Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(59)

“My lord!” the man cried as he caught sight of the viscount. “Oh, my lord, it’s terrible.”

People were exclaiming and talking, but quite distinctly, Isabel still heard someone say, “No.” She looked to her left and saw Lady Margaret.

The girl’s face had gone ashen.

Isabel started for her.

“What is it?” Lord d’Arque said, his aristocratic voice seeming to calm the man. “Tell me.”

Isabel had reached Lady Margaret by now, and she touched the other woman’s arm. Lady Margaret gave no sign that she saw her. Her large brown eyes were fixed imploringly on the servant.

“My master…” The footman gulped as fresh tears spilled from his eyes. “Dear God, my lord, Mr. Fraser-Burnsby has been murdered!”

A woman screamed. Lord d’Arque went white, his face as if graven from stone, and Isabel remembered that he was—had been—good friends with Mr. Fraser-Burnsby.

“I… I didn’t know where else to go, my lord,” the footman said before breaking down again.

Around them, the crowd’s murmuring rose, but Isabel’s attention was caught by Lady Margaret. The girl swayed where she stood, her mouth open, but no words were emerging. She looked like a small child suddenly struck in the face.

Isabel caught her arm. “Don’t.”

Her words at least had the effect of making Lady Margaret turn toward her, though she stared sightlessly. “Roger…”

“No,” Isabel whispered fiercely. “You mustn’t. Not now.”

Lady Margaret blinked dazedly. Suddenly she sank straight toward the floor without a sound. Isabel moved, but she wasn’t nearly fast enough to catch the girl.

Fortunately, someone else was. Mr. Godric St. John swooped with lightning-fast speed, catching Lady Margaret before her head could hit the ground. He stared as if mesmerized down at the girl’s white face.

Isabel touched his arm. “Come with me.”

He arched an eyebrow, but without a word swung the girl’s limp form into his arms. Isabel couldn’t help noticing how easily he lifted her. Odd. She wouldn’t have thought Mr. St. John, a man known for being a scholar of philosophy, was so strong.

But that mattered little at the moment. Isabel walked swiftly toward the side of the ballroom, away from the chattering crowd, away from all the potential gossips.

“Bring her in here,” she instructed Mr. St. John. She’d found a little sitting room, just off the ladies’ retiring room. Fortunately there was no one around—they’d all gone to see what the commotion in the ballroom was.

He placed Lady Margaret gently down on a settee, then looked at Isabel, speaking for the first time. “Is there anyone I can send for?”

“No.” She knelt by the settee, touching Lady Margaret’s cheek. The girl was moaning softly as she woke. She glanced at Mr. St. John. “Thank you for your help. It would be best if this isn’t talked about.”

His lips firmed. “You can rely on my discretion.”

He glanced once more at Megs and then quietly left the room.

“Roger?” Megs whimpered.

“Shhh,” Isabel murmured. “We can stay here a little while, until you’ve regained your composure, but we mustn’t stay too long. Someone will notice your disappearance and put it together with Mr. Fraser-Burnsby’s death and—”

“Oh, God,” Lady Margaret gasped, and began to sob so hard her body shook.

Isabel closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the other woman’s soul-deep grief. What right had she to intrude? What right to make the girl realize that she must not let anyone else know of her despair—and the love for Mr. Fraser-Burnsby that must’ve caused it.

But there was no one else.

So Isabel opened her eyes and sank down next to the sobbing Lady Margaret. “There, there,” she said inadequately as she wrapped her arms around the girl. “You mustn’t take on so. You’ll become sick.”

“I loved him,” Lady Margaret whimpered. “We were to be married. He’d just… just…” She shook her head, as if unable to say the words.

Oh, why must there be death in the world? Despair and grief? Why must a sweet young girl have her hopes dashed, her dreams of a family and love crushed? It simply wasn’t fair—wasn’t right. When men plotted and schemed against each other every day, what kind of god punished an innocent girl?

Isabel’s mouth twisted bitterly. Except Lady Margaret would never be innocent again. She’d drunk of the cup of sorrow and loss and it would mark her evermore.

Isabel inhaled. “Come. We can find your mother and—”

But Lady Margaret was shaking her head. “She isn’t here. She’s away at a house party in the country.”

“Then your brother, the marquess.”

“No!” Lady Margaret looked up dully. “He doesn’t know about me and Roger. No one knows.”

Isabel bit her lip. “We must be discreet, then. If the guests out there see you taking on so, they’ll think the worst—say the worst.”

Lady Margaret closed her eyes. “They’d be right. We are—were—in love.”

Ah. Well, Isabel wasn’t one to judge. In fact, she rather admired the other woman’s simple statement: there was no shame in Lady Margaret’s voice over her affair, only grief.