A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(87)

“Yes, of course.” Sophia stroked Bel’s arm soothingly. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“No, no.” Bel forced a little smile. “Really, this is nothing. I’m just fatigued. I need to rest, that’s all.”

After bidding Sophia good-bye, Bel made her way to the front of the residence. To make her failure complete, she ordered the carriage to simply return her home. She knew Toby would still be out, campaigning in Surrey. Perhaps she ought to complete her visits to distribute leaflets, or take supplies to the children’s dispensary. But she didn’t want to be near ladies or orphans right now. She wanted to be near Toby, in what ever way she could. She would cast off this fine, French-striped day dress and beribboned bonnet, put on one of her old, plain muslin shifts, and creep into the bed that might still be warm from their night of passion—that might still retain some comforting hint of his scent. And then she might weep, or fitfully dream the day away, until he came home to hold her and love her.

Oh, she was weak indeed.

When she entered Aldridge House, she heard low, masculine voices down the hall. Her heart leapt. Was Toby home? Perhaps he’d been laughed off the hustings in Surrey, if today’s Prattler had reached the borough already. To her surprise, Bel didn’t even care—so long as he was here, with her.

On light feet, she hurried down the corridor. The voices seemed to be coming from Toby’s library. Nearing the door, she recognized the warm timbre of her husband’s voice. It was him. Thank heaven. Toby would make everything better. Toby loved her. He would never let her come to harm. With him, she was safe.

As she put a hand to the door handle, it dimly registered in her mind that Toby was not just speaking, but shouting. Bellowing, really, as she’d never heard him raise his voice to anyone.

“You had clear instructions,” he thundered. “She was never to be a part of this.”

A milder tenor answered. Bel had to press her ear to the door to make out the words. Her conscience pricked her for eavesdropping, but how else was she to discern if it was safe to interrupt?

“Yes, but it wasn’t working,” the milder voice argued back. “You told me to be more severe, do my worst.”

“Your worst at me, not her,” Toby answered. “There’s no excuse for—”

“And didn’t you tell me you wanted to lose, at any cost?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then it had to be her. There’s nothing left to insinuate about you. That’s how I reasoned it, at least.”

A loud crack reverberated through the door, startling Bel. Her stomach plummeted with the weight of dread. Perhaps she should summon a footman.

Toby’s voice again. “Damn you, Hollyhurst, you’re not paid to reason. You’re paid to draw.”

Hollyhurst? Was that vile man here, in Toby’s study?

Bel didn’t recall making the decision to open the door. The next thing she knew, she was standing in the center of the Aldridge crest stamped in gold on the blood-red carpet. The men stared at her; Toby from behind his desk, and—could this truly be the H. M. Hollyhurst, reclining in the chair opposite? He wasn’t at all the grizzled, pointy-eared troll she’d imagined him to be. He was barely older than she, Bel judged—smooth-faced and handsome. Pale with shock, the young man rose to his feet. “Bollocks,” he muttered.

“Toby?” Bel’s voice shook. “What is going on?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Toby knew precisely what was going on. This ill-fated day was gathering to its horrific climax. The jig was up. This was the moment he’d been dreading ever since the day they married. And yet, there came with it an odd sense of relief.

“Isabel, may I introduce Mr. Hiram Hollyhurst?” The anemic twit bowed clumsily. Toby added with a pointed look, “He’s leaving.”

Hollyhurst was not so obtuse that he missed that hint. Isabel stood frozen in the center of the carpet, staring at Toby in disbelief for long moments after the door had been closed and they were alone.

“I—” Her jaw worked. “Toby, I don’t understand.”

Of course she didn’t, the sweet girl. She could never understand the motivations behind such callous behavior. It simply wasn’t in her to comprehend. “Will you sit down?” he asked.

“Thank you, no.” She clasped and unclasped her hands, as though unsure how to begin. “So that was Mr. Hollyhurst.”

It wasn’t a question. Which was fortunate, because Toby really did not want to answer. What he wanted to do was hold her. After all that had happened this morning, the news he had just received—how cruel, that he should destroy his marriage on this, the day he most needed the comfort of a wife.

“The Mr. Hollyhurst,” she continued. “The same man who has vilified you in The Prattler all these months by drawing those horrid caricatures.”

“Yes,” he said finally. “We’re … friends.”

“Friends?” she cried. “But how can that be? However could you become friends with a man like that?”

“He’s the son of a former steward, and … and it’s not important how we met.” Toby paused.

“I’ve been paying him, Isabel. All those caricatures, the assaults on my character—they were all created at my behest.”