‘I must find a new position.’

William Stanton didn’t seem to be anticipating that. He leaned back into the sofa and crossed one leg over his knee. ‘May I ask why?’

Because she was already thinking about kissing him again and finding it hard not to stare at his lips. Because she didn’t think she’d ever be able to look at him the same way again.

‘Well, I…I should do so, since you’ll return Mary to school soon.’

‘I’ve made no plans yet.’ He rose and walked close, stopping just a few feet from her, his gaze wandering across her face. ‘I’ve no intention of kissing you again, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

She took a rallying breath. ‘I still think I should find another position.’

‘But I quite like you here.’

His voice was soft, seductive, and she fi nally met his gaze—a mistake, because she became trapped by his hypnotic eyes. Eyes that had gone dark, that travelled down her freckled nose to settle on her lips. He was leaning in—or was she imagining it? She felt her eyelids begin to droop. There’d be little harm in one more kiss if she planned to leave anyway. Just one, and then she’d pack her belongings.

Sarah Elliott grew up in Pennsylvania and studied English at Smith College. She moved to London in 2003 and lives there still. In addition to writing, Sarah enjoys cooking, art, antiques and classic films. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at sarah@sarahelliott.net

Previous novels by this author:

REFORMING THE RAKE

THE RAKE’S PROPOSAL

THE EARL AND THE GOVERNESS
Sarah Elliott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

17 May 1822

Ouch.

William Stanton frowned and sat up, rubbing his injured head. He’d been sleeping peacefully until his driver had reined the carriage to an abrupt standstill, causing him to hit his head on the brass hook that held the velvet curtains back. He glowered at the front wall of his carriage, in the general direction of his driver’s back, but McGrath was already remonstrating loudly with some obstacle in the street.

‘Wot th’ bloody ’ell you doing?’

Will stuck his head out of the window and craned his neck to see what was blocking their passage. A vegetable-laden cart had apparently pulled out in front of them, and as it swerved to avoid them, it nearly overturned, losing half its load. The rotund greengrocer who’d been driving it was now collecting his belongings with deliberate slowness, picking up each cabbage head and carrot one at a time while smirking at McGrath.

Will sighed and sank back into his seat, regarding the scenery outside his window and wondering how long this would take. He’d been away for four days and was eager to get home. He’d neither planned nor desired to leave London in the first place; the event had been thrust upon him by one Miss Matilda Hume, headmistress of Miss Hume’s School for Girls. His goddaughter, Mary Weston-Burke, was a student there. She’d become his ward three months ago, when her father died—meaning, apparently, that whenever she decided to put a newt in her French tutor’s teacup it was now Will’s responsibility to sort things out.

Frankly, he thought Miss Hume had made rather too much of what seemed to be nothing more than a childish prank. There was, he’d pointed out during their meeting, no actual tea in the cup, and therefore the newt had not been in peril. Miss Hume was more concerned about Monsieur Lavelle, who’d nearly suffered une crise cardiaque.

He hoped he’d managed to smooth things over.Apparently young Mary was a bit of a hellion, although he’d not have known it from the sallow, quiet creature he’d treated to tea.

McGrath had chosen a direct, but not picturesque, route through east London. Shabby buildings, many with boarded-up windows, lined the pockmarked road, and the only businesses that seemed to thrive were public houses. The curious stopped what they were doing to stare at his gilded carriage with resentful eyes. Filthy dogs with protruding ribs sprawled on the pavement unattended, while a group of ragged children entertained themselves by rolling a hoop.

And then he noticed a rather pretty girl, walking briskly not far from his carriage.

Will had known enough beautiful women that most did not turn his head, but he made an exception this time, perhaps only because she looked so entirely out of place. She was taller than most of the people who surrounded her, including the men. He’d caught just a glimpse of her face, but he’d noticed high cheekbones and full lips. Her skin was fair, in keeping with her unruly chignon of red hair. He wondered if she had freckles, and he wondered where she was going and what she was doing there to begin with. She was nicely, although not fashionably, dressed. Her high-waisted muslin gown followed the lines of the current style, but made no other concessions to trends. She appeared modest, respectable and perhaps even rather severe. And that just didn’t make sense. For a woman with a face like hers, in a neighborhood like this, the only money to be made was on her back. But she definitely wasn’t a doxy.

He realised he wasn’t the only one watching her. Two men, sitting lazily on a wall in patched trousers and heavy labourer’s boots, allowed their heads to rotate as she passed them. She seemed to be oblivious to the attention and walked on, head held high.

‘Bloody ’ell, ’urry up!’

Will turned his head to see what his driver was shouting at now. The greengrocer was moving even slower, in apparent protest at this derisive treatment. Will lost interest and turned his attention back to the girl.

She was easy enough to locate, since she hadn’t gone far. She’d stopped walking, in fact, and seemed to be scanning the crowd rather nervously as if looking for someone or something. The leather bag sat unattended at her feet, and Will felt his body tense. Even from a distance he could sense several pairs of eyes regarding it with speculative interest. He opened the carriage door and stepped out, waving to his disgruntled driver as he crossed the street.

He walked quickly. He didn’t really know what he was going to do—offer his assistance, perhaps, although there was a good chance she wouldn’t welcome it. Utterly foolhardy for her to be walking there, whoever she was. But he wasn’t fast enough to offer anything. When he was still about ten paces away, a lanky youth hurtled into her, sending her off balance. She was quick enough to grab the bag’s handle, but the boy latched on, as well, and he was stronger. The tug of war lasted about three seconds before he yanked the bag from her hands, sending her flying backwards on to the pavement. She started to scramble up, but the boy had already turned on his heel to flee.

Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t looking where he was going. Two long strides and he’d collided with a very large and solid human form.

Will didn’t do anything more than grab the boy by the shoulder, but the pressure was so strong he winced and instantly dropped the bag, spilling its contents on to the street.

Will was a full head taller than him, and as he looked down at the boy’s face he saw fear. Real fear, that he would be arrested and hanged for attacking a lady.

He released the pressure.

‘Run along.’

The boy did as instructed and immediately disappeared down an alley. Will watched him go, wondering how his thus far pleasant day had ended up like this. The girl was at his feet, hurriedly trying to collect her belongings. He couldn’t see her face. Just the back of her head and her slender neck. Her hair had become loose in the struggle, and a long curl was now tumbling about her shoulders. He realised he was staring and knelt to help her.

‘Here, let me…’

She didn’t acknowledge his presence, just started pushing things into her bag faster. Will’s eye was drawn to one item in particular. A smart red morocco case, half-opened to reveal what appeared to be a pearl necklace. He reached out to retrieve it for her, but her hand darted out to grab it first.

‘I don’t need assistance, thank you,’ she said, not even bothering to look at him. She hastily shoved the case back into her bag and closed it, carefully buckling it this time to prevent further accidents. Her voice sounded soft and rich…if rather hostile. She obviously thought he was as much of a threat as the boy had been.

She rose stiffly.

Will rose, too, proffering his hand in assistance as he did so. She ignored it, but finally looked up. He was struck once more by her beauty. It was an odd sort of beauty, and her features might have looked misplaced on any other face. Her lips, slightly parted in surprise, were luscious and temptingly kissable. Her nose was small, pert and sprinkled with freckles. His gaze wanted to travel down her neck, looking for more freckles, but with great willpower he managed to direct his attention elsewhere. He looked at her eyes instead—a disconcerting violet blue, very surprised and staring back at him.

Isabelle Thomas looked at the ground the second her gaze met his, but she couldn’t conceal the blush that started at her neck and bloomed all the way to the roots of her red hair. She’d expected him to look like every other disreputable man she’d seen on the street; at worst, she’d expected him to look exactly like the man who—if she wasn’t mistaken—had been following her all morning. The man she thought she’d finally managed to elude.

She’d certainly no idea that her wary gaze would settle on a gentleman, and an impossibly handsome one, at that.

She hadn’t meant to speak so sharply to him…it was just that her nerves were on edge and she’d fully anticipated that he’d carry on where the boy had left off. She silently cursed her overly active imagination, but when she looked up once more, he seemed oblivious to her rudeness—that, or completely unimpressed. She rather suspected the latter.

She’d hoped he’d be less attractive upon second viewing, but he was still downright devastating. Too perfect, if that were possible. Tall and broad shouldered, with slightly dishevelled blond hair and emerald green eyes. Dressed impeccably in buff breeches and a dark blue, woollen coat. And she…oh, she, like a bedraggled grey mouse who’d just lost a bout with an alley cat.

It didn’t help that he was still staring at her, but she quickly realised that he’d asked her a question and was simply waiting for her answer.

‘Hmm?’

He moved a step closer, possibly because he now thought she was hard of hearing. Yet his voice was quiet. ‘I said I hope you’re uninjured.’

‘I…I am all right.’She hadn’t even had time to consider if that was true. Was she? She felt well enough, except for her backside, which had managed to land in a puddle. She couldn’t bear to think of the state of her dress.

‘Do you have everything? Is that your paper?’

She looked down at her feet, where a slip of paper floated in a shallow puddle the colour of milky tea. It was hers, and the address she’d scrawled across it that morning in black ink was gradually dissolving.

‘Oh!’

She moved quickly to grab it, but he leaned forwards at the same time. Their foreheads connected loudly. They both straightened immediately.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said awkwardly.

He grinned ruefully, and she realised that in addition to golden hair and a chiselled jaw, he possessed dimples and straight, white teeth. ‘That wasn’t very coordinated of us. Shall I…?’

She was too embarrassed to protest, so she just stood there dumbly and allowed him to pick up the paper. He handed it to her. The writing was now barely legible, but she could just make out the words 16 Litch—luckily, she remembered the rest. Sixteen Litchfield Terrace. That was where she’d find one Josiah Fairly, surely an ironical name for a pawnbroker. She’d been given the address by Samuel, the boy who delivered coal to the boarding house where she’d taken a room. Fairly was his uncle and she’d been assured he’d offer an acceptable price for her possessions.

‘Can you still read it?’ the man asked.

‘Read it? Oh, yes.’ She stuffed the paper in her pocket. ‘I must go. Thank you for helping me.’ She turned to continue walking, but she felt his hand on her arm. Warm and firm—not hurting her, but not letting her go, either. She turned around slowly, looking down her nose at the offending object.

‘You shouldn’t be carrying that bag,’ he chided. ‘Not unless you want to be robbed again. I’ll accompany you wherever you’re going.’

She knew he was right. She’d known she was being foolish when she’d started out that morning. But she hadn’t had much choice about it, and she didn’t need him to tell her. ‘Remove your hand, sir.’

He raised an eyebrow at her imperious tone, but did as bid. He also took a step closer. Although she was tall, she still found herself craning her neck to look up at him. She wasn’t used to that. His voice remained reasonable, but she suspected he might be losing his patience. ‘Half the street knows you’re carrying something worth stealing. If you’d like to keep your possessions, I’d advise you to accept my offer.’

