.

Therefore, when the footman directed her into a lavish, stuffy drawing room, Isobel could not hide her shock. She hesitated where she stood, her mouth opening to question Marriane’s whereabouts, when a blur caught her eye.

Moving toward her in gliding strides was her sister. Her long arms were outstretched and her gloss of black curls held up by pearl-tipped pins. “Isobel!” She wrapped her arms around her sister and squeezed.

The spicy scent of bandoline swept over Isobel as her sister’s hair collided with her face. “Why, what are you doing up?” Isobel asked, her words ill-spaced and confused.

Marriane pulled back, still holding fast to her hands. “Whatever do you mean? Of course I’m up. I would have been waiting by the door, had I known when you’d arrive.”

The bright blue cotton gown was meant to lend life to Marriane’s drawn body, but only washed out her complexion further.

She was smiling at Isobel—a wide smile, desperate in its own way—and her brown eyes were flat, void of the feeling feigned in her voice.

She was wispy thin, but even still, her gown accentuated a fraction of the rolling curves she was lauded for.

“I am glad to see you up, of course, but I can tell you are not well, Marriane.” Isobel had assessed her sister’s condition at once, no detail small enough to escape her notice. The jitters of fear built, rather than abated. These changes were borne of a long form illness, not some trifling cold.

Marriane dropped her hands, and her smile fell to an even line. “I wrote to you yesterday. Did you not receive it? Martin gave you a fright by writing to you. An unnecessary fright.”

Isobel raised a hand to her sister’s face, and swiped at the pinkened cheek with her thumb. Marriane reached up a hand to smack Isobel’s away, but it was too late. Isobel rubbed her fingers together, feeling the texture of a decadent, creamy rouge.

“You do not fool me. You cannot fool me,” she said. “I expect you wasted half the pot attempting to add color to your face, and your dress is divine, but I can see plainly that you aren’t well.”

Marriane swallowed. She peered around her sister and dismissed the waiting footman with a flick of her hand. When she spoke, her voice was level, its pitch deeper. “Whatever interrogation you have planned for me must wait, Isobel. We will have time enough to talk as sisters.”

Isobel opened her mouth to speak, but Marriane was already moving away and toward the windows. She peered down at the courtyard, uttering a little gasp. “Did Trevelyan bring you in his own carriage?”

Isobel pressed her lips together and dipped her chin. She knew how unwise it was to entertain her attraction toward Giles, but he was making it terribly difficult. Marriane must have read as much in her face.

“I confess, I could not have arranged a better meeting for all the world!” she exclaimed, keeping her voice to a low volume. She skipped back to Isobel’s side and hooked their arms together. “We are wasting precious time. Let us go see him and my dear Martin.”

“But he mentioned some ‘matter of business’,” Isobel protested, even as her sister dragged her down the stairs.

“Er, I hate to tell you dear, but that is what all gentlemen say when they wish to be alone and bet on horses and drink brandy and discuss dowries. I will be able to tell at once if they have been discussing yours .”

Isobel could not fight the laugh that sprang up. The prospect of interrupting Pemberton and Trevelyan seemed to bring Marriane to life more than anything else thus far, so she complied with the idea.

But when the ladies tripped up to the door of the marquess’s study, they found it open.

Marriane separated herself from her sister and stepped tentatively in.

Only Lord Pemberton was inside, his frivolously tasseled Hessians slung up on the desk.

Light from a nearby window caught the boots’ black sheen, casting it in the direction of Isobel’s eyes.

Good God . She could only imagine the derisive epithets her father would assign such a sight.

“Is Trevelyan gone already?” Marriane asked.

Pemberton was perusing some paper, and put up a stubby finger.

Isobel stiffened at his manner, but her sister seemed unaffected.

Several seconds passed before the marquess lowered the sheet from his face.

Isobel had been watching him all the while, and if his eyes had moved to absorb any real information, she had not seen it.

“Yes,” he said.

His looks were as dull as his personality, redolent of a camaieu painting done exclusively in shades of dust. Light brown hair bled seamlessly into the shade of his weatherbeaten skin, then onto achromatic lips.

The only vivacity about him was in the garish clothes he wore, and even those were in constant disagreement with the unremarkable textures of Martin Pemberton.

Yes, he would be a portrait artist’s worst nightmare.

After all, how many shades of brown could one create in trying to bring interest to that face?

“Without even saying good day?” Marriane asked with a scoff. “Did you not invite him to stay for dinner?”

“He wasn’t interested.”

Marriane waited there a moment before giving up. It was as she passed out the door that Pemberton finally looked at Isobel. “Welcome, sister,” he drawled.

Isobel gave a small bow, her mind rebelling against the courtesy. “Thank you for having me, Lord Pemberton.”

She rejoined Marriane, who was headed back up the stairs, albeit at a much slower pace this time. Isobel did think it strange Trevelyan had left in such a rush, particularly after he had gone out of his way to accompany her to Shoremoss Hall, but she was in no way as dispirited as her sister.

“That is most unlike him,” Marriane said for the second time.

“No doubt he was under the impression you were still ill,” Isobel said. She was trying to reason with herself, as well. “It is very likely he only came for a piece of business, real business. Besides, he and I have been forced to spend so much time together, I doubt he thought it proper to—”

Isobel became aware of her sister’s absence at her side. She turned back.

“Oh,” Marriane squeaked, clasping a finely boned hand low on her stomach.

“What’s happened?” Isobel rushed down the steps and gathered up her sister’s arm.

“Nothing, I-I think I may have overdone it a trifle in my excitement.”

“I shouldn’t have let you rush about,” Isobel said, feeling a slap of guilt.

“I knew you weren’t well.” She urged Marriane to progress up the stairs, but her sister remained as stiff as a granite statue.

Her eyes were downcast, their mahogany depths seeming to look through the stairs and beyond them.

“Come now,” Isobel said, her tone and touch increasing in urgency. She would go to any lengths to catch her sister should she faint right here, but could think of no more dangerous place to be light-headed.

Marriane took a tentative step up.

Isobel heard the whispering drip of blood before she saw it. A patch of crimson pooled on the navy carpet, turning slick black as it soaked in.