Chapter 2 - A Tangled Web we weave

Downton, three weeks earlier

After a satisfying, but uneventful evening with a novel called "Gentlemen prefer Blondes", Isobel was on her way upstairs when she heard the frantic knocking against her front door. Irritated because it was almost midnight she hesitated. A visitor near the witching hour could only mean bad news. Since Matthew's death so many years ago, she always startled when the phone rang unexpectedly or someone knocked at her door when she didn't expect them. It was one of the deepest marks life had left her with and it wouldn't change until the day she died.

When the knocking increased and someone shouted her name, she finally opened the door just wide enough to see who was outside. The first thing she registered was the blood running down his cheek. She gasped when she realized the man was Dickie Merton. The collar of his white tie attire was smeared with more blood and he pressed a handkerchief against his temple. He was pale, trembling, and she instantly feared he would collapse.

"Dickie! What happened?" She pushed the door open and took his arm. "Did someone mug you?"

"Something like that," he mumbled.

"Come inside!" To steady him she placed his arm around her shoulders and led him into the drawing room where she made him sit down in his favourite chair. She quickly switched on the lights and took a closer look at his head wound.

"I have to call Doctor Clarkson," she said when she saw there were pieces of glass stuck in his skin. "And then we call Sergeant Willis."

"No Doctor and no police," he pleaded. "Please. It's not necessary!"

Isobel crooked her eyebrow. Was he embarrassed? Since when was Dickie someone who cared about what other people thought of him?

"It's the wrong moment to worry about your bruised ego. This is serious."

She straightened up, but he caught her wrist. His grip was much firmer than she had ever experienced it and it shocked her. With her eyes widened she looked at his hand around her wrist. "I mean it! Please, I know you can clean the wound just as good as Clarkson could! I didn't know where else to go!"

His words made her even more uneasy, but she didn't want to upset him. She nodded did her best to reassure him. "I'll have to get my medicine chest," she said. "Don't move."

He released her and she quickly went upstairs to get everything she needed out of her bathroom. It had been ages since she had taken care of someone who was injured. That her patient was her former fiance didn't make her task any easier. She considered to strengthen herself with a strong brandy, but dismissed the idea quickly when she returned to the drawing room and heard him groaning. She didn't want to lose any more time and she wasn't sure she wouldn't have to call for Doctor Clarkson after all.

"Will you tell me what happened?" she asked when she carefully removed the handkerchief.

"There were two of them. They waited for me behind my car and hit me with the bottle."

"What about your driver?" she asked while she rummaged around for a pincette.

"He had fallen asleep. He came to my help when he woke up, but they ran when they saw him. Proctor's about my age, I doubt he would have made much of a difference."

She had found her pincette. After she had adjusted the lamp to have the best possible view on the wound, she drew a deep breath. "This will sting a bit," she said. "Bite down and don't move!" As focused on her task as possible she started to remove the small particles from his skin. He clenched his fists, but didn't flinch once while she picked the pieces one by one from his temple. She noticed with relief that her hand was and didn't shake as she had feared it would. Once a nurse, always a nurse, she thought with a hint of satisfaction.

When she was done, she disinfected the wound, which gave her time to study his features. She did her best to concentrate, but she hadn't been this close to him in months and seeing his well-shaped face covered with his blood made her painfully aware of her suppressed feelings for him. Would she ever get past their broken engagement and her unfulfilled dreams?

"I think that's it," she said after she had applied a small bandage. "But you should really see a doctor. There's always the risk of infection or a concussion, especially when foreign objects are involved."

"I'm sure it will be fine." He groaned when he sat up. His face twisted with pain and he pressed his hand on his right side. He sank back against the rest and breathed heavily.

"What is it?" she asked alarmed, fearing he was about to have a heart attack.

"It's nothing," he mumbled and closed his eyes.

"That's a lie! Tell me now or God help me I'll call for an ambulance!"

He sighed and gave in. "They didn't just hit me with a bottle…. I think my ribs are contused."

Horrified she sank on her knees again and took his hand. "Did they want money?" she asked.

"In the widest sense of the word."

"Can you remove your jacket?"

"It's nothing. There's no need…" He broke off when she started unbuttoning his jacket, the vest, and his starched shirt. It took an eternity to remove the clothing, but she needed to be sure he wasn't hiding more, much worse injuries.

"Now I know why men like you need valets," she said nervously. "It's almost as bad as getting dressed as a woman."

The bruises over his upper body were fresh and would last for a while. Carefully she felt for his ribs and he hissed when she applied soft pressure onto his ribcage.

"Did you spill blood?" she asked worried. He shook his head. "Nothing's broken. I had some of my ribs broken in the South African War. I know what it feels like."

"I'll get you some ice and you should lie down."

He shook his head. "Please, don't make any more fuss. I'll go home now." He pushed himself up and groaned when he picked up his shirt.

"Nonsense! You won't leave this house without a pressure bandage. Come with me!"

