Chapter 5: The Rival (Part I: Smoke and Whisspers)

In the wake of her confrontation with William, Isabella moved through her days beneath a veil of uneasy peace. Though he had spoken words of reassurance, shadows of doubt lingered still, whispering at the corners of her mind. Society’s murmurs had not ceased; they clung to her like smoke—persistent, inescapable.

Each stolen moment with William afforded a fragile reprieve—a breath of stillness amidst the storm that gathered, slow and unrelenting, about them.

Yet even within the sanctuary of his embrace, restlessness remained—a subtle, unspoken strain that neither the passage of time nor the softness of affection could fully dispel.

***

On a morning of rare brightness, Isabella sat beside her mother, Lady Eleanor Harrington, in the drawing room, their hands gracefully engaged in embroidery.

The tranquillity of the hour was soon disturbed by the entrance of a footman, who bowed with practiced deference.

“My lady,” he intoned, “Lord Geoffrey Ashton has called.”

At the sound of that name, Isabella felt her heart dip, heavy and unwelcomed.

Across from her, Lady Eleanor lifted her gaze, a flicker of disquiet passing, swift but perceptible, across her otherwise composed expression.

“Show him in,” Lady Eleanor said, her tone measured. She glanced at Isabella, her eyes silently questioning, but Isabella remained silent, bracing herself for what was to come.

Geoffrey entered the room with the same air of self-assurance that always seemed to accompany him. His gaze sought out Isabella immediately, his eyes sharp, assessing. She met his gaze with unwavering poise, determined not to betray her tension.

“Good morning, Lady Harrington. Lady Isabella,” Geoffrey said, his tone smooth, though his eyes held something altogether sharper. “Forgive the interruption—may I presume my presence is not unwelcome?”

“Not in the least, Lord Geoffrey,” Lady Eleanor replied, her tone courteous, though cool. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit this morning?”

Geoffrey offered a tight smile. “Might I request a word with Lady Isabella, if she is so inclined?”

Isabella’s irritation flared at his presumption, but she schooled her features into polite composure. With a curt nod, she replied, her tone even,

“Certainly, Lord Geoffrey. What is it you wish to discuss?”

Sensing the tension, Lady Eleanor gracefully excused herself, leaving the two alone in the drawing room. As soon as the door closed, Geoffrey’s polite veneer slipped.

“I’ve been hearing troubling rumours,” Geoffrey began, his voice controlled, but insistent. “Rumours that you’re still associating with Duke Crawford. After everything I’ve warned you about, Isabella, why do you continue this folly?”

Isabella’s temper flared. “What I choose to do, and with whom, is none of your concern, Lord Geoffrey. You have no right to interfere in my life.”

Geoffrey stepped closer, his expression darkening. “It concerns me because I care for you. I won’t stand idly by while you ruin yourself for a man like Crawford. His reputation precedes him, Isabella. He’s reckless, impulsive, and he will bring nothing but disgrace to your family.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Isabella replied coldly, “but I know William. I trust him implicitly. These rumours you speak of are nothing but lies.”

Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with anger. “You’re being a fool,” he hissed. “Crawford isn’t the man you think he is. He will betray you, just as he’s betrayed others before. Mark my words, Isabella—you’re making a grave mistake.”

Isabella rose from her seat, her heart pounding with both anger and frustration. “Thank you for your advice, Lord Geoffrey. But I have nothing more to say to you. Please leave.”

For a moment, it looked as though Geoffrey might argue further, but he caught himself. His expression cooled, his lips twisting into a thin smile. “Very well, Isabella. But remember—I warned you.”

With that, Geoffrey turned and strode out of the room, leaving Isabella standing in the wake of his departure, her emotions a maelstrom of anger, doubt, and defiance.

For a brief, maddening moment, his words took root, twisting through her thoughts like creeping vines.

What if—?

No.

She exhaled sharply, willing away the sliver of uncertainty before it could take hold.

His words echoed in her mind, but she knew better than to let them shake her.

