Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [48]
I set down my toast and touched a serviette to my lips. “I am all attention, Lord Scargrave.”
The Earl hesitated at my use of his uncle's title, and then gave me a rare smile. It had the power to utterly transform his face; from being rather a grave gentleman, possessed of sobriety unwonted in one so young, he was turned a convivial and charming fellow. I felt for an instant what it must have been to walk the streets of May-fair in his company, all those summer months ago, and understood a little of Isobel's trouble.
“I have observed your attentions to the Countess,” Fitzroy Payne began. “Though her present misfortunes are heavy, indeed, they must be counted as somewhat relieved by her enjoyment of such friendship.”
I inclined my head. “Those who know Isobel's goodness cannot help but love her.”
“Would that it were otherwise,” he murmured, undoubtedly for his own ears. Then, collecting himself, he gazed at me with the greatest earnestness. “You have noted, I assume, my preoccupation with my late uncle's affairs. It has denied me the opportunity I should otherwise have taken, of pursuing your acquaintance. So good a friend to Isobel should not remain a stranger to myself.”
“Perhaps we may better understand one another in an easier time,” I said gently. “I should never reproach you for attending to that which demands your care and attention, Lord Scargrave. You have been graciousness itself when thrown in my way.”
“When thrown in your way” he rejoined, with a gleam of amusement; “how poorly I have behaved to a guest beneath my roof! What would my fellows at White's1 say of me now, did they observe my manners? But it cannot be helped. I must presume upon short acquaintance, and beg of you your good offices.”
“If I may be of service to you in some matter, my lord, I would gladly know it.”
“I ask not for myself, but for one who is dear—to us both.”
This was a sort of frankness; for that he meant Isobel, I could not doubt, and by admitting to me—even in so delicate a manner—the depth of his own feeling for his late uncle's wife, the Earl honoured me with his confidence, indeed.
The sudden return of the footman, Fetters, with coffeepot and fresh rashers in hand, precluded further speech on the subject; but the Earl's breakfast once served, the man was dismissed. At Fetters's closing the breakfast room door discreetly behind him, I felt myself free to address the Earl's anxiety once more.
“What eager concern for Isobel has robbed you of your sleep, Lord Scargrave?”
His slate-coloured eyes held a surprising humility, and in their depths I read a grudging acknowledgement of my penetration. “You speak the truth, Miss Austen. I would spend less time wakeful at my uncle's affairs, were my sleep undisturbed by anxiety for the Countess.”
“And is Lord Harold the author of your demons, Lord Scargrave? For I confess, that where that gentleman is concerned, I may offer no assistance. He confounds me utterly.”
“To say utterly is perhaps an exaggeration. Miss Austen of Bath is never confounded utterly,” Fitzroy Payne said with gentle raillery. “No, Miss Austen—with Lord Harold I feel myself an equal. There is little the man would do to the Countess that I cannot forestall. It is Isobel herself who is the source of my anxiety.” The Earl hesitated, as if choosing his words. “I do not know how deeply you are admitted to her confidence—”
“Suffice it to say that I know as much regarding her affection for yourself, as it was possible for her to convey to another person,” I said quietly.
A wave of embarrassment overcame his face; but he quickly mastered it, and went on with greater ease. “Then you know that we two have achieved that level of intimacy which can admit of few impediments.”
“So I should imagine.”
“And yet, not a word beyond the common conventions of the household have I had from the Countess since my uncle's death. She deals with me as with a stranger.” The Earl slapped the table