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A lady of quiet strength

Isobel Ridgeway has never left rural Cumberland, content to the whims of her eccentric father and an overbearing suitor who grows impatient to claim her hand. But when Isobel receives word that her sister has fallen ill, she undertakes a reckless journey to Northumberland, heedless of the winter storm that looms.

In a chance encounter, Isobel must seek refuge with a man she knows in reputation only—Lord Giles Trevelyan, the earl who became a recluse after his dazzling bride-to-be vanished.

A wounded romantic

Lord Trevelyan had no desire for company, but immediately finds Miss Ridgeway engaging, intelligent, and tender—the sort of woman who could draw him out of hiding. Perhaps even resuscitate his dreams of being a happily married man. Except Isobel’s marriage has been long since arranged, her sister’s health is in dangerous fluctuation, and impressions of Trevelyan’s first bride lurk around every corner.

When the mystery of her disappearance threatens to untangle, Isobel finds herself caught in the crosshairs with love, loss, and sanity at stake.

• one instance of unwanted sexual advances (not between the main characters)
• death, some graphic descriptions
• grief
• mentions of child loss and abortion, one mention of possible suicide (no graphic descriptions)
• infidelity (not between the main characters)
• language
• depictions of sexual relations between consenting adults

If you have any specific questions or concerns, please direct them to lauren@laurenmhayworth.com.

1

Cumberland, England

January 1814

Thursday evenings turned Isobel Ridgeway into a mathematician.

The dinner courses went by faster when she counted down the number that remained. If she made some vague, monosyllabic sound every three bites or so, very little conversation was expected from her. And if she took care not to extend her left elbow more than forty-five degrees from her side, it never brushed Captain Elias Sempill.

“Say, Lord Ridgeway, when was the last time you had a chimney sweep out?” Lady Sempill, the young captain’s mother, peered over her shoulder at the fire smoking in the grate.

The old viscount shrugged, and without waiting to swallow his mouthful of mutton, addressed his daughter. “Damned if I know. What do you make of it, Isobel?”

She was struggling to drag her knife through the fatty meat on her plate, but lifted her eyes. “I couldn’t say. Marriane always sorted the household matters.”

“Why, she’s been married for over a twelvemonth now!” Lady Sempill exclaimed, the black feather tittering in her grey hair. “It is crucial someone assumes these responsibilities, lest the entire house catch aflame. It is a woman’s responsibility, and you are certainly of age, ma’am.”

Isobel took her lower lip between her teeth, casting for a reply. She had known the Sempills for all eternity, and they always addressed her with the utmost informality. Unless, of course, their tempers were heating.

“I’ll speak with Father, when we return home,” Elias said at her side. “He’s bound to know a good chimney sweep.”

“I know a good chimney sweep,” Lady Sempill said, arching a brow. “A very thin child, able to fit in the narrowest of—”

Isobel winced at the thought of sending a child up the soot-blackened flues. A young boy had gotten stuck in one of the chimneys at Ridgeway House before, and by the time he was twisted out by the rope around his waist, he had burns and scrapes all over his flesh.

She hadn’t forgotten about the dirty chimneys. She just hadn’t wanted to subject another child to that cruelty.

The wind howled bitterly outside, and a gust swept down the chimney, forcing a billow of black smoke into the room and silencing Lady Sempill. Two footmen appeared immediately, adjusting the screens before the hearth. The older woman broke into a spasm of coughs and ran a hand up the back of her stiff coiffure.

“Very well,” Lord Ridgeway said with a weighted sigh. “I’ll look into the matter.”

“You mention your sister,” Elias said, leaning a little nearer to Isobel. “Have you heard from her lately? I imagine the coast is bitterly cold in winter.”

She smiled faintly at him, trying—not for the first time—to find attraction in those sharply hewn, narrow features. But all she saw was her childhood friend, not the dashing captain everyone expected her to wed.

“We write to each other. You know Marriane, however. Most of her letters are about new draperies or the latest French receipts.” Isobel ducked her chin. “She sounds happy enough.”

“I don’t know how she could be, married to that damned impudent man,” Lord Ridgeway burst in. “Hasn’t even brought her ’round for a visit. Not once in eighteen months, mind you.”

“Oh, but the marquess seems very amiable, indeed,” Lady Sempill said. “I’d wager Marriane lives in such comfort at his side, she’s no desire to travel about.”

The old viscount shook his head roughly enough to make his jowls wag. “I should’ve never let her run off to London, I tell you that. If I had it to do over—matter of fact, Isobel, never ask me for a blasted Season. Understand?”

“I have no desire for a Season, Papa.”

A thunderous banging sounded in the distance, and every hand stilled. The doorknocker was so seldom used, Isobel almost didn’t recognize its sound.

“Callers?” Lady Sempill asked, her mouth falling open.

“Impossible,” Lord Ridgeway said, gesturing for more wine to be poured.

The front door opened with a distant creak, and Isobel could pick out the timbre of the butler’s voice, though none of his words were clear.

“Who on earth could be calling at Ridgeway House?” Lady Sempill asked again. She sat down her knife and raised a hand to her breast.

On this rare occasion, Isobel shared her sentiments. The only visitors she and her father received were the pair in front of them now, who made the short journey every Thursday evening for dinner. It was unthinkable to have a caller at this hour, come so far into the country on a black winter’s night.

“What’s the trouble?” Lord Ridgeway shouted.

The shadowy form of the butler appeared in the dining room, and Isobel’s pulse quickened with unaccountable dread.

“It is a messenger on horseback, my lord. Delivering an urgent dispatch from Northumberland, for Miss Isobel.”

Isobel stood so quickly, her hips caught the table’s edge, sloshing the drinks and eliciting a gasp from Lady Sempill. “Please,” she said, striding toward the butler. “Let me see.”

He handed the letter over without a word and Isobel ducked from the room.

The paper was cold between her fingers, the seal difficult to tear as she sought out the light of a wall sconce. She hadn’t paused long enough to read the address, and was shocked to find a blocky, masculine script printed inside.

Sister,

Marriane has taken ill. I’ve summoned the physician, and her lady’s maid reports she is quite comfortable at the time of my writing this. Yet she requests your presence at the earliest convenience. I’ll have a room done up for you, should you trouble yourself in coming.

Signed,

Lord Pemberton, Marquess of Whitburn

When Isobel reached the end of the letter, she was leaning against the wall for support. She scanned the sparse message again and again, as if in doing so she could divine more information about her sister’s illness.

Marriane’s husband had never written before. Perhaps the clue to her condition lay not in his careless phrasing, but in the penmanship itself. If her sister had been able, she would have written personally.

“Pardon me,” Isobel said, walking back to where the butler waited. “Is the messenger waiting on a reply?”

“Yes, miss.”

The wind whipped outside, ruthless cold sieving through the seams of the door to raise gooseflesh on Isobel’s arms. “See that’s he’s taken to the kitchen for a hot meal, and that his horse is attended to.”

She moved toward the yellow drawing room, her fingers itching in anticipation of the reply she was about to pen.

“Is there anything else, miss?” the butler asked, plainly curious to the bone.

She paused. “Yes, actually. Have my trunks brought up at once, and the coach readied for a morning departure. I’m going to Shoremoss Hall.”

Excerpt from The Lover’s Eye copyright © Lauren M. Hayworth 2025. Reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without permission from the author.