She had chosen William, and no amount of Geoffrey’s schemes would change that.

***

Later that day, Isabella met William in their secret garden alcove, the familiar sight of him immediately calming the storm inside her. She recounted her tense encounter with Geoffrey, her frustration spilling out in every word.

“He has no right to interfere in my life,” she fumed. “I wish he would just leave us alone.”

William listened intently, his expression thoughtful but darkening with each word. “Geoffrey is desperate,” he said finally. “He sees you as something to be won, something that enhances his power. But we won’t let him come between us.”

“I know,” Isabella murmured, releasing a soft sigh as she leaned against him. “And yet his words linger. What if he finds some means to turn them all against us?”

“We shall face it together,” William said, his voice even but firm. “Geoffrey’s influence may reach far, but what we share is stronger still. We must not allow his falsehoods to take hold.”

William’s confidence reassured her, but Isabella knew the path ahead would be treacherous. As they spoke of the future, discussing their hopes for a life free from the suffocating constraints of society, there was a constant undercurrent of tension. They longed for freedom, but the obstacles seemed to grow by the day.

***

In the days that ensued, Isabella moved through a whirlwind of social calls, luncheons, and late-night assemblies—each one threaded with whispered speculation and glances too pointed to ignore.

Outwardly composed, she navigated the intricate currents of society with practiced grace, her every word measured, every smile precise.

Yet her thoughts drifted constantly to William. Their clandestine meetings had become her sanctuary—a fragile reprieve from the storm gathering ever closer at the edges of her world.

As twilight descended upon yet another evening of forced gaiety, Isabella stood before her dressing table, lost in thought, her hands idle among ribbons and combs.

A knock at the door stirred her from her reverie. Margaret, her ever-faithful maid, stepped inside, a folded envelope in hand—sealed with the crest Isabella had come to know by heart.

Isabella’s heart leaped as she broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

My dearest Isabella,

Though these times are fraught with uncertainty, I remain steadfast in the belief that what we share shall see us through. I have secured a meeting with an old acquaintance—Sir James Atherton—whose counsel and connections may prove of great assistance in unravelling the web Geoffrey has so artfully spun.

I beg you to meet me at our accustomed place tomorrow at noon. There is much to discuss, and time, I fear, grows short.

Ever yours,

W.

Isabella’s heart swelled with hope. She had heard of Sir James before, though only in passing. He was a close friend of William’s, a man known for his sharp mind and unshakable presence. If anyone could help them outmaneuver Geoffrey, it would be him.

And yet, a flicker of doubt crept in. A man of Sir James’s standing had little to gain by entangling himself in their troubles—if anything, he would be wiser to keep his distance.

Why would he risk his name, his reputation, for their cause?

Was it loyalty to William alone, or was there something else?

The days had blurred into weeks, each filled with careful maneuvering and whispered rumours. Yet Geoffrey’s shadow still loomed.

***

At noon, the next day, Isabella made her way to their secret meeting spot, her anticipation growing with each step. When she arrived, William was already waiting, his expression serious but filled with hope. Standing beside him was Sir James Atherton, a tall, composed man with sharp eyes that spoke of wisdom and experience.

“Isabella,” William greeted her, taking her hands. “This is Sir James Atherton, a trusted friend and ally.”

Sir James stepped forward, offering her a polite bow. “Lady Isabella, it’s an honor to finally meet you. William has spoken highly of you.”

“Thank you,” Isabella replied, her voice warm with gratitude. “I’ve heard much about you as well. Your help means more to us than I can express.”

Sir James inclined his head with impeccable courtesy, though his keen gaze flicked toward William with something unreadable.

So—this is the woman who has compelled my old friend to stand against the full weight of society, should it come to that, he mused.

It was no small thing for William to place his trust in another—rarer still for him to seek assistance so openly. And yet here he stood, unwavering at her side, prepared to defy Geoffrey—and any number of serpents that slithered through London’s drawing rooms and corridors of influence.

