The Secret Bluestocking: Isobel's Traditional Regency Romance Read online

  "Well, my dear, Lord Francis is very likely a fortune hunter himself; he is a younger son, you know. An army major on half pay since that monster Napoleon has been banished to Elba, even if he is the younger son of a Duke, is very likely to be hanging out for a rich wife," mused Harriet.

  Isobel turned to her cousin, an arrested look in her fine green eyes.

  "Can it be possible, Harriet? There have certainly been enough fortune hunters dangling after me in the past five seasons, but none of them would be so bold or foolish as to arrange such a thing. But perhaps he seeks to compromise me, knowing that I have refused many offers, and my fortune is not easily won by just a handsome face and winning manners." Her lips tightened slightly.

  "Oh do not be so silly my love," cried Harriet. "’T’was only a jest, and a poor one at that. How can you be so ridiculous as to think I was serious in that speculation? Truly, it argues a coarseness of mind and a cynicism in you that I cannot like. That you would even give a moment’s credence to such an idea without any further knowledge of his lordship astonishes me."

  "Oh dear, Cousin, I fear that you are right," Isobel replied. "But five Seasons will make a cynic out of any young lady with a particle of sense in her head. Only the very naive or the very foolish believe that most of the marriages contracted at Almack’s are based on love, or even mutual respect."

  "Oh my dear, I do detest it when you speak so. You should be married to a man who will take care of you and protect you instead of burying yourself in those great books and grubbing about in the dirt. I know that you would be much happier if only you would give up this nonsense of living single all your days...’

  "Enough, Cousin. You know my feelings on this score too well to continue with this teasing. I - ah, there is Haggock now, perhaps he is come to apprise us of Dr. Alvey's arrival."

  And so it proved to be. Miss Paley went off to the sick room with Dr. Alvey, but the niggling doubt had been planted in her mind. Could Lord Francis be just another fortune hunter trying the oldest trick in the book, and trusting that it would not be recognized because it was usually played by a woman on a man?

  However, when Dr. Alvey and Isobel stood looking down at the pale face and blonde hair on the white linen pillows of the huge bed in the Green Room, her doubts were banished. Not even the most inveterate fortune hunter would intentionally cause this amount of damage to himself.

  "He has had a draught of poppy syrup, Doctor, for he warmed up well and I felt that the pain might be the cause of the shock," said Isobel.

  "Mmph. As usual, you are probably correct. I only wish that most of my colleagues were as good physicians as you, my dear." The doctor was nearly old enough to be Miss Paley’s grandfather and felt no compunction about such familiarities, since he had brought her into the world.

  "How heavy a dose was it?" he asked. "Do I dare set the shoulder before he wakes? It would be best for him if I did, but if he comes to as I do it and struggles, it will be worse for him than to be conscious."

  "Well, I was careful, since I did not know precisely how severely injured he might be, and whether internal damage might have occurred. But I think that he will sleep if you are quick about it," she replied.

  "My child, you insult my skill. I have set the shoulders of more farmhands and carters who have been pitched from wagons and hay wains than you will see in your lifetime. Can I be quick about it?"

  Isobel smiled to see her challenge to him taken up so fiercely, and Dr. Alvey turned to his patient. Isobel watched impassively as, with a sickening little click, he twitched the misplaced shoulder and arranged the arm more naturally. Lord Francis did not stir or moan.

  "Remove his shirt," said Dr. Alvey to the maid standing to the side. He glanced at Isobel. "If you are minded to be missish, you may go now, and I’ll let Rose help me with the bandages. I must have the shirt off of him to check the ribs."

  "And who will of necessity wrap the bandages when you are gone? Until I can teach one of the servants it will be me, so I see no harm in viewing my lord’s bare chest now, well chaperoned by you and Rose."

  "That’s quite the thing then. Still, you must teach his groom, or have his valet sent for. It won’t do for you to serve as his nursemaid."

  Dr. Alvey prodded and poked at his lordship's chest. "Well, there's a broken rib, but it's not touching the lungs, so tight bandages will do. See that he remains quiet though, or it could go ill for him," he announced with mingled cheer and sorrow.