Her gaze darted quickly from left to right, assessing the risk. They made a conspicuous pair, to say the least, and several people were blatantly staring. If he walked away right now and left her there alone, then she’d no doubt that someone would soon relieve her of her belongings—in fact, her belongings were probably the least of her worries. She’d be lucky to make it home unharmed.

She returned her attention to his face. He was certainly big enough to make anyone think twice—and, if she really were being followed, that wasn’t such a bad thing. And yet she didn’t want him to come with her. It didn’t matter that she’d no idea who he was and would never see him again. She was going to a pawnbroker’s, and it was too humiliating.

Unconsciously, she bit her lower lip in indecision. She tried to sound confident, but she knew she didn’t quite succeed. ‘I’m going rather far. I imagine you have better things to do.’

He seemed to sense her uncertainty. His tone brooked no refusal. ‘Actually, I have the afternoon free, and we could take my carriage. It’s just across the road.’

She turned her head. His carriage gleamed with a fresh coat of glossy green paint, and two sleek bays waited impatiently to depart. His coachman, in green livery to match, had alighted in order to confront a cart driver over some infraction. A coat of arms surmounted by an earl’s coronet decorated the carriage door.

Oh, God. He was not only handsome, but he was rich and probably titled, too.

‘Your driver is making friends, I see,’she said drily. She was now more resolved than ever that he would not come with her. She’d some pride left—not much, maybe, but enough that she didn’t want him to witness her sell the last of her valuable possessions.

He smiled again, and she wished she hadn’t attempted humor. ‘McGrath loves an argument. If we linger much longer, they’ll be asking us to second them at dawn. Shall we go?’ He held out his arm.

She stared at it for a second before simply starting to walk again, carrying on in the same direction. The pawnbroker’s shouldn’t be much further now, and she needed to get rid of him quickly. ‘I think that would be unwise. I thank you for your help, but I no longer require it.’

He fell in beside her, easily keeping pace with her long strides. ‘I can perfectly well understand your reluctance to ride in my carriage, but I assure you it would be wiser than wandering around here on foot. We’ll probably both be robbed.’

‘You needn’t come with me,’ she said stiffly.

He sighed. ‘Much as I’m tempted to leave you here, I’m afraid my conscience won’t allow it.’

She kept walking, looking straight ahead. She knew he was watching her face, probably hoping that his mild statement would elicit some reaction: eyes widened in shock, maybe even a verbal rebuke. She refused to indulge him.

‘You’re right to be suspicious, of course,’ he continued after a few seconds of silence. ‘I wouldn’t trust anyone I met wandering around here.’

‘So why are you wandering around here?’ She knew she sounded accusatory, but, well, what was someone like him doing there, and why had he decided to take an interest in her? Her arm was starting to ache from the weight of her bag, and he’d made no sign of leaving. With an annoyed sigh, she placed the bag on the ground and then crossed her arms over her chest, waiting impatiently for his answer.

He looked as if he found her irritation comical. ‘I assure you, I wasn’t. I was just passing through on my way back from the country when I saw you about to be robbed. Could hardly just stand by and watch.’

‘Oh.’ She picked up the bag and started walking again, now feeling rather guilty for her curt behaviour. He was infuriating, but she’d be far worse off if not for his intervention. ‘I…I am grateful that you stopped that man. I’m sorry if I’ve seemed rude, but I really will be all right on my own. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.’

He nodded, but otherwise seemed to disregard her words. He walked along beside her quietly for a few seconds before offering, ‘I’m William Stanton, by the by. Earl of Lennox, actually, but you needn’t m’lord me.’

‘I won’t.’

She hoped she sounded as unimpressed as she’d intended, but her impertinence seemed only to amuse him. Until a few years ago, she wouldn’t have felt so intimidated by his title. All right, so she’d never been nearly as grand as an earl—quite a few stations in life separated them. But she’d had a bit of money once, and what had seemed to be a respectable family, too. She’d grown up in a rambling brick house draped in wisteria and surrounded by neat gravel paths and herb gardens. She’d never been fashionable—the plain clothes she wore now represented the sort of sensible attire she’d worn her whole life. However, they were well made and reasonably expensive. She’d never had reason to be ashamed of her status.

Only things had changed. The gardens had been replaced by a squalid street, and her unfashionable dresses had become both unfashionable and worn. The one she wore now was several seasons old and many times mended.

‘You might introduce yourself,’ he said, his gaze wandering over her face. ‘It’s your turn.’

She stopped walking to answer him, feeling depressed and defeated. ‘Isabelle Thomas.’

‘How do you do, Miss Thomas. Let me carry your bag.’

‘No, thank you.’

Finally, she’d managed to provoke him. He actually sounded offended. ‘I assure you I’ve no interest in stealing from you. It’s heavy.’

‘No.’ Her grip tightened.

He sighed loudly and then, after a moment’s consideration, began fiddling with his waistcoat.

She turned her head to the side to stare at him, feeling mildly alarmed. ‘What are you doing?’

He made a face at her. ‘My, but you’re suspicious. I’m removing my watch.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re going to trade. I will carry your bag, Miss Thomas, and you will carry my watch. So you can rest assured I won’t abscond with your possessions.’ He held it out to her, but when she didn’t immediately accept it he took her hand in his, placed the watch on her palm, and then closed her fist around it. ‘Now, I’ll have your bag.’

She saw no reasonable argument against accepting his offer, but she still didn’t want him to come with her. ‘You barely know me, sir,’she pointed out. ‘I might run off with it.’

‘Then I will catch you. I don’t recommend you test my word.’

She didn’t doubt him, and, seeing no alternative, handed him her bag. Her arm cried out in relief, and she tucked the watch into her pocket. She wouldn’t have dreamed of running off with it anyway, not just because she believed his threat, but also because that would be stealing. She hadn’t yet stooped to that level.

‘I wouldn’t take your watch, you know,’she said quietly as they started walking again. ‘I’m not a thief.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it. What’s in this bag? Stones?’

She paled. ‘If you’re going to complain—’

‘I’m not complaining.’

‘Don’t open it.’

‘I won’t,’ he replied grumpily. ‘Lead the way, Miss Thomas.’

She looked nervously up the street, hoping she remembered Samuel’s directions. She’d written them down and had studied them that morning, but examining them in public would have made her look lost and vulnerable. She knew she had to turn somewhere…

‘Um, left here.’ I think. She started walking slowly, feeling less sure of herself. Left took them up an alley, intersected after about thirty paces by another road. The faded and flaking sign read Litchfield Terrace. She turned right.

‘Where are you taking me, by the by?’ he asked. It was a reasonable question, since Litchfield Terrace looked like a particularly unwelcoming street. It was narrow and unpaved, and the mean houses that lined it seemed to be deserted—or they would, anyway, if not for the high-pitched cry of a baby that carried from a broken window and the rat that skulked along the edge of the road, sniffing for scraps.

‘I’m not taking you anywhere. You’re following me, and I can go the rest of the way myself.’

‘Out of the question.’

And she knew that he meant it. Her footsteps were already beginning to drag with apprehension. Josiah Fairly’s disreputable premises would appear at any second and, oh, the embarrassment…

At the same time, though, she could admit to herself that she was glad William Stanton had insisted on coming. She’d be terrified right now if he hadn’t.

‘So…’ he said, looking at her curiously, ‘I’ve revealed that I was just passing through…what are you doing in this godforsaken area?’

‘Picking daffodils, obviously.’

That comment got her a burst of laughter. Warm, genuine laughter, and she felt a smile tugging at her own lips, even though she really didn’t want to start enjoying his company. But she managed to suppress it, which wasn’t so hard because they’d reached her destination.

Number 16 waited for her at the end of the road, set apart from the terraced houses that lined the sides of the street. Like the dilapidated buildings around it, it had been built right up against the road, without a front garden to soften its appearance. The word ‘Pawnbroker’ had been painted messily over the door, and two dusty bow windows advertised the faded delights inside: some battered books, a garish, plumed hat, old boots and a pair of candlesticks, their silver plating worn thin to reveal the base metal beneath.

Isabelle stopped walking and wondered if it wasn’t too late to change her mind. Perhaps she could say she’d lost her way and that she’d decided to go home after all. She could come back tomorrow without him…

He noticed her hesitate and gently touched her arm. ‘Miss Thomas, what’s wrong?’

She ignored the unfamiliar shiver his touch produced. Red shame was creeping up her neck and her lip was threatening to tremble. But she wouldn’t allow herself to be such a coward, so she forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘I…I thank you again for your company. I will be all right from here.’

He looked dubiously at the shop. ‘What—is this where we’re going?’

She pretended she hadn’t heard the note of disdain in his voice. ‘My bag, please.’

There was understanding in his green eyes—sympathy, too—and that made it even worse. ‘You’ve no need to feel embarrassed, you know. You’re not the first person who’s had to—’

‘My bag, sir.’She held out her hand, waiting impatiently.

He seemed reluctant to give it to her. ‘I doubt he’ll give you an honest price.’

‘Probably not, but that is my affair.’

Finally, he handed it to her. ‘I’ll wait for you.’

She’d expected him to say that, and frankly she didn’t want him to leave. She just didn’t want him to know how scared she was. ‘I cannot stop you.’

And then she straightened her back like a fire poker and walked alone the rest of the way to the shop and up its crooked stone steps. She took a deep breath and opened the heavy, groaning door.

When she emerged four minutes later, her bag was no lighter. As feared, Josiah Fairly had offered insultingly low prices for her belongings, but she was too despondent to feel angry. She was tired and hungry, and she simply wanted to give up.

She immediately began searching the street, looking for him. She didn’t see him anywhere, and it was clear to her that he’d abandoned her. She couldn’t blame him, and she should have felt relieved, but instead she felt even worse. She sank down on to the steps, placing her bag beside her. Then she crossed her arms over her knees and buried her head inside them. She hadn’t cried in years. She’d been through worse humiliations. But right now—

‘Miss Thomas? What’s wrong?’

She raised her head slowly. He’d returned, and he stood right in front of her, looking so handsome…and she knew her eyes were red and her lips swollen.

‘Nothing,’ she said quietly, wiping away a tear.

‘Please don’t cry.’

‘I’m not.’

He mounted the steps and sat next to her. Not indecently close, but close enough that she forgot about the horrible man in the shop, and began to worry instead about his proximity.

‘I’d just walked down the road a bit,’he said. ‘I’m sorry—I expected you to be inside longer. He wasn’t helpful?’

She shook her head, waiting to hear him say he told her so.

But he didn’t. ‘So what’s it to be now? Would an ice cream cheer you up?’

She shook her head again.

‘No? Um…some proper food, then? How about a very large glass of brandy?’

She looked at him sideways, but she couldn’t help smiling this time. It had been so long since someone had been kind to her or cared if she was happy. ‘You’re absurd.’

The warmth in his green eyes made her catch her breath. ‘If it makes you smile. May I look in your bag?’

‘No.’

‘Please? Perhaps I can suggest something.’

Why not? she thought. She didn’t have the energy to argue any more. She shrugged. ‘Very well.’She slid the bag across the step until it sat at his feet.

