Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) by Carolyn Jewel Read Free Book Online Page B

wished she had refused
to go with Mr. St. James, she had to admit that if she were to go
back, there would be nothing there for her. She felt lost, as
adrift as the ship she was on. When she thought about England she
found it impossible to put aside her loyalty to the country she had
grown up in. Just the sound of the word “England” brought up a
feeling of dread and a vague sense that she was sailing toward the
enemy. Yet England was to be her home. The irony was that even if
she had refused to go, her music would likely have taken her there
sooner or later.
    She listened carefully when Mr. St. James talked
about his brother, hoping she might hear some clue about herself in
his words, and she alternated between dreading their arrival in
England and being impatient to have the waiting over.
    Though she was fully prepared to dislike London on
principle, Isobel fell in love with it as soon as her carriage
entered the city gates. It was utterly and completely different
from New York, and as the carriage rolled along the crowded streets
she pulled down the glass to peer out the window. The air was
filled with the shouts of street merchants hawking their wares, and
their cries assaulted her ears. For his part, Edward kept up a
constant stream of conversation, pointing out sights of interest
and taking care to inform her of their connection with men of
importance. The carriage bounced over the cobbles past a man
standing on a box, head and shoulders above the small group
gathered around him, one arm raised skyward extolling the
properties of his miracle potion, guaranteed to cure anything and
everything from boils to the gout, the pox, and fevers of the
brain. “Will it cure me of me wife?” shouted one skeptic.
    “ How do you stand the jouncing?”
she complained after she was nearly thrown off the seat when they
abruptly turned a corner.
    Edward did not seem to be the least affected by the
joint-destroying ride and he assured her it was a skill she could
learn. “This coach isn’t really suited to the city streets,” he
told her, “but I’m afraid it will have to do until we get to
Redruth.”
    She had to wonder if they would arrive at all. The
streets were clogged with carriages of all sizes, all being driven
as if each one were the only vehicle on the road. Drivers cursed
one another with an inventiveness that, when she could decipher the
accent, made Isobel blush and Edward look sheepish. Still, she
could see it was better to be in a carriage than to be on foot.
Crossing the street was obviously a perilous undertaking. It wasn’t
until they reached some better-appointed streets that she saw
barricades set up for the protection of any poor souls unlucky
enough not to make it all the way on the first attempt. Edward
jokingly told her the more timid had been known to wait for weeks
before deciding it was safe to cross.
    The carriage turned one last corner onto Albemarle
Street. “Albemarle Street is named after Christopher Monck,” he
began, “the second duke of Albemarle, who bought Clarendon House
for twenty-five thousands of pounds, then leveled it to the ground
and built Albemarle Street on the site of the old mansion. The Duke
of Albemarle Publick House is hard by on Dover Street.” He nodded
his head in that direction.
    “ Do you go there often?” The
carriage pulled to a stop and Edward escaped having to answer when
the door was pulled open by a servant wearing the earl of
Chessingham’s blue-and-gold livery. “This is where your brother
lives?” She blinked in disbelief when the footman handed her down.
Edward bobbed his head in assent as he stepped down beside her.
Redruth was a forbidding blackish-gray building three stories high,
with two curving staircases that met at the second story before
carved wooden doors. Another liveried servant pulled the doors open
just as they arrived, and when they stepped over the threshold they
were met by a doleful-looking butler who took Edward’s overcoat and
hat