  Lord Francis slept through the bandaging as well, and Miss Paley left Rose to watch the patient while she and Dr. Alvey descended for dinner. Cook had made a special effort for the doctor, who was well known in the neighborhood for his love of fine food. After a hearty meal, and a little conversation in the large and airy dining room with its fine mahogany table and parquet floor, Dr. Alvey allowed Miss Paley to have her own carriage sent round to take the doctor home. One of the grooms would be dispatched at first light to return his gig, but it was unthinkable that he should have to drive himself home at such an hour in adverse weather.

  After seeing the doctor safely off, Miss Paley went back up to the Green Room to check on her guest before retiring. In the arms of the poppy he continued to sleep, and since that was what he most needed she instructed Rose to call her if he grew restless, feverish or delirious.

  The morning broke very fine, welcome after nearly a week of rain, and Isobel looked forward cheerfully to an afternoon ride in the park after the sun dried the ground. As she entered the sick room, Rose, dozing in an overstuffed armchair, leapt to her feet.

  "I’m that glad to see you, Miss," she said. "His Lordship is plaguing me for a carriage to be sent to take him home."

  "You may go, Rose, and get some proper rest" Isobel said with a smile. "I fear that His Lordship will be unhappy to hear that Dr. Alvey has said that he must on no account be moved for at least a month, and I wish to spare you the first flush of his disappointment if it should be intemperately expressed."

  "A clever reminder, ma’am," came a light, husky voice. "I should be a very churl now to do aught but thank you for your hospitality."

  As Isobel turned towards the bed to respond, Lord Francis caught his breath. He had vague memories from the night before of a lovely woman speaking comforting words to him, but he had not expected the vision now presented to him. The sunlight streaming through the draperies lit up Isobel’s piquant face and sparked on her shining hair, simply dressed with a topknot spilling curls down her graceful neck. She was dressed in a morning gown, as appropriate for the country, but cut by the hand of an excellent modiste, and the white muslin with turquoise sprigging and ribbons made her eyes glow in her beautiful face, while a happy smile curved her delicate lips.

  For her part, Isobel looked critically at her uninvited guest. In the light of the morning he looked much different from the pale invalid of the previous evening. The heavy-lidded grey eyes were piercing in the chiseled face, and now that the swelling in his lips was receding, she could see that they had a firm yet sensuous set. The picture was rather spoiled by the bandage covering the gash on the forehead, but it was clear that Lord Francis was a handsome man indeed, and she found herself wondering about the physique covered by the bedclothes. During the bandaging she had noticed that his chest was well muscled and lithe, giving every indication of an athletic bent. She wrenched her thoughts back to the present situation.

  "Indeed you would, for you have taxed both my capabilities and those of our local physician to their utmost with your injuries," she said. "It is absurd to even consider racketing about the countryside in a chaise with a broken collar bone and ribs, and a near concussion. I fear that you will have to resign yourself to some weeks of residence here at Kitswold. You will no doubt wish to send for your valet. I believe my stables are perfectly capable of accommodating your team, and my grooms are expert. I know how fussy gentlemen can be about their cattle, and it was a very sporting vehicle that you overturned in the road yesterday."

  "Tw
o body blows in one phrase, ma’am," responded Lord Francis. "First you assure me that I shall be an invalid for a month, and then you cast aspersions on my skill as a whip. How shall I ever recover from my injuries in such company?"

  "Your tongue has certainly suffered no ill effects, sir. It is merely my wish that your stay should be as comfortable as possible, and that you should suffer no unnecessary worries that may slow your recovery. As for your horses, you are the very picture of the type of gentleman who would fret over the care that your horses were receiving."

  "And I am again a churl for questioning your motives ma’am," said Lord Francis, a bit sheepishly. "Well, I shall act on your kind offer. Could I trespass on your kindness a few moments longer and ask that you write a pair of letters for me? I fear that my scribblings, never very neat, will be completely indecipherable now."

