A Poor Relation. Joanna Maitland

sank her head into her hands, pushing her modish new bonnet askew in the process, and began to sob weakly.

      Isabella, too, was a little pale, but she despised such missish behaviour. Her keen intellect was busy searching for a solution to their dilemma. Mr Lewiston had not recognised her, she was certain. If she was careful both in her appearance and her behaviour, she could continue to dupe him. She could not afford to fail.

      ‘Do not distress yourself, Sophia,’ she said firmly, grasping Sophia’s shoulder and giving her a tiny shake. ‘He did not know me. Nor will he, if we are careful. I shall continue to act as though he and I had just met, and so shall you. If he should ask after your “companion”—though I dare swear he will not so lower himself—you will say that she is with her family.’

      ‘Oh, I could not,’ protested Sophia, trying to dry her tears with a scrap of lace. ‘I have not your talent for acting a part. Pray do not ask me to, Winny.’ Her voice was quavering; the tears threatened once more.

      ‘But I require you to,’ replied Isabella resolutely, giving Sophia a stern look, which stopped the gathering tears immediately. ‘Remember, Sophia—what I am asking you to say is no more than the exact truth. “Winny” is with her family.’ Isabella softened her gaze with a slight smile as she continued. ‘However, you must now cease to call me by that name. It would certainly betray us.’

      They did not have much time to reflect on the possible horrors of the forthcoming visit from Mr Lewiston, because they were preoccupied with the preparations for Sophia’s first party—Lady Bridge’s soirée—that very evening. Although London was as yet quite thin of company, Isabella had judged it wise to allow Sophia to make some acquaintances at a few small gatherings, before launching her into her first grand occasion.

      For this first party, Sophia chose the prettiest of the evening gowns she had brought from Yorkshire. None of Madame Florette’s creations could arrive for some days yet, however many seamstresses she might set to work on them. But Sophia’s home-made gown would by no means disgrace her, since she possessed real skill both in cutting and in stitching.

      ‘Thank you so much for lending me your pearls,’ said Sophia, as soon as she joined Isabella in the hall.

      ‘You look lovely,’ replied Isabella warmly. ‘Pink does indeed become you.’

      ‘While you look quite beautiful,’ responded Sophia promptly, casting admiring glances at Isabella’s classical gown of old-gold silk, and the necklace and earrings of intricate gold filigree. ‘You look like a princess from a fairy-tale.’

      Secretly pleased, Isabella thanked her cousin demurely. ‘But you should not say such things, you know. At my age, I am more likely to be the wicked witch than the good fairy.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ chimed in an older voice. ‘You do yourself an injustice, as ever, Isabella. You look very well indeed, my dear.’

      ‘Oh, Aunt,’ protested Isabella. ‘How can I retain my countenance, if both of you put me to the blush?’

      Lady Wycham ignored that protest completely. ‘Come, my dears, the carriage is waiting.’ The elderly lady, clad in imposing purple and leaning lightly on an ebony cane, led the way to the steps.

      Barely ten minutes after their arrival, Sophia was chattering gaily with their host’s two nieces, while the hostess herself was seated by Lady Wycham, enjoying a comfortable coze.

      ‘Will you favour us with some music, my dear?’ asked Sir Thomas. ‘It is always a delight to hear you sing.’

      Isabella inclined her head towards her host and moved to open the pianoforte. First she played a German minuet, its demure rhythm making little impact on the hum of conversation in the salon. Then she turned to a book of Italian songs, accompanying her low, rich singing voice with soft arpeggios. Almost as soon as she started to sing, the level of noise in the room fell, as the guests stopped to appreciate her beautiful voice. Sir Thomas watched her with a beatific smile on his face. Hardly anyone moved.

      At the end of three songs, she made to leave the instrument but was met with a chorus of requests for an encore. She felt the warmth of a flush on her cheeks as she nodded her acquiescence. ‘Very well,’ she smiled, ‘but just one more.’ Her choice this time was completely different, a sad Italian ballad, which she sang very quietly, but with great expressiveness. The room remained totally hushed until the last note had died away, and then there was a burst of enthusiastic applause.

      Isabella felt pleased; she knew she had performed well. She raised her eyes from her music to acknowledge the applause—and looked straight into the hard, dark eyes of Lord Amburley.

      For a moment she sat immobile, stunned. How could this be happening? She felt her flush return and deepen under his gaze, while she strove both to regain her composure and to find an escape route from this nightmarish encounter. What could she do? It was so terribly difficult to order her thoughts with his penetrating gaze resting on her face. Had he recognised her, perhaps? Heavens, he was coming over to the pianoforte. She rose hurriedly in an attempt to avoid him, but it was too late. Sir Thomas was before her.

      ‘I think you cannot have met Amburley,’ began her affable host. ‘He has not been in town for some years. The wars, you know. He arrived a little late this evening but, luckily, in time to hear you sing. May I make him known to you?’

      Isabella nodded dumbly, trying to recover control of her decidedly wobbly limbs. Her mind was still in a whirl. Foremost among her thoughts was the awful certainty that he could not possibly be the libertine she had earlier judged him to be. Rakes were not received by the upright Lady Bridge.

      ‘Miss Winstanley,’ continued Sir Thomas formally, turning slightly to be sure of including his lordship, ‘may I present Lord Amburley?’

      ‘Your servant, ma’am.’ His lordship had stopped by the far end of the instrument, Isabella noted, just near enough to avoid being impolite. He now bowed distantly to her, without moving forward to shake hands. ‘My compliments on your performance. You have a most…unusual voice.’ His voice was cool and expressionless, his manner stiff.

      Curtsying politely, Isabella contrived a slight smile which did not reach her eyes. Inwardly, she was suddenly seething, her anger forcibly expelling her earlier weakness. She had been much too generous in her previous assessment of this man. Not a rake, perhaps, but both arrogant and overbearing in the extreme. She had received many compliments on her singing in the past, but a cold and patronising ‘unusual’ was certainly not one she would cherish. Better that he had refrained from voicing his evident disdain. Hateful, hateful man!

      She would not allow him to overset her. Let him begin the polite conversation, if he dared. The spark of challenge was unmistakable as she raised her head proudly to look him in the eye.

      If Lord Amburley observed that fiery spark, he gave no outward sign of recognition as far as Isabella could tell. Indeed, he seemed to be completely devoid of any human feeling—he just stood motionless by the pianoforte, surveying Isabella through half-closed lids.

      Isabella refused to be cowed. Clearly his lordship did not desire to prolong their conversation. She certainly had no wish to do so. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I must rejoin Lady Wycham,’ she said politely, turning to leave. Sir Thomas nodded genially. Lord Amburley responded with only the slightest bow, keeping his hard eyes fixed on Isabella throughout. She could feel his gaze boring into her back, as she moved away to join her great-aunt once more, keeping her pace measured and deliberate. She might feel like running from him, but nothing—nothing—would be allowed to betray her inner weakness to such a man.

      ‘Why, Isabella,’ exclaimed Lady Wycham, ‘whatever is the matter? You look quite ill. Have you the headache, my dear? You really should not have agreed to perform for so long.’

      ‘I am quite well, truly. It is just a little warm with so many people in the room. I shall be recovered in a moment, I assure you.’ Taking a deep breath, Isabella raised her eyes to survey the company and discovered, with a sigh of relief, that Lord Amburley was no longer anywhere to be seen. A little of