gaining a raised eyebrow.
“Indeed? Tell me about it.”
Sophie and Isabel discussed the charity and its goals. Ryan seemed genuinely impressed.
“The trouble is,” Isabel went on, “without the lists our proposal is worthless. Do you by any chance have access to the army’s personnel files?” she asked hopefully.
He shook his head. “But I know someone who does. And so do you.”
Isabel prayed her expression didn’t give her away. “Who?”
He filled their glasses with wine. “Ashby.”
Isabel’s hand shook as she lifted a spoonful of cherry ice to her mouth. “Colonel Lord Ashby hasn’t been to Seven Dover Street for many years.”
“Who is this Ashby, Izzy?” Sophie inquired.
Isabel swallowed the ice. “He was Will’s best friend. By the end of the war he commanded the regiment. Now he is a…recluse.”
Sophie lowered her voice. “Is he the one they call ‘the Gargoyle’?”
Isabel met Ryan’s dark gaze and was heartened to note he found the derogatory epithet as distasteful as she did. “Damned shame, that is,” he said. “I still can’t believe he has withdrawn from Society altogether.”
Isabel leaned forward, endeavoring not to seem overly intrigued. “What happened to him?”
Ryan sighed. “A cannon-shell exploded in his face during a charge in Sorauren, wounded him within an inch of his life. He underwent a field surgery and was bedridden for six months.”
“Did he go about in a mask afterward?” Isabel inquired quietly.
“A mask? Ashby?” Ryan snorted with disdain. “As soon as he was on his feet, he went on leading every charge. He used to joke about it, saying that the sight of his face would kill more Frenchmen than us good-for-nothing cowards could. Wellington awarded him the Gold Medal.”
“If he didn’t mind it then, why did he become a recluse upon returning to England?”
Ryan dropped his gaze. “I didn’t say he didn’t mind. As I recall, there was talk of a scandal involving his…” He clammed up.
Isabel gritted her teeth. She ached to know everything about Ashby. “Why is he a recluse?”
“I think his withdrawal from Society has something to do with the death of your brother,” he hedged, “but don’t take my word for it. He was my superior officer. He didn’t confide in me.”
“He never came to call on us after Will died.”
“Don’t hold it against him,” Ryan asked softly. “He was devastated over Will.”
A lump formed in her throat. “I believe you, and I don’t hold it against him.”
“Why don’t you and Major Macalister call on Lord Ashby together, Izzy? He may just be the sort of sponsor we need.”
Isabel stiffened. “But…but…he’s a recluse.”
“I called on him before I left for India,” Ryan mentioned, “but the butler wouldn’t allow me inside Lancaster House. One would have to be Wellington to get admitted there.”
“Do you know Wellington, major?” Sophie inquired. “An introduction to the Iron Duke would greatly benefit our cause.”
“I salute him when I see him. He sometimes remembers my name, but other than that…” He smiled sheepishly, shrugging. “Sorry.”
“Do you attend Almack’s tomorrow evening?” Isabel asked. Perhaps during a waltz, she might get him to reveal more about Ashby without Sophie hanging on their every word.
“Ryan,” he amended. His eyes smoldered as a devilish smile formed on his lips. “I’m not sure they’ll let me in with all those debutantes fluttering about, but now that I know you will be there, I shall endeavor to procure myself a voucher. Will you reward me with a waltz, Isabel?”
“With pleasure.”
“I should very much like to call on you sometime, pay my respects to Lady Aubrey.”
“I shall look forward to seeing you. I’m sure Mama and Stilgoe would love to chat with one of Will’s old cronies.”
He contemplated her eyes. “There is an excellent place on Berkley Square that sells ices. Would you go walking with me Saturday afternoon?”
“I would be delighted to, Ryan.”
“Excellent.” He consulted his pocket watch. “And now, ladies, I must be off.” He stood, beckoning their waiter. “How much for the table?”
Isabel caught his arm. “No. I forbid you to pay for us—”
“Already done.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Until Saturday. Mrs. Fairchild.” He bowed handsomely.
“Major.”
As he sauntered off, Sophie gripped her hand. “You like him. I must say I liked him too.”
“Ryan is very charming,” Isabel agreed, while her thoughts centered on Ashby. If his self-imposed seclusion had something to do with Will, why did he kick her out of his house?
“Pity he is in Queer Street.”
Isabel smiled at the Frenchwoman’s mastery of English cant. One would think she grew up on the streets of London. “What makes you think he’s penniless?”
“When a man needs a wife to quit the army…” Sophie tsk-tsked. “As I said, I like him, and obviously he likes you, but I’d be on my guard, Izzy. That man is hunting for an heiress.”
“He can’t be all that hard for currency if he paid for our luncheon.”
“A clever predator never allows a lady to pay for anything until after the wedding.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Isabel mused. “You have a better nose for this sort of thing than I do, but I daresay, if pushed to the altar, Ryan would make the least offending choice of groom.”
Sophie’s dark brown eyes twinkled naughtily. “On that, chérie, we are in agreement.”
“Home, Jackson,” Isabel told her coachman after dropping Sophie off at Lord and Lady Maitland’s town house. Unlike Chilton, who terrorized poor Iris and forever brandished her lack of fortune and family over her head like the sword of Damocles, Sophie’s in-laws were kind and affectionate and treated her as a queen, regardless of Sophie’s checkered Parisian past. They were always happy to look after their five-year-old grandson, Jerome, and never pried into his mother’s private affairs. Isabel’s mother made a career of prying into her daughter’s affairs.
The dappled afternoon sun danced on her cheek as the carriage trundled through Mayfair. Tapping