“Sir James and I have known each other for years,” William explained. “Though he didn’t travel with me, he’s always kept me informed of what’s happening in society. In fact, it was Sir James who first alerted me to the rumours surrounding Geoffrey’s... unhealthy interest in you.”

At this, Isabella’s expression shifted—just slightly.

Surprise, perhaps.

Or suspicion.

Sir James noted it at once. She was astute. Keenly observant.

He did not doubt she had already begun to question how William came by such intimate knowledge—not merely of Geoffrey, but of Lady Catherine Montford as well.

Sir James exhaled, without a word, resolved to still her doubts before they could deepen.

“William and I have made it a habit of knowing things,” he said smoothly, his gaze resting on Isabella. Especially when it concerns dangerous men with too much power and too few morals. “He didn’t return to England blindly, my lady. He returned because of Catherine as well.”

Isabella’s lips parted slightly, and William squeezed her hand in silent reassurance.

“Catherine has ever been an observer,” William said evenly. “A woman who prefers to manipulate from behind the curtain rather than take the stage herself. Even before I left England, she was already aligning herself with men of influence—those easily swayed by insinuation rather than open persuasion. Geoffrey has always been reckless. But Catherine…” He paused. “Catherine is of a different sort entirely.”

Sir James inclined his head. “I saw it long before William did,” he said, his voice grave. “It was evident in the way she moved through society—listening, collecting, guiding others with the lightest of touches. By the time I grasped the true breadth of her ambition, she was already deeply enmeshed in Geoffrey’s designs.” His mouth drew into a tight line. “I warned William before he departed. He would not hear it then. But now…”

He let the words settle in the air between them, unfinished—yet entirely understood.

William exhaled softly. “Now, I see it all too clearly.”

Isabella regarded them both, the tension in her shoulders softening—though not entirely gone.

A hush settled over the room, companionable but weighty. Sir James, in that moment, permitted himself a rare indulgence: a glance backward, to the boy William had been when first they met—headstrong, idealistic, and wholly unaware of the shadows that would one day gather at his heels.

***

A Memory from Long Ago

Sir James remembered well the first time he laid eyes upon William Crawford.

He had been but sixteen then—still a boy in age, though already well acquainted with the cruelties of the world. His father, a man of noble title but wretched character, had squandered their fortune in the most sordid corners of society.

Brothels, gaming hells, back-alley dealings—there was no pit so foul that Lord Atherton would not crawl into it. The debts had mounted, the whispers had grown ever louder, and at last, a price had been named.

James had very nearly been sold to repay them.

He recalled with chilling clarity the iron grip of the brute who had seized him in a darkened alley, the rank stench of sweat, whiskey, and unwashed avarice thick in the air. His father had not fought. Had not shouted. Had not wept. He had merely stood there, hollow-eyed and silent, as his son was dragged toward a fate too vile to name.

And then—

William Crawford had appeared.

Not as the heir to a respected house, not as the privileged son of a powerful family, but as a boy scarcely older than James himself—yet already possessed of a bearing that brooked no refusal. His fists were clenched, his jaw set, and his eyes blazed with something fierce and unrelenting.

“You will let him go.”

The men had laughed. He was young—still more lad than man—but there had been something in his voice, in his posture, that drew the laughter to an uneasy halt. And then came the flash of steel—a dagger, drawn from beneath his coat, pressed with unflinching precision to the throat of the ringleader.

The silence had been immediate.

In the end, no blood was spilled. A few well-placed threats. A sum of money drawn from his own purse—his father’s purse, more likely—and the sordid bargain had been undone.

James had walked away, his life and liberty restored. But freedom, he would come to learn, was never without its cost.

That night, James came to understand that debts were not always settled in coin—but in loyalty, in discreet acts of brotherhood. And in the years that followed, he repaid that debt not with words, but with unwavering action.

When William departed England, James had remained—not to wallow in the wreckage his father had left behind, but to watch, to listen, to ensure that when William returned, he would not do so blind to the world that awaited him.