He opened it rather hesitantly, as if he expected it to contain snakes. ‘Don’t know why you’ve been so mysterious about it. I’m sure if you took your necklace to a respectable dealer…’But then he broke off, frowning into the bag’s depths. ‘Miss Thomas, you really are carrying stones.’

Chapter Two

She bit her lip, trying to control the smile that threatened to break through. But he sounded so nonplussed it really was comical. Finally, she gave up and grinned at him. ‘They’re marble, actually.’

He nodded slowly, allowing his gaze to drift over her face slightly longer than was proper. She flushed and looked away, wishing he didn’t have such a disturbing effect on her—he, no doubt, thought her blushes were ridiculously missish. When she’d regained her composure and looked back, he’d removed one of the items in question. A fragment of a woman’s face, small enough to fit in his hand, delicately carved in white marble. All that remained of it was an almond-shaped eye, an ear, and an elegant nose. Isabelle knew her bag contained two more like it.

‘I take it she used to be a Roman goddess, or something like that,’ he said slowly.

‘Well…’

He didn’t let her finish. ‘And I was starting to think you were only a little bit eccentric. Why would you carry these things around?’

Her smile faded, and she replied coldly, ‘I was trying to sell them, clearly.’

‘Did the man offer you any money at all?’

She shook her head. ‘He didn’t quite know what to make of them.’

‘I shouldn’t think so. What do you think they’re worth?’

‘I don’t know. Next to nothing.’

He returned the object to the bag. ‘More than that, surely.’

She shrugged. ‘I…I’m going home now.’

He didn’t pass the bag back to her. ‘But I thought I was going to help you.’

‘How can you possibly help me?’

His answer didn’t come readily, suggesting he had no more idea than she. ‘Well…some advice, maybe. Perhaps you could sell these things to a collector? Someone with an interest in antiquities? You won’t find anyone who wants to buy them around here.’

She sighed unhappily. ‘A collector wouldn’t want them, either, since they’re not really old.’

‘No? Then why are they broken?’

‘They were broken to begin with, to make them look more, um…authentic.’

‘I see.’ He was looking at her curiously, and she suspected he didn’t see at all. ‘You mean they’re forgeries.’

She didn’t want to say the words. She just nodded.

‘You told the man they weren’t real, I trust?’

She frowned at him, not liking the implication. ‘Of course. I’m not dishonest.’

He reached into the bag and removed the red morocco case. ‘What about this necklace? Are the pearls real?’

She nodded. It was the last nice thing she owned, and it was more valuable than many of the things she’d already sold. She’d held on to it for personal reasons, but she could no longer afford to be sentimental.

‘It is yours, I hope.’

‘Are you suggesting I stole it?’

‘Did you?’ he asked.

She wanted to be angry, but it was a perfectly reasonable question. ‘It was a gift. It is mine to do with as I like.’

He nodded. ‘In that case I would be happy to buy it from you.’

She took the necklace from his hands and returned it to her bag. ‘I do not think it will become you.’

‘No?’

There was a lilting, teasing note to his voice, but she was entirely serious—serious and, now, getting angry. ‘No. I will not accept your charity. You’ve just met me and you needn’t feel you have to help me.’

‘It isn’t charity,’ he protested.

‘Oh? What use have you of my necklace?’

‘You needn’t sound so incredulous. I’m sure I can find someone to give it to.’

‘Who?’ she demanded, but then she immediately blushed, realising how naïve her question sounded. A man like him undoubtedly had about five mistresses, if not a wife.

‘I wouldn’t have to look that far. I could give it to you, for one.’

‘To me?’ She didn’t quite understand what he was proposing, probably because all rational thought was quickly slipping from her mind. All she knew was that he suddenly seemed every bit as dangerous as the man who’d been following her that morning, and the boy who’d tried to rob her. More dangerous, in fact, at least to her sense of self-preservation.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll buy it from you, and then I’ll give it back. As a gift.’

‘That’s unnecessary. I…I must return now.’She rose and started walking back the way they had come.

He caught up a few seconds later, taking the bag from her when he reached her side. ‘You’re remarkably stubborn, you know.’

She didn’t turn her head to look at him. ‘If that bothers you, then you may leave. I know precisely where I’m going, so I can walk on my own.’

‘I’m far too stubborn m’self.’ He caught her hand, forcing her to stop. ‘And I would like to buy your necklace. I don’t see why you’re denying me, since it’s clearly for sale. And, if you promised not to be difficult about it, then I’d even be happy to allow you to keep it. Perhaps it has special meaning for you?’

It did. It had belonged to her mother. There was pity in his eyes, and she hated it. ‘Then that would be charity, sir.’

He frowned. ‘You needn’t worry that I would expect anything in return.’

That just made her blush. She started walking again. ‘It’s very expensive.’

‘How expensive?’

‘Two hundred pounds,’ she said, hoping the outrageous price would end the subject. She glanced at him sideways.

He raised an eyebrow, but otherwise showed little reaction. ‘Yes, that does seem rather dear.’

‘Well, I’m sorry—’

‘Would you settle for fifty pounds…’he was patting his jacket’s inner pocket as if looking for something ‘…and sixpence?’ He extracted a coin.

She stopped to stare. ‘You don’t travel with that sort of money.’

He smiled. ‘No, I tend to rely on credit. I think the sixpence would be about all I could manage at the moment.’

‘You think I’d give you my necklace for sixpence?’

‘A mere deposit. You can come to my house and I can give you the rest.’

Go to his house? No. ‘Your offer is too high.’ She resumed walking.

‘It’s considerably less than you requested.’

‘I wasn’t serious!’

He sighed. ‘Yes, I rather realised that. But I thought the object was to sell everything in this bag, and you’ve so far failed miserably. You’re clearly in need of money, or you wouldn’t be here.’

Isabelle ignored his point. He was right: she really was a fool. He was offering her the money she needed—much more than she’d hoped for—and yet she was refusing. Why? ‘I don’t need money that badly…I’m looking for employment, you see, and I only need enough to tide myself over until then.’

‘Oh? What sort of employment are you trained for?’

Another perceptive question. Drat. He asked it politely, as if he were merely curious, but she suspected he’d already guessed the answer. ‘I’m not trained for anything, if you must know. A governess, I suppose. I am reasonably well educated.’

He looked so dubious she added defensively, ‘Well, I am. You needn’t make a face.’

‘I’m not doubting your education, Miss Thomas. But somehow you don’t seem to realise that few mothers would eagerly welcome someone like you into their homes.’

She flushed with anger. ‘I don’t know what you mean by that.’

‘There’s no need to get upset. All I mean is that women like their children’s governesses to be stout and homely. Or skinny and homely. But…homely is important, I’m afraid.’His voice dropped an octave. ‘You’re…what I mean to say is you’re not homely. The very opposite, in fact. It’s a compliment.’

Her heart was beating like a hammer. She forced herself not to look at him and fixed her sights on a sleeping dog at the end of the road. But she knew he was looking at her. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face.

So she started to babble. ‘I…I might also work in a shop. Or I…might take in sewing. I could do any—’

‘Miss Thomas?’

‘Yes?’

‘I have no doubt you’ll be successful in whatever you choose to do, but it might take a while.And you still haven’t sold your necklace, so you haven’t any money to tide you over. Just accept my offer, please. Don’t think of it as charity, since I am getting something in return.’

Isabelle said nothing. She didn’t want to take his money—she really didn’t. But she also didn’t know why it mattered, since she’d planned to sell her necklace anyway. And the money he offered would pay for her lodgings for several months. It would feed her. It might even cover some of her debt…

But taking money from him was different. It was more shaming. No matter what he said, it was charity.

In the end, though, necessity won out over pride, although she still couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘If you truly wish to buy it, then I won’t argue. But I insist you keep it. I…I don’t need your gift.’

He nodded, and they walked on in uncomfortable silence.

After another minute, they reached the crowded street where she’d first encountered him.

‘My carriage is just over there.’

She looked in the direction he indicated. His carriage had pulled to the side in order not to obstruct traffic; his driver, who’d been arguing energetically when she’d last seen him, now glared sullenly at the greengrocer, who’d still not moved his cart.

‘Your carriage?’ she asked.

He was regarding the vehicle with mild displeasure, but he looked back at her to answer the question. ‘Yes—you’re coming to my house, remember?’

Ride in his carriage with him? It was far too intimate. She couldn’t do it. ‘Perhaps I might hire a hack?’

‘Don’t be silly. It could be an hour before you see a hack around here.’

‘I could walk, then.’

‘You expect me to trust you with my sixpence? How do I know you won’t abscond with it?’

She frowned at him. ‘You can have your sixpence back.’

He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Oh, for the…’ He managed to catch himself before emitting an oath. ‘You’re being silly. I’ll hire a hack for myself, so you won’t be alone with me, if that’s what’s stopping you. You can have my carriage to yourself.’

No. ‘As you pointed out, hacks rarely come to these parts. I cannot allow you to inconvenience—’

‘It is not inconvenient,’ he said tightly, patently already both annoyed and inconvenienced. ‘You are not walking, but if you propose to stand here and debate it all day then I am willing to oblige you.’

She didn’t want to debate all day, nor did she want to walk. Her stomach rumbled and her feet hurt. She looked away, wishing she hadn’t argued with him. It wasn’t proper for her to ride in his carriage, alone or otherwise, but she’d abandoned propriety many months ago. She was in no position to be so fastidious.

‘You will at least let me pay your fare.’

‘No, I won’t,’ he said irritably, his gentleman’s honour obviously insulted that she would offer.

She blushed again, embarrassed by her gaucheness. But she had to acknowledge his generosity somehow.

‘I really am grateful for your kindness. I’m sorry if I’ve seemed impolite. What I mean to say is, well, thank you, my lord.’

‘You don’t have to be so formal.’

But she did. Formality was all that was keeping her from melting on the spot. His eyes had warmed with her apology, and his tone had dropped subtly: deeper, richer, entreating. She couldn’t look away, and in the heavy silence, he reached out to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. She found herself staring at his lips. She thought he was going to kiss her, and stopping him was far from her mind. He was so close, and all he’d have to do was tilt his head…

‘Do you know what I think?’

‘What?’ she asked, feeling rather mesmerised.

‘I think you need more help than you’ll admit.’

She blinked and looked away, realising that any kissing was merely the product of her overheated imagination.

Will glanced in the direction of his carriage, where the argument had recommenced. ‘You’d better wait here while I sort this out. I don’t trust McGrath to mind his tongue when he’s riled. And pay attention this time.’

He gave her a stern look and deposited the bag at her feet before walking purposely towards the carriage, just on the other side of the road. She watched him go, feeling rather dizzy. That morning she’d been penniless, friendless and scared. Through sheer happenstance she now had the promise of money and a most unlikely champion.

