Isobel clutched the thin volume, pressing it so hard against her body that it dug into her ribs. It wasn’t one of the books her grandmother had written. The diary was much older and written in a masculine hand. It had been in the last trunk, a forgotten little leather bound journal that didn’t identify its author. It was also in Greek, a language her father had taught her along with Latin, French, and a little Italian.
The brief passage was the clearest mention of a spell that resembled what was happening to Matteo. She had found others, descriptions of curses that instructed the user on how to afflict others with ailments from a mild rash to sexual dysfunction. Other more pernicious curses made a person insensible, while a few killed.
What she’d found related to Matteo’s condition was vague. She didn’t know what the book meant by a purge. Despite translating all of the text in the book, there wasn’t more detail on that part. But now that she knew what she was looking for, maybe things would go faster. And she still had more volumes to check.
She had asked the Conte to acquire several more that had been mentioned in her reading through one of his agents in town. He had sent word that they had been found, and he would drop them off this afternoon. Pleased that the count was finally contributing to his son’s recovery, she was actually looking forward to his visit for a change.
Unfortunately, her assumption that Aldo was going to be helpful proved false. A few hours later he’d burst into the library, tracking mud on the carpet all the way up to the table she’d been sitting at, making notes on her reading. He’d been looking for Matteo, but his son had been asleep...again.
When she told the count they could no longer attend any of the upcoming balls left in the season—without saying explicitly why—he’d dismissed her concerns and argued with her. Aldo had no idea how close his son had come to losing control on the night of the ball.
The Conte only saw what he wanted to see. “You’re overreacting! Matteo was having a fine time at the ball until you dragged him home early. And it’s your behavior you should be concerned with, young lady.”
Her chin rose. “And just what does that mean?” she asked, close to losing her temper.
“My friend, Ridgeley, saw the two of you leaving the library. Your very first ball and you can’t behave with even the slightest bit of decency and decorum,” he said coldly.
She looked up, her lips parting in indignation.
“I knew letting Matteo marry so far beneath him would be a big mistake,” Aldo added with a sneer. “All of my friends were whispering about the two of you and what you had been doing.”
Isobel’s face flamed, but she stood up from her chair. She placed her palms flat on the table and glared. “I did what I had to do to keep your son from killing anyone.”
The Conte scoffed, and she gritted her teeth.
“How dare you criticize me,” she hissed. “I did what I had to do to keep him from having another one of his spells right there on the dance floor. As far as I’m concerned, all of your precious friends owe their lives to me. How did you think he was going to react when I danced with other men? Did you think the thing inside him would tolerate their hands on me?”
Aldo stopped and stared at her, the surprise and dismay clear on his face.
“It doesn’t work like that,” he said, denial writ large on his face.
“Well, it works like that now,” she said hoarsely.
They glared at each other until eventually the count looked away. “I will make your excuses at the Wilmot’s tonight,” he said eventually. “And whatever else involves dancing. The little Season is almost over in any case.”
Isobel sat down, tired. There was silence for a long minute. She knew she had nothing to be ashamed of, but it was difficult to maintain her composure knowing the events in the library were probably public knowledge.
What did their host think? Had Southmont realized he’d been in the library at the same time?
“This is for you,” Aldo said, taking an envelope from his breast pocket and sliding it toward her. “It’s a letter. From Clarence’s ward, Amelia. There is another for Matteo from his cousin Martin.”
Heartened, Isobel took the envelope and pressed it to her breast.
It was a timely reminder of why she was doing this. Matteo was as innocent as those children. In the little time she’d had with him, he had demonstrated nothing but a conscientious regard for her and other people.
He was everything Aldo was not. If she had to suffer a few scandalized whispers to preserve that, it did not signify.
“Thank you,” she replied quietly before going to wake her husband for lunch.
***
A few days later, Isobel was working in the conservatory. She was tending to the seedlings that had managed to sprout in their little pots as well as checking her store of powders and chemicals she’d acquired from local London apothecaries.