  Paper was brought and Isobel settled down at an elegant desk to act as his lordship’s scribe. His gaze lingered warmly on her as she bent to her task, the very picture of refined womanhood. The first letter apprised his father, the Duke of Strancaster of his injuries and direction.

  "And you need have no fear, dear father, for my well being here at Kitswold House, for I am cared for by a lady whose competence as a nurse is surpassed only by her beauty, elegance and refinement. Miss Paley is a paragon of English womanhood...."

  "I cannot write such arrant nonsense, Lord Francis," Isobel interrupted with a laugh.

  "To characterize my remarks as arrant nonsense, when the admiration and sincerity in my compliments are boundless, Miss Paley, is unkind." Lord Francis’s face was impassive, but Isobel felt that a hint of humor lurked in his eyes.

  "To embarrass me so when I am doing you the favor of acting the scribe is also, my lord," she countered.

  "Ah well then, if you must have your way. ‘You need have no fear, dear father, as I am well cared for here at Kitswold House by the Hon. Miss Isobel Paley. I hope to be recovered sufficiently in some three to four weeks to set out for Strancaster and spend Easter with you and Mama, before removing to London for the Season.’ Does that suit you better Miss Paley?" he inquired mischievously.

  "Thank you," she murmured, scribbling rapidly.

  The second epistle was directed to a friend in Leicestershire whom Lord Francis had planned to join for a house party, and where his valet was no doubt awaiting his arrival with some concern. The note was brief and directed that gentleman’s gentleman to make haste to Kitswold.

  The letters completed, sanded, and sealed, Isobel turned to her guest. "Is there anything else I may do for you?" she inquired.

  "If it would not be too much trouble, may I have some books to read?" Lord Francis asked. "Lying here waiting to mend will be a tedious business, and I can only sleep so many hours in one day."

  "Certainly," replied Isobel, her eyes lighting up. "I have an extensive library. What sort of books do you care for?"

  Lord Francis hesitated. His mother and sister tended to read what he considered to be foolish romances, but he did not wish to offend Miss Paley, and any book would alleviate his boredom.

  "Please, choose something that you think I would enjoy," he answered.

  "I have some excellent histories of Britain, and also Spain, where you have spent some years. Perhaps you might enjoy those. I also have Horace and Plato; I assume you read Greek. I will have Rose bring you a selection. You must tell me what you enjoy best among those I send you, and I will make sure you have a plentiful supply." Isobel beamed at him. Anyone who enjoyed reading, she reflected, could not be completely without merit.

  "Thank you, Miss Paley. You are most generous." Lord Francis watched as she whisked herself out of the room, a quizzical look on his face. His request for books had seemed to bring a great deal of pleasure to Miss Paley, and her library obviously extended far beyond the novels considered proper reading for a young lady.

  Isobel spent an enjoyable hour in her library choosing books for Lord Francis; she lingered over the task far longer than she had intended and was startled to realize the forenoon was nearly gone and there were household duties to be attended to before she could go out for her long awaited ride. She called a footman to carry the books up to the Green Room and hurried to her study for her daily meeting with the housekeeper. Once the accounts had been reviewed and the matter of accommodations for his lordship’s valet settled, Isobel was free of obligations. She rang the bell for her maid, and headed to her room to change into a riding habit.

  Isobel’s room, like the rest of Kitswold House, was furnished with taste and charm. Straw colored draperies for window and bed contrasted attractively with cornflower blue and white coverlets and upholstery. A deep Aubusson carpet deadened sounds and cushioned the feet.

  "The blue habit if you please, Babbidge," Isobel requested, and soon she was fastened into a close fitting navy blue riding habit made of serviceable wool. Trimmed in passementerie, it quietly set off her fine figure and made a frame for her shining curls.

  "Won’t you wear the shako hat, Miss?" asked Babbidge. "That habit is so plain, a bit of dressing it up won’t hurt, even in the country."

  "On such a fine day, how can I resist the shako?" laughed Isobel. "’T’is a shame to waste it on my brother, however, who is the only person of fashion that I might meet on my ride." Nonetheless, she put on the rakish looking military style hat with its large, curling ostrich plume, to her own and the maid’s admiration.