She allowed herself to look at him, safe in the knowledge that for the moment he wasn’t paying attention to her. She liked the way his hair fell over his temples as he lowered his head to listen to the greengrocer. After a few seconds, he pushed it back, looking frustrated. He seemed—quite valiantly, she thought—to be holding his temper in check. He started patting his pockets, and she assumed the man was demanding money for his damaged potatoes. She couldn’t suppress her smile. Pity she’d taken his last sixpence, but she was certain he’d think of something. What with all that credit. There’d be a small parade of beggars, all with hands held out, following him home before the day was through.

She looked at the sky, watching the clouds drift past and wondering how late it was. She’d been enjoying herself, in an odd sort of way, and she suspected more time had passed than she was aware of.

Mrs William Stanton. She rather liked the sound of that. No, no—Isabelle, Lady Lennox. Or the Countess of Lennox, perhaps. How terribly grand. If only her father’d been a duke instead of a criminal.

She rolled her eyes at her folly and returned her gaze to the street. Right, he’d instructed her to pay attention…

But then the second her mind drifted back to earth she saw the man again. The one who’d followed her. She blinked, not quite believing her eyes, but it was definitely him. Dark hair, medium height. He didn’t seem to have seen her, but he appeared to be searching the crowd. She didn’t know who he was, but she had an awful idea who might have sent him.

She immediately stooped to pick up her bag, gripping it tightly. She gave William Stanton one last glance, but he was still occupied with his driver. So much for riding in his carriage.

She turned her body slowly in the other direction, hoping not to attract any attention as she eased deeper into the crowd. She looked over her shoulder, hoping the man still hadn’t noticed her.

But now he was heading in her direction.

She turned her head and started walking faster, not caring if it looked odd. He hadn’t necessarily seen her; perhaps it was chance that he’d seemed to be closer. After a few long strides, she turned again. This time, there was no sign of the man. She hoped she’d lost him. Or, perhaps, he’d merely blended in with the crowd. He could be as close as ever.

She started to run.

Isabelle arrived at her boarding house an hour later with a swiftly beating heart. She’d taken a circuitous route, hoping the man wouldn’t reappear. And, as far as she was aware, he hadn’t. She’d run much of the way, stopping to catch her breath only a few times; after a mere ten minutes she’d abandoned the marble heads on the side of the road. Worthless anyway, and they slowed her down.

Now, she stood at the top of her front steps, facing a slightly shabby door. She wondered if the man knew where she lived, and she supposed he probably did.

She wouldn’t think about it. She began fishing around her pocket, hoping that she hadn’t lost her key in the rush. She’d already forgotten it once, and Miss Standish, the house’s temperamental proprietor, had been remarkably put out about having to answer the door.

Isabelle located the key easily, and the door opened without so much as a sigh to notify Miss Standish that she’d returned. In the four days she’d been staying there, she’d learned it was best to avoid her.

Isabelle quietly closed the door behind her and returned the key to her pocket. But then…what was that? The key had clinked against another heavy, brass object. She removed it, frowning.

It wasn’t brass, actually. It was William Stanton’s gold watch.

Good God, she’d stolen it after all.

Chapter Three

It was a typical, damp English afternoon. Will was in his drawing room, weighing the effort of walking to his club against the gloomy pleasure of perusing his paper in search of bad news. He turned the page, allowing inertia to win. A portly tabby cat curled in the carved giltwood chair across from him, shooting aggrieved looks every time he rustled the paper. He appeared to be in as bad a temper as his owner.

Will’s bad mood could be blamed entirely on the female sex. His mood had soured soon after he’d turned his back on Isabelle Thomas the previous afternoon. At first, he’d actually felt rather pleased with himself as he’d crossed the road, leaving her to wait. His mind had only been half on the argument between his driver and the greengrocer, so much so that he hadn’t even balked when the man insisted he be compensated for his entire cart of vegetables when most still seemed perfectly saleable. Instead, he’d been thinking about the intelligent, beautiful, mysterious girl who would unexpectedly be visiting his house—a prospect that suggested many interesting possibilities.

He didn’t mind buying her necklace, or even paying over the odds for it; it was a small price to pay to keep her off the street. And he’d hoped that once he’d taken care of that small matter, he might convince her to have supper with him, or perhaps go to the opera. He wondered how she’d react to that sort of invitation. Her blushes suggested she wasn’t terribly experienced, but she appeared to be old enough and independent enough to make up her own mind. He’d felt inordinately satisfied when he’d finally succeeded in making her smile. He usually charmed women with ease, but her…well, it felt like a real achievement. Her adorable smile had more than made up for her prickliness.

Of course, he’d changed his mind once he realised that she was a thief, and a thief so skilled she hadn’t even had to steal. She’d so beguiled him with her charms that he’d simply given her his watch—and sixpence, for good measure. The whole thing was gallingly ironic since he’d accused her of lacking common sense.

After he’d realised that she’d fled, he’d spent two angry hours searching the slums before finally giving up and returning home. He’d been damned fond of that watch; it had belonged to his grandfather.

Only once he’d reached his house, his mood got even worse. A letter awaited him there, from Miss Hume. She must have sent it within hours of his departure from her blasted school. It seemed that Mary was being sent home, and since he was her guardian, her home was now his. According to the letter, sometime during the evening after he’d left, Mary had snipped a large segment of hair from one Major Fitzgerald’s daughter’s head, using a sharp pair of scissors. Her possessions had been packed posthaste, and she would arrive, courtesy of Miss Hume, some time tomorrow morning. Miss Hume did not plan on inviting her back. She was Will’s responsibility now, and he didn’t have the faintest idea what to do with her. He knew nothing about children, girls in particular, and it might take months to find another school that would accept such a hoyden.

He lay down his paper and took the letter from his inside pocket, glancing yet again at the strident lines of text. Bloody unpredictable females, young and old…

A quiet knock on the drawing room door interrupted his ill-tempered thoughts.

‘Yes?’

Bartholomew, his butler, entered cautiously.

‘Good morning, my lord. It is your cousin.’

This wasn’t welcome news. Will had several cousins, but all but two of them were considerate enough to leave him alone in the mornings. It was certain to be one of the demon twins, Henrietta or Venetia.

‘What—here? Which cousin?’

‘Which cousin indeed?’an arch voice called in from the hall. ‘Surely you must know that Venny’s at Waddlehurst with Philip and the children.’

Henrietta Sandon-Drabbe sailed into the drawing room, not waiting for permission to enter. She was a year younger than he, and the top of her head stopped just shy of his chin. She’d once been very pretty, and her pale blonde hair and blue eyes undoubtedly continued to appeal to most casual observers. Will, however, had a difficult time separating her personality from her appearance. She was intrusive, manipulative and bossy, as was her sister. Since they normally travelled as a pair, he considered himself lucky to have only one to deal with that morning.

Bartholomew wisely eased out of the room, closing the door behind him. Will folded the letter and laid it next to him on the sofa, forcing a smile as he rose. ‘I hope she’ll be away for a long time?’

‘Until the end of the summer, sadly. But I know she would approve of my mission this morning.’

He groaned. ‘Oh, Henny, don’t say you’re on a mission.’

‘Well, I am,’ she replied. Her gaze sharpened as it lit on the cat. ‘And why is that foul creature not in the kitchen? Surely you have rats enough to keep it occupied. Shoo!’ She waved her hand at it, and it insolently shifted its fat mass, but did not otherwise move. She glared at it before selecting another chair.

Once comfortably arranged, she said, ‘I cannot imagine why you’re being so disagreeable. You haven’t even said good morning. I trust your mood will improve by tonight.’

Will resumed his seat. ‘Good morning, Henny. What happens tonight?’

She gave him a patient, patronising look—the sort she reserved for dense, unobservant men and her husband, Edward. ‘Constance Reckitt’s ball. You’ve known about it for weeks, and you promised you’d come.’

Will frowned. He’d forgotten that he’d agreed to attend the ball, and he’d only done so because Henrietta had nagged him about it almost incessantly.

‘Edward going to be there?’ he asked.

‘No, he has developed a tickle in his throat.’

‘How convenient for him.’

‘Yes, suspiciously so. You, however, get no such reprieve. It is essential you make an appearance.’

‘I’d hardly call it essential. I don’t even know why you want me there, since all you’ll do is scold me under your breath. You know I detest these things.’

For just an instant, her composure looked set to snap. In a tight, controlled voice, she said, ‘I want you there because you are the Earl of Lennox. You are four and thirty. Have you no concern for your duty?’

He shouldn’t have posed the question, since the answer was always the same. He didn’t need his cousin to remind him of his duty. He was responsible for carrying on his family’s name. If he didn’t produce an heir, then eventually there’d be no more Stantons living at Wentwich Castle, his estate in Norfolk, and no more Earls of Lennox. Since he was the seventh Earl of Lennox, it was a tradition worth protecting.

‘I’ve never said I won’t marry. Just not right now.’

‘When? What will happen if you don’t produce an heir?’

‘James is married now—’

‘Yes, but your brother’s wife has managed to produce just one, tiny girl in three years. Do you not think you should make some attempt at respectability? You need a wife yourself, William. Not some unending string of…of women.’

‘You’ve been reading the scandal sheets again.’

‘I’m not the only one. Your misdeeds have been widely reported for years, and you now have the most appalling reputation. I’m not even certain anyone would marry you.’

He closed his eyes momentarily, searching for patience, reminding himself that he didn’t really dislike Henrietta. Bossy she might be, but she did mean well. ‘Listen, Henny, I don’t gamble and I haven’t had a mistress in months, not that it’s your business. So let’s speak of something else.’

She backed off reluctantly. ‘You are in a foul mood.’

‘And you’ve done everything in your power to make it worse.’

She sighed, looking around the room in search of another topic of conversation. Her gaze settled on the letter next to him. ‘But then why, I wonder, are you so put out this morning? Have you received bad news?’

He looked at the letter, too. The last thing he wanted was to give her another reason to interfere in his life, but then again, he wanted to change the subject. Besides, he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with the child when she arrived in less than a day. All three of Henrietta’s brats were girls; she might be able to help him.

He rose to hand her the letter, sure that he’d eventually regret doing so. ‘I suppose it is rather bad news.’

She started reading, but only got about halfway down the page before looking up with some alarm. ‘I don’t understand at all. Who’s Mary Weston-Burke?’

‘My goddaughter. Arthur Weston-Burke’s only child.’

She laid the letter down, knitting her brow. ‘Your school friend? He died a few months ago, did he not?’

‘Yes, and she became my ward.’

Henrietta raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

He was already beginning to wish he hadn’t shown her the letter. He returned to the sofa, feeling defensive. ‘No, well, I didn’t think it would come to anything. She’s been at school the whole time—’

‘You didn’t assume she’d be at school for ever, did you?’

He frowned. ‘I thought I’d worry about what to do with her next when the need arose. Frankly, I assumed she’d be at school for a few more years at least. She’s only twelve.’

She shook her head disapprovingly. ‘Hasn’t she any other family? I cannot imagine why you’ve been selected for this task. I can’t think of anyone more unsuited. You know nothing about children.’

‘My nieces adore me.’

Henrietta snorted. ‘That’s because you spoil them. You’re far too soft-hearted.’