He hesitated, but her firm glare convinced him to follow her. He followed her down the hallway into a small room whose walls were covered with book shelves.

"It's Matthew's law library," she explained. "I couldn't bring myself to clear it, but I use it more as storage room these days. I'm afraid it's a bit dusty, but no one's ever in here."

She pointed at a comfortable sofa in the middle of the room. "Lie down," she ordered. "I'll get the ice."

One hour later she returned with two glasses of brandy into the study. Dickie lay on the sofa and once he heard her steps he wanted to sit up, but the bandage around his upper body hampered his movements.

"Please, stay where you are," she said, as she settled down into an armchair near the sofa. "Your chauffeur is in the kitchen. I gave him some coffee, but I think he's fallen asleep again as soon as left."

"I should go anyway. I have taken up enough of your time." For the first time since he had entered her house, he seemed nervous. He avoided looking at her and when she handed him the glass, she noticed that his hands were slightly trembling.

"You've had a shock," she explained gently. "You should stay until you feel better."

"I do feel better," he said. "Your care of me is wonderful and I don't deserve it."

"Nonsense!" She looked at him and asked the question that had been bothering her since he had arrived. "Do you know the people who did this to you?"

"No."

"Did they steal anything?"

"No."

His one-syllable answers didn't do anything to lessen her worry - on the contrary. "What did they want?"

Lost in his thoughts he stared into his brandy. Then after a full minute of silence he said, "They wanted to send a message."

"What kind of message?"

He looked up and for the first time she had returned to the room, he looked into her eyes. "Nothing I want to bother you with."

"That's not very kind, considering the fact that you came to me to stitch you up. I thought we are friends."

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. "I'm glad you said that. Recently I've been wondering about what we are."

His words made her blush. She knew what he meant, because she felt the same about their relationship. Sometimes she just didn't know what they really were for each other. Since she had broken up their engagement she had kept him at arm's length, but as the months had passed by, she had found it very hard to stick to her decision. She still felt drawn to him, liked his company, and valued his opinion. And now she was worrying about him and his health.

"If there's anything I can do to help…"

"I wish there was something you could do," he said. "But it's my problem and I want you to stay out of it - because I…." He broke off, looked away, gulped down his brandy.

"Because you what?" she probed. "Please, tell me."

"Because I love you and I don't want to see you hurt."

His answer hit her like a bolt of lightning. She swallowed and didn't know what to say.

"I'll take my leave now." He rose as quickly as his condition allowed it and placed the glass on Matthew's empty desk near the window. Paralysed she watched him as he slipped into his jacket. She wanted to help him, but somehow she was paralysed by her conflicting feelings.

In a way she had been aware of his love for her. He had never made a secret of his wish to marry her despite everything that had happened in the past. She had learned to ignore the looks he used to give her, had done her best to keep the mood light and casual, but everything was different tonight. They were alone, couldn't hide in the daylight and behind pleasantries. The night exposed them.

She finally found the strength to rise. Like a sleepwalker she moved over to him.

"Dickie, I…." She fought to find the right words, but she didn't know how to phrase her feelings. She didn't want to deny her love for him, but she didn't want to raise up his hopes for a reunion either.

"It's all right, Isobel," he said. "I know you don't return my feelings - at least not anymore. There's no need for you to say anything to be nice."

She felt as if he had slapped her. Had she really convinced him that her feelings for him were a thing of the past?

"How can you say that?" she asked hoarsely.

"Isn't that the truth?"

She shook her head and touched his cheek with her hand. Tenderly she ran her thumb over his cheekbone. Visibly affected by her touch he closed his eyes and turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand. She shivered when his lips touched her skin.

"Don't…" As if he had just realized that he had given into a forbidden temptation he withdrew. "I'm not sure I can take it."

"Stay." She didn't know from where she had summoned the courage, but she went after him and kissed him gently on the lips.

"You'll be the death of me one day," he whispered once she leaned back. "Does that mean you will…."

Before he could make another proposal, she placed her index finger on his lips, which silenced him immediately.

"Not now," she returned quietly. They kissed again, deeper and longer than ever before. Suddenly she became aware of his hands on her hips and the soft pressure they applied. How would they feel on her naked skin? Would they leave marks on her? How would she feel once he entered her? Delicious, all consuming heat was rising within her core and bemused her. It had been ages since she had felt lust for a man, but him she wanted with every fibre of her being and she wanted him now.

Gently she broke away from him and took his hand. She gave him a meaningful glance, saw the surprise and the hesitation, the qualms in his eyes - and kissed him again. With every second the kiss went on, his defences went further down. Without losing another word she led him upstairs to her bedroom.

Juan-les-Pins

Violet had already finished her breakfast and was ready for the day to begin when Isobel arrived in her suite. The older woman spotted instantly that something about her friend's aura had significantly changed.

"Now you look ravishing this morning," Violet remarked pettily. She had seen this certain glow around women often enough to know what it meant. Her wardrobe, a white linen dress with a marvellous hat only added to Isobel's beauty, as Violet noticed with a small hint of envy. Love really was the best beauty treatment available. No cream could compete with the effect of a passion filled assignation.

