“You don’t really think I’m going to allow myself to be married off to Harold, do you?” she hotly inquired.
“I’ll gag and tie you if necessary.”
“Such a marriage would never stand in court.”
“We have sufficient witnesses to testify to your willingness,” her uncle silkily said. “And we’re all going to see that you’re properly wedded and bedded this night.” He surveyed the various relatives with a fierce gaze, as though reminding them of their duty. “You’ll be married right and tight,” he went on, smiling at her with a well-pleased complacency, “and the money will be kept in the family, as is only proper.”
All the tears and sorrow she’d been experiencing only moments before were burned away by a rage so towering, she silently swore she’d see them all in hell before she married fat Harold. She was already running before her uncle had finished speaking, and the Misses Amelia and Caroline were dumped on the floor a second later with two hard shoves. Racing between the tumbled hassocks and flailing arms and legs, she jerked the drapes aside, wrenched the window open, and leaped through it onto the balcony. The cold rain struck her like a blow, but there wasn’t time to completely register the wet and chill. Throwing a leg over the wrought iron railing, she pulled herself up and over and dropped to the walk below in a splash of muddy water. Her silk gown was already drenched, her stained skirts catching on her legs as she ran full out down the street.
The shouts and cries behind her only added to her speed, and when she reached the corner, she careened right, hoping to gain shadowed refuge in the tall oaks of St. James’s Square. Moments later, panting, she slumped against the wet bark, trying to draw in much-needed air to her lungs.
Her gaze was trained on the corner.
If they turned left, she was safe.
Harold was first under the streetlamp in the intersection, followed shortly by his portly relatives—father, uncle, and two cousins. They apparently couldn’t agree on a course, their raised voices echoing down the street, indecision in their milling forms. Then Harold seemed to point directly at her, although he couldn’t possibly see her in the murky darkness of her surroundings.
Nevertheless, terror washed over her and, turning, she ran down King Street without waiting for further confirmation of their possible route.
Unable to avoid the light on the next corner, her saffron gown glowed in the night like a beacon as she sped past.
Immediately a hue and cry rose behind her, and she knew she’d been sighted.
A half block later, she turned again, then again in another block, hoping to evade her pursuers in the narrow lanes, and when she spied the flaming torches illuminating a fine-porticoed entrance, she raced down the wet cobblestones and banged on the blue door with both fists.
The portal abruptly opened before her, and she stumbled into an elegant foyer lit by a Venetian chandelier of such vast proportions, she wondered if she’d entered some hidden palace. Quickly surveying her surroundings, she took note of gleaming white marble and elaborate gilding, elegant paintings and plush carpets, and a majordomo so enormous and tall, she had to tip her head upward to see his face.
“May I be of some help?”
His calmness seemed to descend on her, and she could almost feel a lessening of her fear. “Forgive me for … barging in, but … someone was pursuing me.” Her heart was pounding, her words broken by gasps. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to compose herself, hoping he wouldn’t consider her some demented female and put her out in the street again. “If I might see … your master or mistress, I could explain….”
“Of course. Please, let me show you into the small drawing room.” With a wave of his hand he indicated a highly polished door. “I’ll have some towels brought to you,” he politely went on as though soaking-wet women being chased in the night wasn’t out of the ordinary. Opening the door, he ushered her into a candlelit room decorated with painted panels of colorful birds and foliage and quietly closed the door behind her.
The towels arrived quickly in the arms of a servant girl, and by the time the majordomo returned, Isabella was marginally dry. Her pale hair tumbled onto her shoulders in damp ringlets, and her gown, while soiled at the hemline, had been sponged to a semblance of presentable.
Dermott’s game lasted slightly longer than a half hour because he was on a winning streak and even Kate’s splendid charms couldn’t compete with the run of luck he was having. But a servant came to fetch him as the half hour stretched to an hour and, folding his hand, Dermott rose from the table with a bow. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen. I expect I’ll see most of your faces here again once you wake from your hangovers.”