‘I’m not soft-hearted at all,’ Will protested. He didn’t think he was, either. He was a rake of the first order, at least by repute. But maybe she was right, and he was losing his touch. Maybe that’s why he’d given his watch to a woebegone thief with big violet eyes.

‘I don’t think Arthur would have asked me to be her guardian,’ he continued, ‘except his entire immediate family lives in India. The only reason he ended up in England was because he was sent here for school. And, I suppose he knew I’d the funds to support her.’

Henrietta was looking increasingly concerned. ‘What about the girl’s mother’s side of the family?’

‘Her mother died about ten years ago, and she came from a rather unfortunate background. Father was some kind of a wastrel, and they haven’t two farthings to rub together. It isn’t an option.’

‘But there must be someone! I can’t believe she’s no suitable relations. Surely there’s a beneficent aunt lurking about somewhere.’

Will mulled over the possibility. ‘Arthur had a sister, but she’s in India with her own family, I think. Obviously she was too far away to attend the funeral, or I’d have enquired.’

That information brightened Henrietta slightly. ‘Maybe she’ll take the child. Write to her today. How long would it take a letter to reach India?’

Will thought of the scrawny, unloved girl. It didn’t seem right to plan her departure before she’d even arrived. ‘By the time word reached her, I’m sure another school will have agreed to take her.’

Henrietta brandished the letter. ‘Really? I wish you luck convincing another school to take her. It says here that she cut off Amelia Fitzgerald’s hair.’

He sighed. ‘Apparently.’

‘Your lack of concern is most alarming, William, considering you plan to allow this assassin into your home. I know the Fitzgeralds vaguely. They’re a most respectable family, and Amelia has an angelic head of golden curls.’

Will thought of Mary, who he’d met just a few times. Tall, plain and quiet—not someone for whom the adjective ‘angelic’ would ever be used. ‘She had, you mean.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The curls. And I’m sure there’s an explanation for this. Perhaps Amelia asked her to do it. Maybe short hair is becoming—’

‘Becoming what, fashionable amongst twelve-year-old girls? I assure you, William, it is not. You’ll have to take Miss Weston-Burke firmly in hand.’

He’d always bristled at authority, and he didn’t like the domineering tone of her advice. ‘Unlike you, Henny, I am not a natural despot. I met this Miss Hume a few days ago, and she’s quite fierce, so you see a firm hand doesn’t always work.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s supposed to be an excellent school.’

‘Yes, well, apparently Mary didn’t think so.’

Henrietta realised he wouldn’t be persuaded. ‘If the girl is this ill mannered now, I shudder to think how’ll she’ll behave after spending the summer with you. You’ll have to hire a governess immediately. You’ll have to change your entire way of life.’

‘Have you finished?’

‘Quite.’

‘Then you’ll help me, won’t you?’

‘Help?’She cocked her head slightly, ever sensitive to the rise and fall of the upper hand. ‘How can I possibly help you?’

Will suppressed a sigh, knowing he was temporarily at her mercy. ‘Well, as you pointed out, I don’t know anything about children.’

‘Yes, and if you promise to come tonight I’ll consider advising you on occasion. I’ll certainly place an advertisement for a governess for you—I know just the journal. And, if you dance with Vanessa Lytton, I might even offer to select your governess.’

‘I’ll have some say, Hen, as I’ll be paying her salary.’

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘Not in the least.’

‘Very well—I will winnow the list down for you, and you can make the final decision. It will save you hours of tedium.’

Since Will had no desire to interview scores of potential governesses—and, for that matter, to spend another minute with his cousin—he agreed instantly. ‘It’s settled. You’ve won.’ But then he thought it wise to ask, ‘By the by, who’s Vanessa Lytton?’

Henrietta smiled. ‘She’s a definite prospect, I should say. Well mannered and exceptionally pretty. Accomplished, too.’

‘And no doubt well connected.’

‘The granddaughter of a marquess. Or would you rather marry some farmer’s daughter?’

He didn’t want to marry anyone, but he knew she had a point. His own parents’ marriage had been convenient and for mutual benefit, but not for love—although he’d never actually witnessed their relationship firsthand. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father remarried a year later, this time to a woman he’d been in love with for many years. Will loved his stepmother, too; she was beautiful, intelligent and charming. But she’d also been an actress, and her background had caused a serious rupture in their family. The marriage had led, if he wanted to be brutally honest, to a great deal of unhappiness for many people.

So when it was his turn to marry, he would be more practical about things.

Luckily, he didn’t have to admit to his cousin that she was right. She’d already risen and was arming herself with her parasol. He rose, too, out of courtesy.

‘You’re leaving?’

She nodded. ‘I have to prepare for tonight. It takes me longer these days to look presentable. I’d avoid these dratted débutante balls all together if it weren’t for you. They make me feel practically ancient.’

‘And if it weren’t for you, then I wouldn’t go, either. It’s most illogical of us. Perhaps we should reconsider?’

The look she gave him as she exited the room was answer enough. He would see her later that evening or pay the consequences.

Isabelle’s tiny room was on the top floor of Hannah Standish’s boarding house. It measured about seven feet by eight and the ceiling sloped sharply, making it suitable only for leprechauns and sundry members of the fairy world. The only personal items it contained were three sturdy, leather bags—stuffed full of clothes and books—and a plaster bust of Athena, given to her by her father. Other than that, it contained a bed, a dresser and a threadbare but clean carpet. A child’s sampler, worked in violent red letters, hung above the small fireplace; FEAR HIM, it said, followed by the entire alphabet and all the numbers from one to ten.

That was the last advice she needed at the moment. She was terrified. What would—could—she do? She probably already faced debtors’ prison, and now she was a thief, too, through no fault of her own.

From her tense position on the bed she could see William Stanton’s watch, gleaming and golden on top of her dresser—proof that yesterday wasn’t just a bad dream. She couldn’t help wishing she’d begun her criminal career in less expensive style.

She could sell it, of course. She needed money, and it was probably worth more than she could earn in a decade as a governess. But selling it would only make things worse. Then she’d be an actual, rather than merely an accidental, thief. She shouldn’t even entertain the thought. She’d think instead about what she could do to improve her situation.

Like finding employment, and since she had an interview later that afternoon, she felt justifiably sanguine. True, she’d no real skills, nor any history of employment. But at least she was well educated, thanks to her father’s tutelage. A good education and a large debt were practically the only possessions she had left. Her father was responsible for both counts, in fact.

He’d raised her alone since she was six, when her mother died; he’d been, as far as she could surmise, unable to cope with the responsibilities of parenthood without a wife to guide him. He led a rarefied life as a dealer of ancient sculpture, and she…well, she was left feeling rather inconsequential most of the time, if not downright inconvenient. So, she’d learned to be interested in his interests. She could speak intelligently about Roman sculpture, Etruscan painting and Attic vases. She could read Greek and Latin, as well as French and German. In retrospect, it probably hadn’t been much of a childhood. She certainly didn’t love these topics in the same way he did, but she’d always hoped her aptitude might make him love her, as well. At least they’d have something to talk about together.

Her early memories of her father were few. Before the war made maritime travel impossible, he’d gone to the Continent for months on end, and it was only when he returned from a long voyage that she realised he did care about her, despite his awkward way of showing it. He always brought back the most exotic treasures: mysterious fragments of crumbling buildings, bits of sculpture, and, when she was seven, a beautiful, carved marble goddess taller than she. Even Napoleon hadn’t impeded his purchases; when hostilities prevented him from travelling, he’d had large numbers of artefacts shipped to London, sight unseen. He’d be so pleased with himself when they arrived that he’d tell her stories about each object, stories that lasted well beyond her bedtime: about Daphne turning into a tree to escape Apollo’s embrace, about Diana turning Actaeon into a stag. However, her father’s finds had filled the corners of their large house only until they found a buyer, and everything inevitably did. His ledgers read like a guide to the great and good, and he became renowned in his own right. George III had even created him Sir Walter Thomas—an ultimately useless title that had died with him three years ago.

Unfortunately, it turned out that much of what he’d sold to those many fine gentlemen wasn’t what he claimed it to be. She’d learned that soon after his death, when Sebastian Cowes first came to call. He’d bought many objects from her father over the years, and when he looked at her his pale, liquid gaze had glided unpleasantly over her body, as if she, too, were for sale. She had disliked him immediately, but she’d still endeavoured to be polite…even when he had imparted terrible news.

He’d just returned from Rome, he told her, where he’d seen a marble bust in a shop window. On closer inspection he realised it matched one he’d bought from her father, down to every chip and crack. When he queried the shop owner, Signor Ricci, he learned that the bust wasn’t old at all, but rather had been made by Signor Ricci himself in the antique style. Ricci claimed to know her father well, although apparently he’d visited the shop only once, and that many years ago, just as hostilities were breaking out in earnest with France. He’d arranged for Signor Ricci to send several large statues to England—a request he was to make repeatedly by correspondence throughout the course of the war. Only Ricci had not known that her father had sold his replications in England for many times his own asking price as genuine artefacts. Neither had Isabelle.

Sebastian Cowes wanted his money back, and she agreed that he should have it. The problem was, she didn’t have much money to give him. She was shocked when he showed her the receipts for his purchases. Where had all her father’s profits gone? She could only assume he’d used them to fund further travels and further purchases, since all he’d left her was a modest annual income and a good house with a leaky roof.

So she started to sell her possessions—china, dresses, silver, jewellery at first, and then finally her home. These monies, even combined with her inheritance, had covered only half the debt, and thus she’d ended up in London, looking for work. As if a governess’s meagre salary would help.

She told herself she wasn’t running away. She knew she had to face Mr Cowes sometime…she just wanted to postpone the inevitable. Before she’d left home he’d hinted that they might come to some other arrangement if she couldn’t pay him. She wasn’t certain what he meant by that, but she sensed she wouldn’t like it.

She also had to accept that he wasn’t the only man her father had swindled. She’d examined his books carefully. He’d meticulously recorded the sources from which he’d acquired every object, as well as each object’s eventual buyer. Nearly everything he had sold during the last fifteen years of his working life had come from Signor Ricci. Luckily, those items had been dispersed to only eleven buyers, but each of them had spent a fortune. If anyone else discovered the secret, she’d be ruined. Out of malice, Mr Cowes might start contacting her father’s other clients—and since the world of collectors wasn’t very big, he could easily determine who they were. How could she be certain that he wouldn’t tell them?

It would be a disaster, and now she’d nothing left to sell—nothing that anyone wanted, anyway. She needed her remaining clothes, and she refused to part with her necklace for less than it was really worth.

She glanced at the gold watch.

No, she couldn’t.

A loud noise interrupted her thoughts. Isabelle rose from her bed to look out the window. Her room faced the narrow mews that ran behind the house, and a rickety cart had just halted by the back door. Samuel, the coal boy, leapt from his perch and began unloading a week’s supply of fuel into the coal chute. He’d leave in a few minutes.

