Chapter 6
The Blackguards
A week later, Isabella was out at the village, purchasing fine linens for the estate. Of all her new chores, this was one she quite enjoyed. As a lowly housemaid, she could travel pretty much wherever she wanted without the gawking eyes of others, and though she thought this would be disappointing at first, she found it quite liberating. She didn’t even need a chaperone. She could go to whatever store her “class” was permitted, peer into restaurants, and even enter pubs. She was at a pub now, sitting alone at a corner table with a glass of wine, relishing the sticky, bitter smell of men and spirits, and daydreaming of her last encounter with Thomas.
He had taught her to prune rose bushes. His strong, bare, muscular arms worked round the leaves and branches with surprising tenderness, so that she was quickly mesmerized by his movements and just as quickly forgot the important points of his lesson. He did not seem to mind, however. After a jesting scold, he would simply repeat himself, after pausing for long moments to smile at her, or watch the sun glow on her skin.
She was getting quite a tan.
She pictured him mouthing her name, her real name, in secret whispers, which he did only when he leaned close: My Lady Isabella –
“The Lady Isabella …”
She jerked her head up and came out of her reverie. Startled, she turned around, looking for the source of her name, and she saw three men at a table not far from hers: two she recognized distantly as other gentry, Marquises and Viscounts from the east, and the third was the Earl of Balton.
Hastily, she pulled her maid’s cap down over her face, scooped up her bags of linens to hide her body shape, and strained to hear their conversation.
“We are afraid to tell you, my Lord,” said one of the men, “that the woman you know as the Lady Isabella is in fact not her at all, but an imposter.”
Nailed to the spot by shock, Isabella watched as Balton’s face paled.
“How could you possibly know that?” he demanded.
The two gentlemen chuckled.
“Letters,” they said, pulling several from their pockets. “The stupid Lady’s maid there has relatives in our estates. Nightly, she copies all sorts of secrets, and sends them directly to our household, like manna from heaven.”
Camille! You idiot! Isabella thought. That was how they knew about the golden gown.
“I’m afraid, my Lord,” said the other, “you have been swindled by nothing more than a common harlot.”
Lord Balton blushed a hot red. Isabella watched as his lips pursed, his face losing its blush and growing increasingly drawn and pale, until at last he seemed as cold and forbidding as a marble statue.
“What do you want with me?” he asked, his voice as stoic and measured as a spoonful of sand.
“The idiot Lady’s maid does not know where the real Isabella is.”
Isabella breathed a short sigh of relief. At least in this case her stupidity was helpful.
“And we were hoping that you, a more … educated man, might have deduced it.”
Isabella felt fear stream through her suddenly, as if she’d swallowed a gulp of ice water. The Lord Balton was an intelligent, and now humiliated, man. She trembled with fear as she watched his eyes narrow, then widen with what could only be realization.
But he said, “I … do not. Now, gentlemen, I really must be going.” And with that, he stood, bowed, and fled the pub nearly at a run.
Isabella watched in horror. Though he’d denied it, his actions could not have indicated more clearly that he knew where she, the real Isabella, was hiding. How did he know? What connection had he between Olivia and herself?
Then the thought struck her like lightning:
Thomas!
Her heart racing, Isabella dashed from the pub, her shopping completely forgotten.
●●●
Olivia was lying in bed, stewing in one of her common sulks whose patterns had emerged after she dismissed Lord Balton. Twice Camille had tried to come in to chatter with her about goodness knew what, and twice Olivia had spurned her attempts. Instead, she got up and numbly walked to her window, seeing nothing, caring about nothing.
And then, like the rising of the sun after a long, cold winter’s night, there was Lord Balton walking down the garden path.
“My Lord!” she cried. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass to see him all the better. She hastily straightened her hair, her gown, everything to make her look presentable for when he knocked upon the door –
Wait. He was not approaching the entrance to the estate, but instead veered left, heading towards…
“Oh, God,” she gasped. “Thomas!”
He was heading towards the gardener’s cottage.
Her head whirled in confusion and panic as she pulled on her shoes, bolted down the stairs, and burst out through the door below.
“Olivia!” someone shouted. She was stunned; it had been so long since she had heard her real name.
She looked up to see a woman on a horse thundering towards her. It was Isabella, her hair loose and flowing, her cheeks flecked with mud, everything about her unrecognizable from the night she forsook her birthright.
“What is it?” cried Olivia. Isabella leapt from the horse.
“Lord Balton,” she panted. “He knows our secret, and knows that Thomas knows it, too! And what’s worse, I’m worried that the men who questioned him know as well and are on their way!”
Olivia’s face drained of colour.
“My God,” she stammered. “Isabella, look!”
She pointed into the woods. There, two men, garbed completely in black, just like the one who had attacked her, emerged from the shadows of the trees. Creeping like spiders, they made their menacing way to the cottage, in which Lord Balton had disappeared.
“Come on,” Isabella said, seizing Olivia by the hand. But Olivia resisted.