And now, standing before Isabella—reading the keen intelligence in her gaze, the fire flickering beneath her composed exterior—James knew William had chosen wisely.

***

The Present

Sir James blinked, pulling himself from the memory, his gaze resting on Isabella once more.

“William saved me once,” he said simply, his voice soft, yet unyielding. “I will not let him walk into another war alone.”

Something softened in Isabella’s eyes then. Perhaps it was understanding, or perhaps it was something deeper—recognition, the knowledge that loyalty, once forged in fire, could never be undone.

She nodded. “Then we fight together.”

Sir James inclined his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Yes. Together.

And Geoffrey Ashton would never see them coming.

Isabella’s eyes widened slightly, her thoughts whirling. How much had Sir James truly known before William’s return?

“You were aware of Geoffrey’s intentions before William even came back?” she asked carefully.

Sir James nodded. “Geoffrey’s obsession with you was not a sudden thing—it’s been growing for years, festering beneath the surface.”

His expression darkened.

“I received an invitation to one of your family’s rare gatherings and immediately suspected something was amiss. When I learned Geoffrey would be in attendance, I sent word to William. I feared he might finally make his move.”

Isabella cast a glance at William, her fingers tightening slightly in his grasp.

William met her gaze with composed determination. “James has been my eyes and ears in England for years. He ensured I didn’t return to a battlefield unarmed.” He exhaled, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a reassuring gesture. “And now, he’s here to help us end this.”

Sir James’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. “Geoffrey is a skilled manipulator, but even the most cunning men have weaknesses. I have connections within society—people who owe favors, others who enjoy passing along whispered secrets.”

He paused.

“If we play this carefully, we can expose Geoffrey for what he truly is and ensure he no longer has the influence to harm you.”

Relief flooded through Isabella, though a lingering caution remained. So much had been happening in the shadows—plans laid before she had even realized the depths of the danger. And yet, knowing Sir James stood beside them filled her with renewed strength.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, meeting his gaze. “Your help means more than I can express.”

Sir James inclined his head. “Geoffrey may hold power, but we have something far greater.” His smile was edged with steel. “The truth. And that, Lady Isabella, is a weapon few know how to wield.”

***

Over the next few days, their strategy took careful, deliberate shape—a game of patience and precision. Sir James called upon his vast network, whispering in the right ears, slipping through the cracks of high society with effortless grace.

He gathered intelligence in fragments—ledgers that did not align, correspondence exchanged in urgent secrecy, money changing hands where it ought not. The picture of Geoffrey’s corruption was slow to emerge, but once it did, it was damning.

Meanwhile, Isabella and William navigated the intricate lanes of society with practised finesse, cloaked in an air of effortless grace. Behind the studied smiles and courteous exchanges, they laboured with unwavering purpose. Every interaction—each dance beneath the chandeliers, every softly spoken word over tea—was steeped in careful design.

They countered Geoffrey’s influence not with spectacle, but with resolute subtlety, unraveling his hold upon the aristocracy thread by thread.

But Geoffrey sensed the shift.

The first sign of his desperation came in the form of whispers—vicious rumours designed to erode Isabella’s reputation, to cast William as reckless and unworthy.

They spread like wildfire through the drawing rooms of the elite, but Sir James was always one step ahead, intercepting them, twisting them back onto Geoffrey with subtle brilliance. Where Geoffrey sought to weaken their standing, they fortified it. Where he tried to divide, they united.

Tension curled through the air, thick and suffocating, as Geoffrey’s desperation took a darker turn. He pushed harder, growing bolder in his attempts to crush them, yet each scheme was met with unseen defiance. Isabella saw it in his eyes when their paths crossed at social events—the flicker of uncertainty, the barely masked frustration. He was losing control.

“We’re making progress,” Isabella murmured one evening, as they met in the garden’s hushed seclusion. The scent of blooming roses curled around them, but the air now crackled with something sharper—not tension, but momentum.

“People are beginning to see through Geoffrey’s lies.”

She did not yet realise: Geoffrey had never been the only one watching.