She gave William Stanton’s watch one last, baleful look before sweeping up his sixpence from her dresser and racing down the stairs. Much as she’d like to sell it, she’d have to return it instead. There was a slim chance that Samuel could discover where he lived. He’d been useless when it came to pawnbrokers, but his job must take him all over London. He might be of some help yet.

She slowed when she reached the ground floor, and then tiptoed past the sitting room, not wanting to disturb the pair of spinster sisters who were her fellow lodgers. Miss Standish had introduced them as Respectable Women, and when she’d said this she’d looked suspiciously at Isabelle’s red hair, as if it alone were indecent. They were always in the sitting room and always knitting, like two grey spiders. She couldn’t wait to escape from the oppressive house. Please, let her find a position soon…

She walked faster as she neared the back door. When she stepped outside, Samuel had just finished his job. He was wiping his blackened hands on the front of his apron and preparing to leave.

‘Good morning, Samuel.’

He blushed and mumbled something incomprehensible.

Isabelle fumbled around her pocket for the sixpence. ‘I…I was wondering if you might help me. I, uh…you deliver coal all over town, do you not?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘To lords and ladies, even? In Mayfair and Belgravia?’

He nodded.

‘I’m trying to locate someone. The Earl of Lennox. Do you think you could find his residence?’

He didn’t answer immediately, so she removed the sixpence. ‘I’ll double that if you’re successful.’ She descended the short flight of steps and gave it to him.

He stared at the coin for several seconds. ‘Yes, miss. It won’t take long.’

She wasn’t so sure. He was perfectly respectful, but his mind wasn’t as quick as one might wish. ‘Shall I write down his name?’

‘Can’t read, miss. The Earl of…?’

‘Lennox. William Stanton, Earl of Lennox. Please don’t forget.’

He nodded again and climbed on to his cart. She watched as he jostled down the pitted road, feeling apprehensive. Sixpence meant a lot to her these days. She couldn’t afford to be so generous.

Chapter Four

A fortnight later, Isabelle stood on William Stanton’s doorstep, flanked by fluted, white columns and facing a glossy, black door. The house was so imposing she almost hoped she’d come to the wrong address. Which was silly, since she should be used to grand houses by now. During the two weeks that she’d waited for Samuel to return with his information, she had attended interviews for five governess positions at large houses in Mayfair—although none, perhaps, quite as large as this one.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t been well received at any of those houses, which now only added to her discomfort. She’d actually felt quite optimistic at her first few interviews; she was polite and neat and well spoken, and even though she didn’t know how to be a governess she hoped those qualities would count for something.

But the mothers of Mayfair didn’t see it that way. On one occasion she’d even been turned away before setting foot inside the house, although not before the awful woman who lived there, Mrs Grubb—pronounced groob as Isabelle was mortified to learn—had looked her up and down disapprovingly and said she simply wouldn’t do. Perhaps she appeared to be too young. Maybe it was her dratted red hair again.

At any rate, returning Lord Lennox’s watch could hardly be much worse. She took a deep breath and knocked.

A footman answered promptly. He seemed surprised and confused to see her, as if she were the last person he expected.

‘You’re here to see his lordship?’ he asked.

She nodded uncertainly. It was an oddly direct greeting.

‘There were only six names on the list,’ he said accusingly. ‘I thought we’d finished for the morning. What is your name?’

Now it was her turn to feel confused. What list? ‘Miss Isabelle Thomas. I…perhaps I should explain—’

He sniffed disapprovingly and ushered her inside. ‘Quickly, quickly. There’s little time for explaining. His lordship had hoped to complete these meetings half an hour ago and won’t be too pleased to see you. You might as well sit, Miss Thomas.’

And then he briskly crossed the hall and disappeared behind a door before she had another chance to protest. She sat on a mahogany hall chair, nervously fingering the watch in her pocket. This wasn’t going as planned. Perhaps she should just leave the watch on the table, cross her fingers and run.

She didn’t have time. The footman reappeared. ‘This way, Miss Thomas,’ he said impatiently.

She rose, feeling unsteady. But she didn’t need to feel scared. The theft had been an accident, and she was now returning the watch as was correct and honourable. Lord Lennox would surely understand. He’d been kind to her before.

The footman held the door open wider for her to enter and, somehow, she did so without fainting. She stood anxiously, keeping her gaze fixed on the grey marble chimney-piece that dominated the room. Only when the footman closed the door solidly behind her did she allow her eyes to focus on the tall, masculine form sitting behind the desk.

He was staring right back at her, and he didn’t bother to rise out of respect. He was as handsome as the memory she’d carried around with her for the past fortnight, but now his green eyes were cold and assessing. She should say something…something…anything…

Instead she turned the colour of a radish.

He smiled at her embarrassment, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I must admit, when Rogers told me that a Miss Isabelle Thomas was waiting I thought it must be a coincidence. But it is you, isn’t it?’

‘I…perhaps I should have written first?’

‘Oh? Would you have warned me to hide my silver? I assume that’s what you’ve come for.’

‘I—’ She frowned at his sarcasm. ‘No, I have not.’

‘You haven’t seriously come about the position, have you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You saw the advertisement. You must have.’

She shook her head. ‘No—’

‘Then why have you come?’He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

With unsteady hands, she removed the watch from her pocket. She crossed the room and placed it on the desk in front of him. ‘I’ve come to return it,’she explained, when all he did was stare at it. Then she took three steps backwards.

The room remained silent for several uncomfortable seconds. He picked up the watch and opened the case to examine it. His eyes showed no emotion when he returned his gaze to her face. ‘You were just…borrowing it, I suppose?’

Oh, God, how could she explain? Her words spilled out in a jumble. ‘No, I mean, I never intended to take it. I saw…’ Start at the beginning. She took a calming breath. ‘When you saved me from that pickpocket…I—I mean the reason I wasn’t paying attention then is that I thought someone was following me, and I was trying to locate him in the crowd. I’d seen the same man several times that morning. And, well, my point is that I thought I was safe while you were accompanying me, but then when you left to converse with your driver I saw him again. I had little choice but to run. I didn’t realise until too late that I’d taken your watch with me. I was too afraid to go back to see if you were still there.’

He was silent for several seconds. ‘Who was he?’

Please let him believe her. ‘I don’t know, but I know it was the same man. I…I’m sorry it took me so long to find you, but all I had was your name, and I had to pay the boy who delivers coal to locate you. But I’ve finally found you. Please believe me.’

He deposited the watch on the desk in front of him. Any anger in his expression had been replaced by curiosity.

‘Please sit, Miss Thomas.’

She did, flushing again as she realised that, as was habit, she’d said too much. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You can stop apologising. Have you seen this man since then?’

‘No.’

‘That area is teeming with criminals. He was probably another pickpocket.’

‘I think so.’ But she felt certain he wasn’t. It was much more likely that he’d been sent by Sebastian Cowes to make sure she didn’t flee. He could have discovered her London address easily from her housekeeper. Kindly Mrs Vincent would’ve worried terribly if she’d gone without telling her how she could be contacted, but Isabelle now wished she’d given false details.

He turned slightly in his chair and pulled the bell cord that hung down the wall.

She tensed and rose. Maybe he didn’t believe her after all. Maybe he was going to send for the authorities. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Having a tray of…’ He paused when the door opened. This time a butler entered. ‘Oh, Bartholomew, please have a tray of tea brought.’

‘Mrs Graham is just preparing one now, my lord. Shall I ask her to include an extra—?’

‘Yes, yes, enough for two, obviously,’ Will said with a touch of impatience.

The butler left silently.

He turned his attention back to her. ‘You can sit again, Miss Thomas. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.’

‘I must go. Really.’

‘No, sit.’

It was an order, but she continued to stand. Because even if he didn’t want to have her arrested for theft, he still did funny things to her insides. Funny things that made her blush and speak like an imbecile. ‘No, no. I have to leave.’

‘Why? Do you have plans for the afternoon?’

‘Yes.’ That wasn’t true.

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I do. I’m having lunch. With…uh—’

‘The king?’

Her gaze met his, and he challenged her to come up with another excuse. His eyes were so disconcerting that

she couldn’t think fast enough.

So she sat uneasily on the sofa. ‘I can’t stay for long.’

‘You’ll have a cup of tea. And thank you, by the way.’

‘Why?’

‘Because even if you didn’t mean to take my watch, you still didn’t have to return it. It belonged to my grandfather. I could not have replaced it. I must reward you.’

‘I don’t need a reward for returning something I took in the first place.’

Just then, a maid arrived with a finely chased silver teapot, a milk jug and a sugar bowl. Another maid followed, carrying cups and saucers. They quietly placed everything on a side table before leaving without saying a word or making eye contact.

Will rose when the door closed and crossed the room. He began pouring the tea.

‘Milk?’ he asked over his shoulder.

She’d have to stay. There was no polite way out of it, and for all her faults she did try to be polite. ‘A little, please.’

He brought her a cup and saucer and then sat again, this time on a chair next to the sofa. He was coming closer, and she regarded him warily as one might an approaching shark. ‘I’m still willing to buy your necklace.’

She shook her head firmly. ‘No. No, I’ve changed my mind about selling it.’

And then he asked, completely unexpectedly, ‘You said it was a gift—who gave it to you?’

She shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about it. Doing so would only sadden her.

‘Who?’ he pressed her. ‘A beau?’

Hardly that. ‘My mother.’

He looked as if he wanted to ask another question, but he changed the subject at the last minute as if to spare her further discomfort.

‘I assume you’ve found employment, then.’

Had she told him she was looking for work? Yes, of course; he’d said she was too pretty—and even though she didn’t think he’d meant it, butterflies had started flapping their wings in her stomach. ‘Why?’

‘Because if you no longer want to sell your necklace, then that can only mean you’re less in need of money.’

‘Oh.’ She didn’t want to tell him about her many rejections. She sat forwards and placed her teacup on the table beside the sofa. ‘Well, I’ve met several people—’

‘And they’ve responded favourably? You’ve been offered a position?’

She shifted her weight, and the room descended into awkward silence. She looked at the wall. Why was he keeping her?

‘Then…perhaps you might help me,’ he said slowly.

She returned her gaze to him, warily this time. ‘How do you mean?’

He rose and walked back to his desk. He shuffled through some documents until he found what he wanted. A newspaper, folded open to one of the back pages. He handed it to her as he resumed his seat. She stared at it, not knowing what to think. All she saw was line after line of advertisements—for tutors, governesses, lady’s maids…

‘I advertised for a governess last week,’ he explained. ‘One of those listings is mine…somewhere in the middle column, I think. I’ve been interviewing candidates all morning. My footman assumed you were another one, and he told me as much when he announced you.’

She was so bewildered that all the words started swimming together, and she couldn’t tell which posting was his. She focused on his face instead. ‘Oh. No, that’s not why…You want a governess?’

‘Yes. Rather urgently.’

‘I see.’His words finally made sense. He wanted a governess, which meant he obviously had a child. Children, maybe, as well as a wife, since the two normally went together. The thought caused a sudden, dull pain in her chest. Just another reminder that she was well and truly on the shelf and that, in her current straits, she’d never get married and have a family of her own. It was foolish for her to feel any excitement when he looked at her with his green eyes. And why had he flirted with her if he was married? Perhaps it hadn’t been flirting; it wasn’t as if she was so accustomed to male attention that she’d necessarily know the difference.

