Nicola Cornick - Deceived

“A sound idea.” Pen reached over and rang the bell for another cup of tea. “And if you need additional funds,” she added, “you could sell off those gaudy knickknacks Ernest bought one by one.”

Isabella shook her head. “They are worthless. Just as my jewelry is mostly paste, so are the ornaments all made of gilt. The Di Cassilis treasures were pawned years ago to pay for Ernest’s pleasures.”

Pen sighed. “How very frustrating. You must have been tempted to go upstairs, cut up all of Ernest’s English clothes and throw them into the streets out of sheer revenge.”

Isabella frowned. “I cannot destroy those,” she said. “I need to sell them.”

The door opened to admit a footman carrying a tea tray with a fresh pot, a china cup and several floury scones.

Pen poured. “Scones at this time of the evening!” she said delightedly. “What a marvelous way to fortify oneself for a ball.” She stirred honey slowly into her tea. “Where will you live when the house is sold, Bella?”

“I intend to live quietly at Salterton Hall on the money that Aunt Jane left me,” Isabella said. “I rather fancy becoming a recluse.”

Pen, who was about to take a mouthful of tea, almost choked.

“You have windmills in your head, Bella, if you imagine that retiring to a seaside resort will turn you into a recluse,” she declared. “Surely you realize that you will always remain an object of curiosity, especially in a small society like that of Salterton?”

“After racketing around Europe in Ernest’s shadow, I assure you that a little peace and quiet is what I require,” Isabella said. “I am persuaded that Salterton will not find me in the least bit scandalous or even interesting.”

Pen gave a disbelieving snort. “And I assure you that they will. If I had any money I would bet on it.” The derisive note faded from her voice. “You will become bored, you know, Bella. It may seem appealing now to settle in a quiet backwater, but in a short while you will be looking for occupation.”

“I am sure that I will find something with which to occupy myself,” Isabella said comfortably. She had thought long and hard about her future and the idea of a quiet retirement was hugely attractive. “The sea cure, the circulating library, the visitors from Town…All will provide me with distraction.”

Pen’s face lit with a smile. “You could always write letters, I suppose. I remember that you were a prodigiously interesting correspondent during your marriage.”

Isabella grimaced. “I thank you, but no.” She tapped the newspaper. “It seems that some enterprising person has already chosen to profit from my activities. It is only a matter of time before my letters make it into print. It is most vexing,” she added. “Such a shoddy little publication, as well!”

“Would it have been better had the gossip been printed in the Times?” Pen inquired.

“Certainly. One gets a better standard of scandal in those sorts of papers.” Isabella sighed gustily. “It cannot be helped. My entire married life has been dogged by quizzes and gossips. But you will forgive me if I do not set pen to paper again.”

Pen’s brow was furrowed as she scanned the column in the paper.

“Do you know who is writing this?”

Isabella shrugged. “It could be anyone. Acquaintances, servants…Certainly it seems to be someone who has more than a little knowledge of my life.”

Pen bit her lip. “Do you intend to try and find out who it is?”

Isabella raised her brows. “I shall not bother. A little more tittle-tattle can scarcely harm me.”

Pen put the paper aside. “So if you are not to write letters,” she said, “the seawater cure it is. Assuming that you do not expire from the excitement first!” She paused. “You do know that you will have Marcus Stockhaven as tenant at Salterton? Aunt Jane leased Salterton Cottage to him when he and cousin India were married.”

Isabella, whose teacup had been balanced precariously on the arm of her chair, now jumped so much that the liquid cascaded onto the floor.

“Marcus Stockhaven? Why did you not tell me before?”

She realized that her words had come out much more stridently than she had intended. Pen was staring at her, a little flushed.

“Well, upon my word! I had no idea that the matter would be of such great import to you after all these years,” she said. “Is it not Mr. Churchward’s job to acquaint you with your inheritance, rather than mine?” She paused, adding more lightly, “Marcus has seldom visited Salterton since Aunt Jane died. You need have no fear of meeting him unexpectedly, if that is what concerns you.”

“I beg your pardon,” Isabella said, still flustered. Her pulse was thrumming and her heart beating in her throat, and it was the mere mention of Marcus’s name that had done it. God forbid that she should meet him again. She would be a quivering wreck. But of course, she would not. She reminded herself that he was in prison. Perhaps the tenancy of Salterton had been a problem for him. Since he did not own the house, he would not have been able to sell it to settle his debts.

She used the opportunity provided by the spilled tea to turn away from Pen and gather up her shattered control. “I did not intend to sound so sharp, Pen. I was merely surprised.” She looked up, as flushed as Pen from surprise and guilty conscience. “I do apologize.”

Pen looked evasive. “Oh, it is nothing to the purpose. It must have slipped the minds of both Aunt Jane and myself to mention it in our correspondence.”

Isabella hesitated. There was an odd tone in Pen’s voice and an odd feeling in the room, as though something had been left unsaid. She waited but Pen merely avoided her gaze and fidgeted with her teaspoon, smearing honey over the saucer.

“I infer that Mr. Churchward did not mention the matter to you at all?” Pen added.

Isabella’s shoulders slumped. She recalled that on her first meeting with Churchward after she had returned to England, the lawyer had indeed attempted to tell her something of the encumbrances upon her new estate, but she had waved the matter aside. The issue of Ernest’s debts had become far more pressing than any other matter and she had forgotten all about the details of Salterton. It looked as though it would prove to be an expensive oversight. It seemed that she was tied to Marcus Stockhaven in more ways than she had anticipated, and none of them were welcome.

“No, he did not,” she said. “How provoking!”

Pen raised her eyebrows. “That Churchward forgot to tell you?”

“No! Yes!” Isabella collected herself. “I do recall him mentioning something about a tenant, but I did not pursue it.”

“Oh well…” Pen seemed anxious to let the subject go. “I imagine you will not be much troubled by Marcus. Salterton Cottage was damaged by fire a few months ago and is uninhabitable. Besides, Marcus chooses to live elsewhere—or to travel. One seldom sees him in society. I am not even sure where he is now.”

Imprisoned in the Fleet for debt, Isabella thought.

She swallowed a variety of uncomfortable feelings and kept quiet. Her overriding emotion was a deep and heartfelt desire for Marcus to be kept under lock and key. If he were ever to be free…the very thought of it was sufficient to make her insides quake.

At the same time, she was puzzled. What had happened to render Marcus’s financial state so dire? She had asked him but he had declined to explain and she had not pressed. Now she wished she had.

“I imagine you will not be much troubled by him…”

Truth to tell, she was already far more troubled by Marcus Stockhaven than Pen would ever know.

Her sister was fidgeting with her cup.

“I wish I could help you, Bella,” Pen was saying. “Financially, I mean. I know this is not how you would have wished your return to England to be.”