and make the formal announcement then.’
‘Goodness, that soon?’ she gasped, staring at him in surprise. His smile widened as he held her gaze.
‘It can’t be soon enough for me, Isabella, and besides as an old man of nearly thirty, I need a wife by my side,’ he told her. ‘I believe amethyst is the appropriate stone for those born in early February. One would be a perfect match for those beautiful cornflower eyes of yours that tinge violet when roused.’
‘Stop it, Maxwell, you’re making me blush,’ she cried, feeling the heat creeping up her cheeks. ‘Fancy you knowing my birthstone,’ she added, for he wasn’t usually given to sentiment.
‘My grandmother told me,’ he admitted with a wry grin. ‘Her birthday is the day before yours and she wears such a ring.’
‘Really? We shall have something to talk about when we meet.’
‘You agree then?’ he urged, tightening his grip.
‘I suppose if we were betrothed, then we would travel together. That alone makes your proposal worth considering,’ she replied, smiling so he knew she was teasing, for there was nothing she desired more. Although he returned her smile, it didn’t reach his eyes and thinking he’d had enough of discussing personal matters, she changed the subject. ‘On my way here, I passed a gallery displaying charming pictures by a Scottish artist. His exhibition debuts this very evening.’ She looked at him hopefully.
‘I’m sorry, Isabella, but I already have an appointment tonight,’ he replied, releasing her hand and sitting back in his seat.
‘Oh?’ she frowned, disappointment flooding through her.
‘A business meeting so important I cannot postpone it, even for you,’ he explained. ‘Now let’s not waste our time together. Tell me what wicked things you’ve been up to whilst your keeper’s been absent without leave.’ Isabella took a sip of her drink, then unable to resist the appeal in his eyes, regaled him with details of her afternoon. Yet, although he smiled and nodded, she couldn’t help feeling he was only half listening.
‘It sounds as though you need to replace that energy you’ve expended,’ he joked, proffering the laden silver stand the moment she paused for breath.
The bread was freshly baked, the salmon succulent and she savoured each mouthful as soft music from the pianist mingled with the murmur of voices around them. The chink of crystal glasses and clink of silver spoons against fine china added to the genial atmosphere. Cocooned in their cosy nook, Isabella sighed contentedly then darted a surreptitious glance at Maxwell. His grey silk tie brought out the colour of his eyes while his slicked-back fair hair emphasized razor-sharp cheeks. He was handsome beyond measure and she couldn’t wait to become his wife. As if sensing her thoughts, he looked up and smiled.
‘Next time we come here, we shall celebrate in style, Isabella,’ he promised. ‘Now why don’t you sample these delicious-looking cakes before we leave?’ She took one, toying with the purple crystallized flower on top whilst she waited for him to continue discussing plans for their future. He seemed distracted, though, even frowning at the clock on the wall. Surely he wasn’t in that much of a hurry, Isabella mused, nibbling daintily at the icing. Yet, no sooner had she finished eating than he folded his napkin and smiled apologetically.
‘Regrettably dearest, it’s time we were leaving.’ Seeing her crestfallen look, he added: ‘Perhaps I may call upon you tomorrow afternoon? We could visit that gallery you mentioned.’
‘That would be lovely, Maxwell, though I doubt they’ll be offering the champagne and canapés advertised for this evening,’ she sighed, hoping his fondness for the good things in life might change his mind.
‘Then I promise to make reparation,’ he assured her. ‘I’m sorry I have to rush off but it really is imperative I keep this appointment tonight. However, I’m sure you’ll spend a happy evening perusing all those delightful accoutrements you’ve bought,’ he chuckled.
Outside, dusk was falling and the lamplighter was busy about his work. Seeing Isabella shiver, the doorman signalled for her carriage and Maxwell handed her inside. Then he turned to the young flower seller standing beside the hotel steps and plucked a posy of violets from her basket.
‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady,’ he said, presenting them to Isabella with a flourish. ‘Until tomorrow, Isabella dearest,’ he whispered, placing a featherlight kiss on her cheek.
As the carriage began to move, she buried her head in the flowers’ satiny petals. Breathing in their sweet perfume, a faint memory stirred, hovered elusively then vanished like mist in the rays of a summer sun. It wasn’t the first time that had happened and she sighed in frustration.
Oblivious to the buildings flashing by the window, she thought back over her afternoon. Maxwell was handsome, generous and charming but also something of an enigma. One minute proposing they set a date for their betrothal, the next almost hurrying her from the hotel. Before she had time to ponder the matter, they were pulling up outside her family home, a three-storey house in Chester Square. To her surprise, the front door was immediately thrown open, spilling golden light onto the walkway and park beyond.
‘Your father is waiting in his study, Miss Isabella,’ the butler informed her.
‘Thank you, Jenson. I’ll see him as soon as I have attended to my purchases,’ she told him, turning to give instruction to the driver.
‘He was most insistent you go through immediately you arrived home, Miss.’ Fighting her irritation, Isabella hurried inside, her heels sinking into the pile of the Persian carpet as she made her way down the hallway.
‘Good evening, Papa,’ she smiled, breezing into his inner sanctum where the familiar smell of beeswax and cigar smoke overpowered the gentle fragrance of her violets. ‘It’s ages since you were home at this hour. Does this mean we shall be dining together?’ To her surprise, her usually affable father didn’t answer. In fact, he looked gaunt, seeming to have shrunk in stature since she’d seen him that morning. As he stared at her from behind his highly polished desk, his hazel eyes gleaming olive in their seriousness, Isabella felt her chest tighten. ‘Is something wrong? Are you not well?’ she asked, taking in his pallor.
‘Come and sit down, Isabella, I have something to tell you,’ he said quietly.
‘What is it, Papa? Has something happened?’ she asked, sinking into the leather chair opposite.
‘A fire has destroyed St John’s in Newfoundland.’
‘But that’s on the other side of the world, Papa. It’s a terrible shame, of course, but not of any great importance to you, surely?’
‘On the contrary, my dear. I have invested heavily there and now it’s all gone. My business is in ruins, Isabella. All this has to go,’ he groaned, making a sweeping gesture around the room. ‘Since your mother died I have done my best to keep you in the manner she wanted, but now I have failed . . . ’ his voice broke and he stuttered to a halt.
‘You’ve been the best papa ever,’ Isabella cried, hurrying to his side and throwing her arms around him. ‘Don’t worry, we can economize,’ she said, seeking to reassure him. ‘Why, Maxwell told me only this afternoon that as soon as I return from Italy, he intends asking for my hand in marriage.’
‘My dearest child, you simply do not understand. There will