‘I hope you found someone appropriate?’ she said neutrally.

‘Well, my cousin did most of the interviewing—left just a few minutes before you arrived. I’m afraid we’ve different ideas about what makes a person suitable. She supplied me with six terribly proper women of mature years. They were nothing like you.’

She flushed with anger. ‘I’ve been reminded of my shortcomings all week. You needn’t remind me, as well.’

He frowned slightly. ‘I didn’t say you had any. The women were ghastly, and the post is still open. Just thought perhaps you might also want to apply for it, while you’re here. It wouldn’t be any trouble.’

Work for him? She couldn’t think of anything worse. She could barely look at him without her knees turning to porridge. ‘I’m not qualified.’

He sighed patiently. ‘Right. Well, for the future that’s probably not the best way to begin. Have you introduced yourself like that to everyone you’ve met?’

‘No. I should have, though, for it would have saved a lot of time. Additionally, I’ve no references.’

He leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. She suspected he was laughing at her silently. ‘None? And you expected someone to hire you?’

She rose. ‘I think our interview is over.’

‘Sit down, Miss Thomas,’he ordered, rising himself. His voice was firm, and he looked prepared to pick her up and toss her back on to the sofa if she didn’t obey him.

So she sat. He might be warm and kind most of the time, but she still didn’t want to test the limits of his generosity.

He didn’t return to his seat. He crossed the room again to deposit his teacup on the side table. ‘What you ought to be doing is drawing attention to your strong suits. For example, you’re honest.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘I know that you returned my watch. Still short sixpence—’

She reddened defensively. ‘I forgot about the sixpence. Do add absentmindedness to the list.’

‘—but you’ve a sense of humor. You’re attractive, too—some might see that as a drawback in a governess, but I for one see it only as an advantage.’ He turned around as he spoke, and she was reminded once more of how very attractive he was. But he must be teasing her. She didn’t think she was very pretty—how could he?

She wouldn’t let him fluster her. ‘Surely my education is more important.’

He sat again, not looking terribly interested in her education. ‘I was getting to that. What languages do you know?’

‘French and Latin, a bit of Greek and German.’

‘Far too many. How old are you?’

‘What?’

‘How old, Miss Thomas? I wouldn’t normally ask such a personal question, but it is relevant.’

She was touchy about her age. ‘I’m seven and twenty.’

He considered that for a moment. ‘Well, that’s a very sensible age. If you were a flighty nineteen-year-old I’d have to worry that you might elope with one of my footmen.’ He paused. ‘So why are you not married?’

Because she’d known very few men her age. Because she hadn’t had a mother to introduce her to new people and take her to parties—just a rather cerebral father who didn’t see the point of such trivial things. ‘I’ve been holding out for a duke.’

He burst out laughing.

‘Do I amuse you?’

He stopped, but he couldn’t get his grin in order. ‘Very much so, Miss Thomas.’

She rose and headed straight for the door. ‘I will not waste your time, nor do I wish you to waste mine.’

Unfortunately, he beat her to it, literally standing in front of the door to prevent her from leaving. He looked as if he were losing patience with her. ‘But I thought you wanted a job.’

She just raised her chin.

‘I’m offering you one, you know. It wouldn’t be too difficult. Mary’s twelve, so she’s fairly independent.You’d just have to spend a few hours doing lessons with her each day.’

Perfect, if only he wasn’t be part of the deal. ‘I imagine her mother would prefer to make these decisions.’

‘Her mother is dead.’

Isabelle’s irritation fizzled instantly, and she experienced a tinge of unwanted sympathy. He wasn’t married after all. A widower. It was rather sad, and even rather romantic.

Stop it, you fool, she ordered herself. Be sensible, like your father taught you.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, my lord. If you’ll step aside, then I will bid you good morning.’

He looked momentarily confused, but then it dawned on him what she’d meant. ‘It wasn’t my loss, Miss Thomas. Mary is my ward. She was left in my care when her father died three months ago. Her mother’s been dead for years.’

She took this in slowly. Not a widower. Not his child. She’d no reason to feel sorry for him. Instead, she felt suddenly defensive, as if he’d been misleading her. ‘It was brave of her father to entrust her to you.’

‘Then you agree I need your help?’

‘Help, yes, but not mine. I’ve no experience, and you’ve seen half-a-dozen competent governesses this morning alone. I suggest you hire one of them.’

‘But I prefer you.’

Strange sensations, making even her toes tingle. ‘I’ve already told you how I feel about your charity.’

‘I assure you, my motives are completely selfish. I did mention I was desperate? You wouldn’t have to work here for very long. I’ll soon start looking for a school to take her in the autumn, so I’d probably only require you for a matter of months.’

Ah—an escape route. ‘Months? But I need a permanent position. It will be better if I just keep looking.’ And keep getting rejected…

‘You won’t find one without experience.’

It was true, and she knew it. He’d persuade her if she didn’t leave soon. ‘I recognise that is a problem—’

‘Do you think I would simply leave you to wander the streets with no money?’ he asked, irritation entering his voice. ‘Do you know what happens to penniless young women with nowhere to go?’

‘I imagine many such women wander the streets without you noticing them.’

He couldn’t argue with that. She’d managed to fluster him, but not for long.

‘If you accept this position, Miss Thomas, I will give you a reference.’

‘For a summer’s work?’

‘It would be better than nothing.’

It would be. She realised that he would continue to obstruct the door until she agreed, so she returned to the sofa, feeling deflated.

She closed her eyes briefly and saw an image of Sebastian Cowes, who most likely knew where she was staying and had sent a man to follow her. Who she suspected had the most ignominious designs on her person and who would no doubt have her charged with debt if she didn’t give in. She didn’t know if the charges would hold, considering she hadn’t committed her father’s crimes, but they might if it could be proved she’d known about and benefited from them. And if not…well, no matter how badly her father had behaved, she didn’t want his reputation to suffer—as it surely would, if his secret was made public.

She thought also of her diminishing funds and of the long list of people who might one day realise what a fraud her father had been. Lord Lennox had returned to his desk, and she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She felt, instinctively, that he wouldn’t hurt her, and living in his house would at least offer her temporary protection. True, she half-suspected that he harboured dishonourable designs of his own, but she was fairly certain she was imagining most of it. He probably flirted with every woman he met.

As it turned out, when she reasoned his offer through, she had little choice but to accept. It was the best she could hope for. She couldn’t pretend that she was a sheltered young lady any more.

‘I will consider it.’

‘There’s nothing to consider,’ he said without looking up from the documents he was perusing. ‘I need an answer now. You can always leave if you find you don’t like working for me.’

‘I will…yes, I will do it.’

He met her gaze, and she found herself startled by the emerald intensity of his eyes. Greener than she’d seen them before, and mesmerising. It must be the light.

‘Then you can start tomorrow. I’ll expect you here at ten.’

And that was that. He rose to open the study door and she found herself floating into the hall, unmoored and uncertain.

He spoke to Rogers, the footman, who was waiting to open the front door. ‘Miss Thomas will return tomorrow morning. She is to be Mary’s governess.’

Rogers nodded impassively. She turned around, looking for Lord Lennox, but he’d already returned to the study.

So she faced instead the bright afternoon, thinking that only the devil could have eyes like that.

Chapter Five

All of Isabelle’s possessions fit snugly into her three bags. Lord Lennox had made no provision to help her transport her things, probably overlooking the fact that unlike him she didn’t have her own carriage. For the time being she carried only one bag, containing just enough clothes for the next few days. If she hadn’t been sacked by the end of the week, she would come back to collect the rest.

She opened the front door, but hesitated before stepping outside. Portentous grey clouds filled the sky, and the smooth paving stones were already lightly specked with rain. She turned her head and glanced behind her. The other two bags were neatly stowed beneath Miss Standish’s dust-free hall table; her umbrella was at the bottom of one. Which one, she’d no idea, and she’d no time to look.

She stepped out and debated not going at all as a raindrop gently hit her cheek. What would happen if she simply didn’t show up? Will didn’t know where she lived, and he’d have no way to find her. She’d been awake half the night wondering if she’d made the right decision. Had she made a decision? As was her lot these days, she’d never really had a choice to begin with, and she was starting to think that Will had behaved rather highhandedly.

These were just cavils, though. He’d offered to help her, and she’d never been more sorely in need. She descended the steps, telling herself that it wasn’t raining very hard and that the light shower would soon pass. The bag tugged heavily on her arm as she walked down the street, but she tried not to think about it. If she didn’t get lost, she would reach his house in less than half an hour.

‘Miss Thomas.’

She started at the familiar voice, but she quickly regained her composure. What was he doing there?

‘Mr Cowes. Good heavens, you frightened me.’

Sebastian Cowes smiled slightly. He was attractive enough, with light brown hair and eyes, but Isabelle thought there was something unpleasant about his appearance, something calculating and cold in his overly starched, elaborately arranged cravat. ‘I apologise, Miss Thomas. I’ve been waiting for you.’

‘You might have knocked on the door, then. It’s more respectable than lurking in bushes.’ She spoke sharply, but she immediately wished she could revoke her words. Obviously the reason he hadn’t gone to the door was that he wanted to find her alone, with no one to protect her, and it wouldn’t be wise to provoke him. Although he was just a fraction of an inch shorter that her, she wasn’t going to fool herself—in any physical struggle he’d easily be the victor.

She started walking again. He fell in next to her. She glanced at him sideways, wondering if he planned to lead her down a deserted street and force her into a carriage.

‘How did you find me?’ she asked.

‘Were you hiding?’

‘No, of course not,’ she said irritably. ‘But I don’t recall telling you where I was or inviting you to visit. Have you had me followed?’

‘Your housekeeper told me where to find you. She must not have known it was a secret.’

‘It isn’t,’ Isabelle said, wishing again she hadn’t given Mrs Vincent the boarding house’s address.

‘Not any more, at least.’

She flushed with anger. She’d always been intimidated by him, by his wealth, and power and handsome face. But she felt less impressed now. Compared to Lord Lennox, Mr Cowes seemed completely second-rate.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked, gaining confidence.

He put his hands nonchalantly in his pockets. ‘I was worried when you disappeared so suddenly—visited your house one day and found it occupied by perfect strangers.’

‘Yes, I sold it to pay you. And I did pay you.’

‘Not in full. You do realise that if you fail to uphold your side of our agreement, then I’ll have to approach the authorities.’

‘I’d hardly call blackmail an agreement.’

‘You’ve paid me only half of what you owe me, and you seem dangerously close to breaking your word. Since you’ve nothing left to sell, I can’t fathom how you’ll acquire the other half.’

‘I’ll use my imagination,’ she said sarcastically.

‘Even your imagination can’t be that good,’ he said, pausing to look at her face. ‘But then, perhaps you do have something to sell?’

