"Shut your mouth, Dudley." Herbert Leslie pushed the minister back into his chair. "Save your speeches for the ceremony." He snapped his fingers. "Harold, get your bride and bring her here." Swinging around, he pointed a finger at Isabella. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll do as you're told."
"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.
Chapter Two
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."