“We aren’t all impervious to drink like you.”
Dermott offered them a tight smile. “India does that to you—if it doesn’t kill you….”
“Or make you a nabob.”
“Among other things.”
He spoke so low, most at the table couldn’t hear him, but his tone was such that no one asked for clarification. And he was already walking toward the door anyway, tall and commanding even in his disheveled state.
He entered the foyer from the gaming room just as Isabella stepped through the drawing room door. Mercer offered him a blank gaze and without comment showed the young woman up the stairway to the main floor.
Transfixed, Dermott watched her ascent, the lady’s beauty uncommonly rare. Pale-haired and rosy-cheeked with eyes the color of gentian, she had the look of a meadow sprite, particularly with her flowing damp tresses and wettish gown. She moved too with an ethereal lightness, her slender form seeming to flow up the stairs without effort on violet-slippered feet. He caught a scent of her fragrance as she passed, and the perfume drifted around him, evoking memories of cascading roses and summer nights.
He spoke Mercer’s name as they reached the top of the staircase, but the majordomo didn’t reply.
And then they were gone.
2
ISABELLA WAS SHOWN into the presence of a middle-aged lady and left on the threshold of a sitting room softly lit by two torcheres.
“Do come in. I’m Mrs. Crocker.” Molly Crocker gazed at the young woman in the doorway with a practiced eye—the bedraggled but expensive gown, her fine amethyst and pearl jewelry, the beauty of her face and form. And she wondered why a lady of fashion was being pursued in the night.
“Please accept my apologies … for intruding so precipitously,” Isabella murmured as she moved forward. “But I saw your light outside—”
“No need to apologize, my dear. Mercer tells me you’re in some danger. Come sit down by the fire and join me for tea. You look chilled to the bone.”
“Thank you for your kindness.” Sitting opposite the well-dressed mistress of the house, Isabella stretched her hands toward the fire and luxuriated briefly in the welcome warmth. Abruptly recalling her manners, she turned from the fire. “Forgive me, my name is Isabella Leslie.”
Molly looked up from pouring a cup of tea. “Delighted to meet you, my dear. Would you like a wrap against the chill?”
“No thank you. I’ll soon be warm with this glowing fire.”
“Sugar? Milk? Lemon?”
“Milk and sugar, please.” Isabella softly sighed. “How grateful I am to have found a safe haven.”
“You must tell me what I can do to help.” Molly offered the cup of tea and nudged a plate of tea cakes across the small marquetry table, nearer her guest.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what to do. Everything happened so quickly.” Isabella took a deep draft of tea, as though needing sustenance before going on. “You see, my grandfather died just hours ago,” she explained, “and without warning, my relatives tried to force me into a loathsome marriage to my cousin.”
“I’m so sorry. How awful for you.”
Shaking away the sadness that overwhelmed her at mention of her grandfather, Isabella wiped at the wetness that had risen in her eyes. “Thank you.” Her voice was unsteady. “Even though he’d been il
l for some time, the finality of losing him is—”
“Devastating, I’m sure,” Molly murmured.
Isabella nodded and blinked away her tears. “And then to have my relatives so cruelly ignore his death …” she whispered. “Can you imagine anyone so unfeeling?”
“There must have been a great deal of money involved.”
Isabella’s brows arched upward. “How did you know?”
“I’ve seen much of the world, my dear. Heiresses are ready prey for the unscrupulous.”
A flare of indignation illuminated Isabella’s eyes. “I have no intention of becoming anyone’s prey. I refused to marry my cousin.” Her fingers clenched on the tea saucer. “When my uncle threatened to tie and gag me for the ceremony, I bolted.” She grimaced. “And was indeed hunted, wasn’t I?”
“It was fortunate you turned down our lane.”
“Your light gleamed like a beacon in the night.”
“And Mercer hasn’t reported any unwelcome visitors, so your relatives must have lost the scent.”
“Thank God.”