"Well, thank you," Isobel said. "Can you spare me a cup of tea?"

"Of course. Actually, I had expected for you to come around earlier, but… I guess you needed the rest."

"I don't know what you mean," Isobel said with a smile while she took off her gloves and took the cup Violet handed her.

"So?"

"So what?"

"For heaven's sake, do I really have to worm every detail out of you?"

"That rather depends on the worm."

"Who's that mysterious woman?"

A shadow crossed Isobel's face and she put her cup down. "Her name is Natasha DeWinter. She's a rich widow who is in need of a husband - preferable one with a posh title."

"So, it is true. Dickie's facing bankryptcy."

"Actually, Larry is facing bankryptcy," Isobel clarified sourly. "He's invested in a big property project and mortgaged himself and Cavenham up to the hills to get the money he needed. It was completely reckless and he lost almost everything."

"I see... And I assume payment day has arrived. Can't Mrs Grey's family provide the money? I mean Larry's working for their bank and one day it'll be his."

Isobel shrugged. "It seems Mister Cruikshank wasn't too happy with Larry's handling of things and refuses to offer any money or advice on the matter."

Violet clicked her tongue. "And help is on the horizon in the form of Mrs DeWinter."

Her conclusion didn't fail its effect on Isobel whose face darkened by the prospect.

"Is he really desperate enough to marry that young piece?" Violet asked.

"Seems like it," Isobel said wearily.

"I'm sorry."

Isobel shrugged. "Never mind. It's my own fault, isn't it?"

Violet tilted her head. "You mean, if you had married him when you had the chance you wouldn't be in the position to watch him marrying him someone else? That's probably true."

"You really know how to cast a shadow on an already dark day," Isobel snapped.

"I'm just being honest." The Dowager rose and went into her bedroom, where she kept Igor's letter hidden in her purse. She hadn't shown it to Isobel, because she hadn't been sure what to expect when they arrived. The presence of Mrs DeWinter complicated things and made Isobel unhappy. It was hard to tell what exactly was going on between Isobel and her former fiance, but Violet started to think that she had misjudged the dynamic between them. "I think it's time you read it."

Curious Isobel turned the envelope in her hand. "What is it?"

"A letter."

"I can see that."

"Well, read it. It's from a friend who wants to help."

Isobel eyed the envelope with suspicion, but did as told when Violet repeated her request and encouraged her to open it.

"I think you'll find the contents quite interesting."

Violet could tell by the look on Isobel's face that she wasn't convinced, but she unfolded the pages anyway and started to read.

Igor Kuragin had a plan. It contained a lot of snares and strings, but the first part of his scheme was already working out perfectly. After all the years of misfortune, the loss of his status, his home, and his family, he had finally found a way to get back at least a part of his former life and enough money to spend his remaining years in peace and a considerable comfort. If he was lucky, he would also win back the woman he loved, but he didn't dare to hope for that - not just yet.

He was sitting in the lobby of the hotel and watched the people passing by. He had positioned himself opposite to the lift so that he could see Violet, when she came out. He longed to see her again and since the news about her arrival had reached him, he found himself on edge. His plan was in motion and there was no turning back now.

A hotel had always held a big fascination for him. Strangers lived together under the same roof for a couple of days or weeks. They got acquainted, laughed, ate, danced together and once their time was over, their ways parted again. No strings attached. Most of these people met by coincidence, some because of fate.

These days the hotel was occupied by a group of characters whose lodging was not a matter of fate or coincidence. All of them played a part in a carefully orchestrated symphony that would hopefully fade in a happy ending for those who deserved it.

He had never understood himself as a brilliant schemer, but now that he saw things falling into place he started to like the idea of it.

Violet and her friend Mrs Crawley had arrived the day before. Lord Merton had already taken the bait and showed interest in Natasha DeWinter, while his son seemed to have become a lost soul after the damage he had caused for his family. His wife, a heartless piece of work, was determined to do what was necessary to make sure no one would take her place - especially not a woman like Mrs DeWinter who was only five years her senior, but so much more vibrant and beautiful. It was a battle Kuragin looked forward to.

Very soon another guest would arrive and the man would be the lynchpin. Stewart Rackett, a rich American tycoon who unlawfully owned something Kuragin had thought was lost for all eternity. He was also someone who came to Europe to collect old dues. The man's bitterness could be the key to his doom, if Kuragin played his hand well.

The doors of the lift opened. A smile crossed Kuragin's face when he recognized Violet and Isobel among the guests who crossed the lobby. He knew Violet had spotted him instantly, but she gracefully ignored him and passed him without acknowledging his presence. Mrs Crawley had also registered his presence, but she gave him a smile and visibly wondered why Violet refused to greet him. He chuckled. Some things never changed.

********tbc********

Thank you all for you kind words :-) I hope you enjoyed this chapter. See you soon!