“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 with the palm of his hand, and abruptly thrust himself out of his chair, commencing to pace about the room.

“You find this singular, my lord?”

“Singular? It is insupportable!”

“But she is lost to grief!”

“And at such a time, I should be her first comfort! But she appears rather to wish me at the ends of the earth!”

I knew not how to answer his confusion; for to say what I believed — that Isobel's profound grief was mingled with a sense of guilt and shame where Fitzroy Payne was concerned — should only cause him further pain. And it was just possible — Isobel having kept from her beloved all knowledge of the maid Marguerite's blackmailing missives — that the Countess desired to shield Fitzroy from her worry. That Isobel had taken the maid's words to heart, and begun to fear the grey-hared lord, I thrust aside as unlikely.

“Perhaps the Countess will be more herself with time,” I said lamely.

“But what if she is not, Miss Austen? What if my uncle's death has caused in her some reversal of feeling? It is just such a fear as this that robs my nights of sleep.”

Such honesty of sentiment, before myself — with whom he is acquainted only imperfectly — could not but win my active benevolence on Fitzroy Payne's behalf.

“Lord Scargrave,” I said, “the Countess has borne more than any lady of her tender years and experience should be expected to endure. Consider her disappointed passion for yourself — the strength required to overcome it — the melancholy resignation to a marriage of convenience — and now the sudden loss of a husband she revered at least as she might a father. It is not to be wondered that she seeks comfort in solitude. I should rather wonder at her doing anything else.”

“That may be true,” Fitzroy Payne said, composing himself with better grace. “But I would ask you, Miss Austen, to bend your efforts to improving Isobel's spirits. She is too much alone. Persuade her to walk with you, if the weather be fine; talk to her of subjects far from this unhappy house. And if it be possible to plead my cause — to speak warmly on my behalf—”

“Then know that I shall do all that is in my power, Lord Scargrave,” I assured him without hesitation.

“Blessed woman!” Fitzroy Payne cried, his gratitude in his looks; and so he left me.

I could not be idle when so much anxiety was active on Isobel's part; I hastened to her room, and found her very low.

“My dear,” I said, placing a wrap about her shoulders as she sat by the fire, her face pensive and her hair undone, “you are not dressed! And your tea is undrunk! Has Daisy failed to attend you?”

“Oh, Jane,” my friend sighed, “Daisy cannot attend to an illness of the spirit! Of what interest is dress to me? I cannot assume a different self, by assuming a different gown. I should rather remain here, in the quiet of my room, and repent of all my sins.”

“Come, come,” I chided her. “You should better congratulate yourself for having survived so many tests of character, with such grace and fortitude.”

“Neither word can apply to me.” Isobel thrust off the wrap and rose from her chair. “I have dishonoured a man who would have moved heaven and earth to make me happy.”

“Isobel! Such harshness, and so illogically applied! In your sorrow, you are unjust. Let your friend, who knows better your worth, remind you who you are.”

“Do not flatter me, Jane,” she said brusquely, holding out a hand as if to impede my passage. “I have nothing to offer in return but the shame of a woman who has acted as she should not.”

“Of what can you be speaking?” The depth of her guilt was as I had surmised. I must needs exert myself. “Nothing that you have recounted could dishonour Frederick. You esteemed him as your husband, and whatever your feelings for another, your behaviour has been such as no one can reproach.”

She put her hands to her face, hiding it from my sight; her voice, when it came, trembled with emotion. “I cannot banish the maid's words from my mind, Jane. Marguerite saw rightly. We killed my husband, Fitzroy and I — and our guilt could be no greater if we had poisoned him outright, as the maid claims.”

A horror gripped me at her words; and I silently cursed the girl whose vicious pen could wreak such havoc in Isobel's soul.

“My dear;” I said firmly, grasping her wrists and drawing her hands from her face, “you can have nothing to regret beyond your husband's untimely death. Mourn for him if you will, but do not take upon yourself the burden of your Maker. The ways of Providence are hidden, but as a clergyman's daughter, I may freely own that they are rarely vindictive.”

Isobel struggled free of me and fell languorously upon her chaise. Her face was hidden by dark red tresses; whether sorrow or anger o'erspread her features, I could not say. Prudence counseled me to desist; but friendship informed me that I had not done.

“You brought your husband great joy, Isobel,” I said firmly. “Remember that I saw him happy before his death. You honoured the Earl by consenting to be his wife, and by sacrificing your better feeling to his. Nothing should instruct you otherwise; certainly not the fractured words of a half-wit maid.”

“Jane,” the Countess said, brushing back her hair and turning her face to mine, “have done. Do not suppose your words are what I wish to hear. You cannot respect me any longer, knowing what you do of my character.”

“Say rather that I cannot endure you any longer.” I was all exasperation. “Isobel, you persist in professing what you should not! Enough of pining, enough of regret. Your task now is to address the future with renewed energy. Scargrave is dead — but Scargrave still lives. And unless I am very much mistaken, you are wronging a man who loves you.”