“No, no,” she said. “I can’t go in there. Lord Balton is in there. He knows my secret. He’ll hate me. I cannot face him –”
Isabella slapped Olivia – hard. The blow knocked her backwards a step; her mouth fell open and left her shocked and speechless.
“In this moment,” Isabella hissed, “you are a Lady, and sometimes that means taking responsibility and enduring the hate of those around you. That is the gift and the curse of the title. Everyone, everywhere, watches and waits for your indiscretion. Now come on! There are two men in there we love!”
Olivia gazed at her mirror image, brimming with passion and resolve. For the first time, Olivia saw the true authority, the woman born of a Duke, with fire in her eyes.
“Yes,” Olivia said. “You’re right. Let’s go!”
The assassins crept to the cottage door. The ladies, too, inched closer, watching in horror as the men each drew a pistol. Pointing his weapon at the door, the first attacker drew back his hand and knocked.
The door opened. Forgetting their fear, forgetting propriety, Olivia and Isabella together dashed forward.
“Lord Balton!” Olivia screamed.
“Thomas!” Isabella cried.
Thump! Thump! The women winced, then heard what sounded like two bodies hitting the floor.
The women fell to their knees and sobbed uncontrollably.
A minute or two later Olivia felt a hand on her shoulder.
“My darling, are you all right?” The women looked up.
“My Lord!”
“Thomas!”
The women jumped to their feet, catching their beloved in their embraces and planting them each with a kiss.
“What happened?” asked Olivia.
“How did you know?” asked Isabella.
The two men looked at each other and smiled.
“Miss Olivia,” said Lord Balton, addressing her by her real name for the first time. “I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you were not the true Lady Isabella. But it was not until today, when I made the connection to Thomas, that I learned your true name. Olivia.?
?? He breathed with the sound of it, the truth of it, soft and gentle as the breeze that lifts one’s hair from her face.
Thomas, holding Isabella in close embrace, said, “After determining the truth of the situation, Lord Balton deduced that the men would follow him here. Therefore, he rushed into my cabin to warn me. With just enough time, we were able to, uh, well, arm ourselves you might say, and, well, you can see the consequences for yourself.”
Olivia, pushing away for a moment from the embrace of Lord Balton, peered through the open doorway of the cabin. Two men lay unconscious on their stomachs on the floor, hands tied behind their backs and their feet bound.
“My Lord,” Olivia said, “you are becoming quite adept at rendering people unconscious.”
“Oh, well, I had excellent help from Mr. Ashburn. He provided both of us with wooden clubs, otherwise known as garden posts. We stood on chairs on either side of the door, so when they poked their heads inside, we sent them immediately to dreamland.
“They will be fine, although when they awake they will have splitting headaches and knots on their heads the size and colour of ripe plums.”
“I probably know the answer to this,” Isabella said, “but what exactly did all these Blackguards have in mind?”
“They simply wanted to know who the real Isabella is,” Thomas said, “so they could kidnap you and hold you for ransom from your father and from your uncle, the Duke of Brexington.”
“These hooligans will soon find themselves in prison for a long time,” Lord Balton added. “But be aware, Lady Isabella, there are more criminals where these came from.”
“Be assured I will not be flippant about my uncle’s concern ever again,” she said. “But now I will have a bodyguard – I hope for a lifetime.” She took Thomas’ hand and looked deep into his eyes. Thomas nodded and smiled. They kissed.
●●●
Already a crowd of baffled occupants poured from the house. Maids and kitchen staff screamed and clung to each other. Footmen and grooms saw to it the police were notified. The Duke of Brexington, disturbed from his repose in his office, emerged with a stunned, angry, yet relieved countenance, and marched straight to where Olivia, Isabella, Thomas, and Lord Balton stood.
Isabella, clearing her throat, said, “I will handle my uncle. It’s about time I resumed my responsibility to my family.” With that, she kissed Thomas on the mouth, then marched, her glorious head held strong and proud, to her uncle.
Olivia looked at Thomas, who was blushing as deeply red as one of his famous tomatoes, and giggled.
She felt a hand entwine with hers, and she looked up at Lord Balton.
“You knew all along?” she murmured in wonder.
“Since very near the beginning. The night after my first visit here, Mrs. Mason wrote to me, asking if I had borrowed one of her Ladyship’s books, which had gone missing. She described it in great detail. When I saw you had it, and began to examine your … unusual behaviour, I realized that perhaps you were not who you said you were.”
Olivia blushed deeply. For a time, she had forgotten that this entire episode had started from her single act of selfishness and greed.
“Forgive me, my Lord,” she said, looking at her feet. “I should better know my place.”
And she tried to walk away.
A gentle hand on her shoulder, however, stopped her.
“There is nothing wrong with trying to better oneself,” he said. “Or with wanting a better life. That is the firm moral of all my studies. What one cannot do, is achieve it through thievery.”
Olivia breathed deeply. “Then, you, too, must adjust your behaviour, as you are guilty of thievery yourself.”
“What is that?” he asked. She looked into his eyes.
“You have stolen my heart.”