Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(49)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

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.

Which didn’t change the fact that Lady Margaret would be ruined beyond repair if word got out that she and Roger Fraser-Burnsby had been lovers.

“All the more reason to pull yourself together,” Isabel said gently.

“I don’t care,” Lady Margaret whispered.

“I know, dear, but in the future you will.” Isabel’s words were blunt to the point of cruelty, she knew, but they must be spoken. “Pull yourself together, my lady. We need to walk through that ballroom to your carriage. Now, who did you come with tonight?”

“My… my great aunt is staying with me while Mama is away.”

Isabel had a vague recollection of an older, gray-haired woman sometimes accompanying Lady Margaret. “Good. I’ll get you settled in the carriage first and then send her to you.”

It wasn’t as simple as that, of course. It took another fifteen minutes and much cajoling on Isabel’s part, but at last Lady Margaret was ready to step from the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face puffy, and she’d obviously been crying, but at least she no longer was.

“You only need to get to your carriage,” Isabel murmured as she accompanied the girl back to the ballroom. “A few steps and then you can relax.”

Lady Margaret nodded mechanically.

“Good girl,” Isabel said. They’d reached the ballroom. People were still crowded around the entrance, and no one seemed to pay them any attention, thank goodness. “We’ll simply tell your aunt that you’ve a migraine. Can you trust your lady’s maid?”

“What?” Lady Margaret looked dazed.

The girl probably hadn’t thought how fast gossip spread among servants. “Never mind. Just get rid of your lady’s maid as soon as she helps you to undress. Lock your door and rest.”

“Lady Beckinhall, there you are!” The voice was masculine and to Isabel’s side.

She turned, half blocking the speaker’s view of Lady Margaret. Mr. Seymour stood with Lord d’Arque. Both men looked grave. The viscount was still a bit green about his mouth.

Mr. Seymour’s color in contrast was hectic. “Monstrous, this business. The cold-blooded murder of a gentleman right here in London.” He glanced curiously at Lady Margaret. “The news must’ve been overwhelming for those of delicate sensibilities.”

Isabel sent the man a quelling glance. “Quite. And even for those who have normal sensibilities. Mr. Fraser-Burnsby was a very nicely mannered gentleman, and a favorite to many. He will be missed.”

Lord d’Arque muttered something under his breath and abruptly strode away.

“They were close,” Mr. Seymour said, nodding in d’Arque’s direction. “Apparently were at school together. I had no idea. D’Arque keeps everything close to the vest, and Roger was friendly to everyone.” He shook his head. “We’ll find his murderer, never you fear, ladies. We’ve called in the dragoons and they’re searching St. Giles even now. We’ll have him in prison by dawn.”