While Molly admired the young lady’s indomitable spirit, courage alone wouldn’t ensure her independence. “Have you someone you’d like us to send for, or a friend you’d care to go to tonight? Another relative perhaps who would offer you refuge. My carriage is at your disposal.”
Isabella’s expression turned grave, and she shook her head. “Grandpapa and I lived a quiet life. And my few relatives have all entered into the conspiracy against me.”
“What of a legal advocate outside your family?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Lampert, Grandpapa’s lawyer, is quite unable to help me. He was thoroughly intimidated tonight when my uncle threatened him.” She set her cup down and nervously twisted her fingers. “I doubt he can afford me protection.”
“Perhaps another barrister of more resolve could warn off your relatives.”
“I’m not so sure Uncle Herbert would comply regardless the warning given. When he threatened to tie and gag me in order to consummate the marriage, I understood how pitiless his intent. So while a legal advocate could theoretically protect me, in truth he would also have to serve as bodyguard to be effective.”
“Perhaps that’s what you need. A bodyguard.”
Isabella’s fine nose wrinkled in a grimace. “How dreadful life would be if it came to that. I’d hate to be under constant surveillance.”
“Better, perhaps, than marriage to—”
“Fat Harold.” Her smile was fleetingly impish. “Forgive me, but he’s really frightfully fat and he fancies himself a dandy as well. I couldn’t imagine being married to him even if he were likable—which he isn’t in the least.” She sighed again. “I wish Grandpapa were still alive. Having his money is turning out to be terrifying.”
“You could give it to your relatives.”
“They’re all hateful. I’d as soon give the money away on the street as hand it over to them. Besides, Grandpapa’s charities have to be funded, especially his home for retired sailors, which takes enormous work to keep going, what with Mr. Gandy and Mrs. Thomas scrapping every day over the smallest administrative details. I’m sorry.” Her fingers fluttered across her mouth like those of a child caught speaking out of turn. “As though the particulars of my life are of interest to you.”
Molly gazed at the lush young woman who had appeared on her doorstep in a fashion those less pragmatic than she might have construed as miraculous. “I may have a solution to your problem.” Ever the businesswoman, she recognized advantage in the unusual circumstances.
Isabella immediately leaned forward, her expression brightening. “Would you really? I’ve been unable to think of a means of extricating myself from this disaster. If I return home, my uncle will coerce me into that hateful marriage. Even if I find other quarters, he’s sure to track me down. The courts, while just, I’m sure, can’t protect me every minute, and Uncle Herbert wants Grandpapa’s money so badly, he’s not likely to leave me in peace.”
“What I’m about to propose might curtail his interest in you as a marriage partner for”—Molly’s mouth quirked faintly—“fat Harold.”
“His son.”
Molly nodded. “I suspected as much.” Her gaze took on a sudden sharpness. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but would your relatives inherit should you die?”
“No. Grandpapa’s will is very clear. If I die without children, his fortune goes to his charities.”
“So you must marry your cousin in order for them to benefit.”
“Which I have no intention of doing,” Isabella firmly declared.
“I understand.” Molly’s glance briefly swept the room. “Do you have any idea where you are?”
Isabella gazed about, taking in the fashionably decorated chamber, the opulence of the furnishings, her hostess clothed in elegant dishabille. “In a house in St. James’s. Other than that, I’m at a loss.”
“This is London’s finest brothel, and I own it.”
Color flared high on Isabella’s cheeks. Even in the candlelight her flush was unmistakable. “Oh, dear,” she said in the merest whisper, her eyes wide, shock numbing her mind.
“You’re completely safe.”
It took her a moment to answer, and her voice was still wispy. “Really?”
“Of course, you’re free to go if you wish.”
A sudden silence fell.
Isabella had little choice in places to go.
“Or if you find yourself in need of help,” Molly said, her voice temperate, “you might consider my proposal. It’s nothing more than a suggestion—with no coercion intended or implied. Your independence won’t be compromised.”