She was going to ignore that insinuating remark. He was too insignificant to fluster her. She could handle him.

She could.

She just wished her audible voice sounded as robust as the one in her head. Instead it quivered slightly. ‘I…I did not come to London to hide from you as you suggest, you know.’

He looked amused. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I knew I needed further funds, so I came to find employment.’ Feeling surer, she added, ‘And I have.’ As she spoke, she was eternally grateful that she’d accepted Will’s offer.

‘You’ll be that well paid, will you? And what is it you’re doing?’

‘It is none of your affair.’

‘I can think of only one position in which a woman could earn enough. Shall I tell you what it is?’ He leaned in closer as he spoke, grabbing her tightly by the arm. Her stomach listed dangerously, and she thought she might be sick. This was the bit where he pushed her in a waiting carriage. Why had she been so impertinent?

‘Do you not want to know?’ he asked.

She shook her head. Softly, she pleaded, ‘Let me go. I will be late.’

He released her. She was so surprised that for two seconds she just stood there, waiting for him to grab her again. But he didn’t.

She took two steps backwards without taking her eyes from his face before turning to run. She didn’t care if she drew attention to herself, and she didn’t stop until she reached the end of the road. At the corner she paused, to see if he had followed, but he still stood where she’d left him, watching her smugly. She kept running.

Even though Isabelle had been to Will’s house once before, she still managed to lose her way. It didn’t help that she’d gone down an unfamiliar road in order to distance herself from Sebastian Cowes. Only after winding down a series of unfamiliar streets had she regained her bearings.

Then it began to rain in earnest.

She was sponge-wet when she finally reached the house, her hair dripping at the ends and her shoes squelching with every step she took.

She was also almost an hour late.

She knocked, consoling herself with the fact that at least her day couldn’t get much worse. Rogers, the footman, opened the door, looking annoyed with her yet again. ‘We were expecting you at ten, Miss Thomas.’

Oh, what an awful way to begin. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Haven’t you an umbrella?’

It was a stupid question, with an answer so obvious she didn’t bother to reply. She stepped inside, trailing water behind her. She dropped her bag on the polished marble floor. ‘I accidentally went down the wrong road. I got lost.’

He harrumphed. ‘His lordship wished to see you when you arrived.’ He walked to the study door and knocked, looking over his shoulder at her as he did so. ‘Do not move, Miss Thomas. You are dripping.’

A few seconds later, Will emerged from the study. If it were possible, he looked even more handsome today. His attire possessed none of the fussiness of Mr Cowes’s ludicrous cravat—his own was simply tied, and his jacket and breeches were again a sober blue and buff. Normally, the austerity of his dress was tempered by the playful spark in his eyes, but today he seemed merely irritated.

That is, until he looked at her. Then he just seemed confused. ‘Good God, did you swim here?’

She glared at him. She knew she was late and that she’d annoyed him, but she didn’t want to be the butt of his sarcasm. ‘You may have noticed the rain.’

‘It didn’t rain that hard here.’He turned to Rogers. ‘Tell Mrs Wright to come.’ And, to Isabelle as the footman walked off, ‘I have rather a busy morning.’

He still sounded peeved, and an awful sense of dread settled around her shoulders. Would she ever learn to control her temper and hold her tongue? For all that she might have protested yesterday, she truly needed this position—particularly in light of what had just happened. At least she’d be safe in his house.

Some humility was in order. ‘I am sorry. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.’

He sighed and actually sounded a bit contrite. ‘No, no, I’m sorry. It’s obviously been something of an ordeal getting here this morning. Uh…perhaps you should…’ He held out his handkerchief.

She took it gratefully. A mirror hung on the wall a few paces away and she walked towards it, dabbing her face. But the reflection she saw…heavens, for the first time she realised just how dishevelled she looked. Positively amphibious. Her cheeks were flushed and most of her hair had slipped from her chignon to hang wetly around her shoulders. She immediately began smoothing it back, but then she noticed her dress. Thick, chaste cotton most of the time, but right now it clung to her in a positively…

‘Oh, dear.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Even though he’d apologised for his abruptness, his voice sounded gruff and irritable.

She raised her gaze from her suddenly conspicuous breasts and realised that he was watching her in the mirror. She turned around immediately, slouching her shoulders forwards in an attempt at modesty. ‘Nothing.’

His gaze lingered on her face for just a second longer than was proper, but before she had a chance to turn an even more intense red, a matronly, middle-aged woman walked purposefully into the hall.

He dragged his attention away from Isabelle and cleared his throat. ‘Ah, Mrs Wright. This is Miss Thomas.’

The woman—obviously his housekeeper—smiled warmly, her manners too good to reveal any surprise at her appearance.

He turned to Isabelle, assiduously keeping his gaze above her neck. ‘I thought Mrs Wright could show you around the house this morning. Perhaps you would prefer to…uh, go to your room directly to change?’

She nodded silently, and with a nod of his own, directed at both her and Mrs Wright, he returned to his study.

‘Well, then,’the housekeeper said cheerily, clapping her hands together, ‘shall we begin?’

Before setting off, Isabelle restored her modesty by fishing a shawl from her bag and wrapping it around her shoulders.

‘You poor duck. I’ll lead you straight to your room, although I think we can see most of the house on the way.’

Isabelle followed her up the staircase to the first floor, feeling rather awed by the woman’s efficiency. She talked practically non-stop as they walked, and Isabelle hoped she might be an ally. She’d obviously already offended the footman.

‘I’m afraid most of the rooms on this floor are formal and won’t pertain to your duties,’ Mrs Wright was saying. She opened one half of a pair of massive, mahogany doors. ‘Here is the ballroom. Rather nice, don’t you think?’

Nice? It was the largest room Isabelle had ever seen, not that she had much to compare it to. The parquet floors gleamed, uncluttered by furniture except for a long suite of damask-covered chairs that lined the walls and four carved mahogany side tables. Tall windows, framed by red velvet, tasselled curtains, filled the room with light, making it bright even on a cloudy day. And beyond the windows, gardens—gardens of a size she hadn’t realised existed in London. It was like a palace.

She couldn’t help smiling. ‘Yes. Rather nice.’

Mrs Wright had apparently grown jaded by this level of opulence and didn’t waste any time gawping. She walked briskly across the room, and Isabelle struggled to keep up. At the other side, she opened another door, leading them into a dim corridor.

‘This is a servants’ passage. It connects most of the principal rooms. This door here…’ she paused to rap on it gently ‘…leads to steps that will take you all the way downstairs to the kitchen. Mrs Graham is the cook. She doesn’t like anyone to take food from the kitchen between meals, and I’d advise you not to get in her way.’ She laughed, but Isabelle didn’t find the prospect of a truculent cook amusing. They kept walking.

Mrs Wright pointed out the door that led to the dining room as they passed, but she didn’t bother opening it. At the end of the passage, they came to a set of stairs. Standing beneath the staircase, Isabelle looked up, feeling dizzy. They appeared to spiral up for another two storeys.

‘These will take you to your bedroom. There’s another set of servants’ stairs on the north side of the house, and you should try to use them unless you’re accompanying Miss Weston-Burke—you’re not as low as a scullery maid, my dear, but still it’s best to keep out of sight. And you should use the servants’ entrance in the future, as well. I will give you a key.’ Isabelle blushed—she’d already used the front door twice. Had that been wrong? She wasn’t used to thinking like a servant.

Mrs Wright mounted the steps and Isabelle followed behind her, forcing herself not to look down or think too hard about how securely the stairs were attached to the wall. They stopped at the second floor, and Mrs Wright opened a door. It led into a small vestibule containing a walnut armchair and a tall, Chinese vase. A fat tabby cat slept peacefully on the chair. The tip of one of his ears appeared to have been torn, and his tail trailed down crookedly, as if it had been broken at some point.

‘I won’t bother showing you this floor since you’ll never need anything on it. His lordship’s rooms are at the far end, and all the other rooms are vacant bedrooms. And that fine creature,’ she added, motioning towards the cat, ‘is your other charge.’

The cat yawned and stretched.

Isabelle stared at it. ‘My other charge?’

‘Yes, and he’s very demanding. He’s called Tobias the Third, and you mustn’t be too kind to the scoundrel. He followed his lordship home one afternoon about two years ago, and his lordship made the mistake of feeding him and letting him inside. We’ve been trying to evict him ever since…he’s supposed to stay in the kitchen, but Mrs Graham’s terrified of cats and keeps letting him out. Silly woman always pretends it’s an accident.’

‘Why is he the third?’

‘Tobias the First died three years ago. The Second lives in his lordship’s country house in Norfolk. He’s a talent for taking in strays—an honourable quality, I suppose, but I told him I’d leave the minute Tobias the Fourth appeared nonetheless. Not one yet has been a good mouser, so they’re no use to me. Come along.’

They returned to the dark staircase and walked up one more flight. Mrs Wright was short of breath when they reached the top.

‘The rest of the servants reside in the north wing, but you’ll sleep on this floor, amongst the children’s bedrooms. Ceilings are still quite high.’ Isabelle followed her down the corridor. ‘The nursery is the fifth door on the right. This room is yours.’

Isabelle peeked inside. She was pleasantly surprised, as she had been by every aspect of the house. Being a governess, she could enjoy a position better than a servant’s, but still a long way from being a guest or a family member. Yet even though her room was not on one of the principal floors, its ceiling was embellished with a simple cornice and a central rosette. The walls were painted a buttery yellow, making the room warm, bright and cheerful—not grand like the rooms she’d already seen, but by any other standard quite impressive.

She couldn’t believe her luck. ‘It’s perfect. Thank you for showing me.’

Mrs Wright nodded. ‘T’isn’t any trouble. You may also use the small bedroom next door as a sitting room if you like, as no one else will if you don’t. The house is one of the largest in London, and it was never intended to be so empty. These rooms should be full of children, but his lordship is in no hurry to marry.’

Don’t look too interested. ‘No?’

‘No—women have thrown themselves at him since he was a lad, and I suppose he’s never seen the sense in limiting himself to one woman for the rest of his life. But he will marry some day soon, I’m sure. He understands his duty.’

Isabelle frowned slightly, but she didn’t know why exactly.

‘You’ll find Miss Weston-Burke in the nursery.’

‘Can you tell me anything about her?’ Isabelle asked as Mrs Wright turned to leave.

She paused in the doorway, frowning. ‘She’s been here for less than a fortnight, and she’s kept mostly to herself.’

‘What sort of things does she like to do?’

The housekeeper shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. Don’t know if she likes to do anything at all.’

That was a queer thing to say. ‘What do you mean?’

‘From what I’ve gathered, mischief and mayhem are her only pursuits. According to her school report, which I took the liberty of reading as his lordship left it open on his desk, she’s the most sullen and disobedient girl they’d known in a decade. They sent her away, you know. That’s why he hired you.’

‘Oh?’ Lord Lennox had failed to mention that.

‘Indeed,’ Mrs Wright said with a smile. A rather knowing smile, Isabelle thought, as the older woman sailed away, humming.

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