  The sunshine was warm as she walked out to the stables where her mare was waiting. While the grooms saddled the horse, Isobel went to see how Lord Francis’ team fared.

  "It’s myself that is sure that them horses has the luck o’ the devil, Miss," opined one of the grooms. "The leaders were barely touched, with only a graze on the fetlock of one and a scraped knee on t’other. The wheelers are a little worse off, with a strained tendon on the left hind of the one, and a puncture from the shaft above the knee on the other; but nothing serious and no infection setting in. Poultices, stall rest and hand walking’ll sort them out. His Lordship’s groom has been out today already to have a look at that team. Fine horseman he is, too."

  "How very fortunate. A serious injury to one of his horses must have gravely worried his lordship and set back his recovery. Is Epona ready for me?"

  Isobel’s mare was grey, and the name Epona referred to the white mare goddess who had been worshiped by the Celts. Isobel took considerable satisfaction in the puzzlement that the name engendered among her acquaintance, most of whom were unfamiliar with Irish legend.

  She strolled back out to the sunlit stable yard, enjoying the fine day. She did not look up at the house, and would not have expected to see the curtains drawn back from the window of the Green Room, or to see a solitary figure standing there. Lord Francis watched as the groom tossed Isobel into the saddle and then mounted up himself to follow her at a respectful distance. He watched long enough to satisfy himself that she was a horsewoman to be reckoned with. He also appreciated Isobel’s exceedingly well fitting riding habit, and the fetching picture which the peaked shako hat with its large feather made with her charming face.

  Somewhat lightheaded, he turned away, and groped his way back to the bed. Damn this collarbone, he thought, he was weak as an infant. Once in his bed, he picked up a history of Spain to peruse, but his thoughts instead returned to his hostess. Wealthy, beautiful, in her mid-twenties and still single, he mused. The Peninsular Wars had kept him out of the London social whirl for some years, so Lord Francis was unaware of the many suitors refused by Isobel. He was, however, acutely aware of her charm, and was duly impressed by it.

  Lord Francis pondered the changes his years in the Army had wrought on his personality. Before his departure for the wars, he had been a veritable sprig of fashion, a Duke's second son with all the wealth and privileges that entailed, and without the responsibilities that belonged to an heir. He had indulged himself with horse races, boxing matches, card parties, and long nights of drinking. He had had his fair share
of liaisons with charming barques of frailty, and had flirted outrageously with the proper young ladies at Almack's. He had dressed and lived well, and rather self-indulgently. No one had been the worse for having known Lord Francis Wheaton, but neither had they been the better for it.

  He had thought his time in the Peninsula had changed him little, but upon his return to England he had discovered, that, while he still enjoyed driving a curricle with fine horses, paying compliments to beautiful women, and wearing well-tailored clothes, none of these activities were the end that they had once been for him. The years of hardship and a return home to the news that his much-loved older brother was ill had altered his perspective on life. His casual, drawling air had become a cover for a more observant and thoughtful man. Now, confronted with this lovely woman who seemed to have a sense of purpose and a gift of laughter, he found himself intrigued.

  His thoughts were interrupted when the maid, Rose, brought in a tray with a light luncheon.

  "Good afternoon, my lord," she said with a bob. "Cook has prepared something for you that she hopes you will enjoy."

  "Thank you, Rose," said Lord Francis, grimacing as he tried to shift his position. "Miss Paley has quite a lovely home here at Kitswold."

  "Oh yes, my lord. And she is an excellent employer; we are all very fond of her."

  "Are you indeed?" said his lordship. "And does she have no father or brother with whom she may live?"

  "Why yes, she has a brother, who lives on the neighboring estate, but Miss Isobel prefers to have her own establishment. I doubt she would care to play second fiddle to Lady Wereham," reflected Rose.

  Lord Francis accepted the tray and eyed the meal with anticipation. "She must be a most accomplished woman to run this estate herself."

  "Oh indeed she is, my lord. Miss Isobel takes a great interest in all of the business of the estate, as well as many other matters."

  Lord Francis pondered this information. "Does her brother then allow her to live on this property?" he asked.