Another silence ensued while Isabella experienced the full impact of the old adage Out of the frying pan into the fire. Chewing on her lower lip, she tried to dredge up other options to the dangers her relatives posed. But no easy means of salvation came to mind, no Good Samaritan dwelt in the background of her life waiting to respond to her pleas. She was entirely alone. The enormity of her solitude tightened her stomach with dread. But a pithy sense of survival had served her well since her youth, when she’d lost both her parents, and lifting her chin, she met Molly’s gaze. “Tell me. I’m listening.”
“Your relatives must marry you off to one of them to insure they gain your money.”
“It seems to be their plan.” Isabella’s voice was low.
“Without you, the money goes elsewhere.”
“So Grandpapa’s will maintains. Although they might try to alter it.”
“Wills are filed with the court. It would be difficult to challenge it or your grandfather’s soundness of mind without convincing proof. Now, if you were ruined or disgraced, would they still wish you to be their bride?”
“I’m not sure disgrace matters to them so long as they can seize Grandpapa’s fortune.”
“If you were publicly ruined, would that put another face on their plans?”
Isabella smiled despite her apprehensions, beginning to understand the gist of Mrs. Crocker’s proposal, understanding deliverance might be within reach after all. “It would have to be exceedingly public. I’m not sure disgrace alone would be sufficient.”
“Say you were not only morally disgraced but pregnant? I could see that such a tidbit was placed in the gossip columns. Would you be persona non grata then?”
“Pregnant?” Isabella whispered. “I couldn’t.”
“In theory only, my dear. You needn’t fear.”
With her heart racing because she was anticipating the answer, she quietly asked, “What exactly would be required of me?”
“In return for the temporary security of my house and a ruined reputation conspicuous enough to deter your relatives’ plans, I would ask you to agree to a limited role as a courtesan.”
“A courtesan!” She’d thought—good God! She didn’t know what she’d thought—but a courtesan! Impossible, for a thousand reasons that had to do with sense and rationality and her
dear grandfather’s memory. “I couldn’t … really, I couldn’t.”
“It would involve a very limited role, my dear. And if you wish, your relatives could be informed of your denouement quietly, with a warning of public exposure only should they threaten you. It could be handled very deli cately. Few need know beyond a very limited circle—all of whom could be relied on for their silence.”
“Couldn’t we—I mean, couldn’t we just say that—”
“With so much wealth at stake, your uncle might require evidence of your altered state.”
Isabella’s spine went stiff. “Surely, you can’t mean that!”
“You heard of the Westmore scandal last season, where Lady Jane’s fiancé insisted on a doctor’s examination before marriage. In his case, he was questioning her virginity. Your uncle might question your avowal of ruin, and should he press the issue in court, he could have you examined.”
Suddenly the flashing images of a dozen black-robed judges staring down at her with undisguised lechery along with stout Harold, hideously nude, waiting for her in the marriage bed, caused bile to rise in her throat. Forcing back the urge to vomit, she swallowed hard and drew in a steadying breath. “Considering the alternative, your proposal begins to take on a degree of merit. I know my relatives are utterly ruthless. I would have been married tonight against my wishes and the minister’s protest if I hadn’t run away.” She took another deep breath, exhaled, and gazing squarely at Mrs. Crocker, asked the damning question. “What would I have to do to implement your plan. Please be frank.”
“You’d have to sleep with one of my clients.”
“Sleep?”
“Make love to one of my clients.”
“And what would you get out of this?” She knew of course; she simply wished to gauge the candor of her hostess.
“Money, of course. The price for a virgin is dear.”
“What makes you think I’m a virgin?”
Molly could have been blunt and told her the truth—that her innocence practically glowed like a nimbus above her head. But diplomatic in the delicate negotiations, she said instead, “Let’s just assume you are. And whatever the personal price of your experience here, it would be considerably less than being married to your cousin for the rest of your life. The liaison I’m suggesting would be of a finite duration.”