Once a Duchess(37)

 

Grant ignored Marshall for a long moment as he lined up a shot and sent a ball careening to a corner pocket.

 

“Grant,” Marshall said testily, “You’ve pulled me away from business in Parliament, and I had to cancel this afternoon’s ride with Lady Lucy. Tell me what this nonsense is about!”

 

“It’s about,” Grant said, looking up with bleary eyes, “our dear sister making a disgrace of herself by bringing that doxy here. To yer house, Marsh.” He jabbed Marshall’s chest with the tip of his stick.

 

Marshall swatted the stick away. Grant’s note had begged him to come to Bensbury without delay to save them all from disaster. He’d expected to find the house on fire, or to discover Naomi had eloped with an enlisted man. Instead, his drunken sibling was playing billiards and rambling about doxies and disgraces.

 

“And by ‘that doxy,’ you mean who?” He gestured with the hand holding the letter, inviting Grant to fill in the rest.

 

“Isabelle,” Grant sighed and slouched over, clinging to his queue like an old man to his walking stick. “She’s here.”

 

Marshall’s senses heightened to full alert. His eyes darted to the sides, as though his former wife might pop out from behind a chair. How the devil had Isabelle come to be at Naomi’s party?

 

Grant’s eyes took on a glassy, faraway look. “Taken over th’whole house, Marsh,” he slurred. “I tol’ N’omi to make her go, but she din’ do it.” He shook his head sadly and rested his cheek on his hand.

 

Marshall’s lips drew into a thin line. “I’ll see about it.” He shoved Grant’s letter into his coat pocket.

 

“It was the wors’ thing I ever heard, you know. Wha’ she did.” Sighing, Grant made a desolate swipe at the balls on the table and missed them entirely.

 

There was something both poignant and humorous about Grant’s woeful state. “Me, too,” Marshall said, leaving his brother to his whiskey.

 

He made his way to the garden, where the late afternoon sun brought richness to the green foliage and bright flowers. The young ladies and gentlemen wore light attire suitable for the occasion. Marshall, dressed in a dark suit for the meetings he’d left behind in London, stood out like an inkblot on white linen.

 

He spotted his sister a distance away, surrounded by a group of friends. Four young girls with their heads together, probably giggling over some poor devil’s legs, or some such nonsense.

 

A complete innocent, surrounded by other innocents. Isabelle had no place among this bevy of naïve virgins. Though not much older than the other ladies present, Isabelle’s divorced status made her a wildly inappropriate companion for his sister and her friends.

 

He wondered where she was if not with Naomi. Perhaps she was providing one of Naomi’s male guests with an afternoon diversion. Best not to look too closely behind the hedges, he thought grimly.

 

Suddenly, a female hand on his arm brought him to a halt, pulling him from his morose reverie.

 

“Monthwaite, a word.” Lily Bachman stood before him, wearing a fetching marigold gown and bonnet.

 

“Miss Bachman,” he said, inclining his head. “A pleasure to see you again. Just now, however, I must speak with Lady Naomi.”

 

“About Isabelle?” she asked archly.

 

He was taken aback by her blunt manner. It was then he noticed the cross expression she wore.

 

“I’m not surprised to see you here,” she continued. “I wondered how long it would be before that ogre you call a brother summoned reinforcements.”

 

She had spirit, he had to hand it to her, as well as refreshing honesty in her approach. He would return the favor, he decided, with equal frankness.

 

“Miss Bachman, you exhibit admirable loyalty to your friend. Indeed, I wish Isabelle only happiness.”

 

She smirked disbelievingly.

 

“But you must understand,” he continued, “it is not acceptable for her to be here. You’re welcome to stay and enjoy the party, of course, but arrangements will have to be made for your companion.” As he spoke, her expression darkened. Best to be on his way. “I shall speak to my sister, and if you can point me in Isabelle’s direction … ”

 

Lily straightened. Her hands clenched into balls at her side. She was not a fashionably petite lady, and Marshall weighed the odds of her decking him. “Her direction?” Lily sneered. “Isabelle is in the direction of your bloody kitchen,” she said through a clenched jaw, “cooking for this sodding lot, thanks to your misbegotten sibling.”