She could hear his footsteps pounding behind her, and grateful for her low-heeled slippers, and propelled by terror, she flew down the corridor, her scream rising to the low-hung ceiling and ricocheting back, the fearful sound filling the narrow corridor.

If he thought to capture her, she wasn't going to make it easy, she decided, raising her voice in a shrieking crescendo.

Isabella had no illusions about men like Lonsdale, who needed money to survive. She just hadn't thought he'd be so precipitous or blunt in his offensive. Naive her. And then she heard her uncle's voice shouting behind her, and a chill stabbed through her heart.

"Catch the strumpet! She stole my purse! The trollop stole my purse!"

The outside door was only feet away, and if ever she needed incentive to save herself, her uncle's voice served that purpose. Lifting up her skirts, she sprinted through the door, veered to the right, and flew down the street, crying for help.

This wasn't the time for politesse or manners. She quickly scanned the shocked faces of the people past whom she raced, debating whether any would help her, trying to gauge those most likely to lend her aid.

But her pursuers were calling her thief in loud accents as they chased her down the street, and she wasn't sure she'd have time to explain her situation to any passerby before Lonsdale and her uncle carted her off.

And with her uncle involved, she understood the nature of her fate.

Spying a village church in the distance, she sheered to the left and leaped out onto the street, wanting to make herself as visible as possible in the center of the road, hoping to gain the sanctuary of the church. Not that any ethical considerations would deter either Lonsdale or her uncle, but with luck the minister might be inside.

Surely a man of God would take time to listen to her.

She was midway to her destination, her throat parched from screaming, her breath coming in great gasps, her lungs burning, when a yellow phaeton came racing down the road.

She frantically waved her arms, but the vehicle didn't slow and, terror-stricken, she watched it hurtle toward her. Thinking her life was surely over, she jumped to one side just as the galloping horses were pulled up in a rearing, plunging stop. A cloud of dust rose up around her, the squeal of horses, male curses, a woman's voice, a child's, resounding through the haze.

And as she stood quaking from her near-death experience, a tall, shadowy outline of a man loomed through the dusky murk, the figure emerging with full clarity a second later.

"What the hell do you think you're-" Dermott's words died away.

"It's my uncle," Isabella blurted out, relief pouring over her. "They're right behind me."

"Get in the carriage," Dermott ordered, and raced away.

The dust had begun to settle enough for Isabella to distinguish the outlines of the phaeton. When she reached the side of the vehicle, she found a woman and young boy gazing down at her.

"I'm so pleased you're not hurt," the woman said with feeling.

"Dermott… that is-he said I should… join you." Embarrassed at the situation, nonetheless, Isabella needed Dermott's protection.

"Of course. Tommy, come sit on my lap." The woman helped her son onto her lap as she moved over. And once Isabella was seated, she introduced herself. "I'm Helene Kristos, and this is my son, Tommy. Say hello to the lady, dear."

"We almost wun wight over you!" the young boy exclaimed, his dark eyes bright with excitement.

"I know. Thank heaven the horses stopped in time."

The dark-haired young boy who bore a disturbing likeness to Dermott grinned. "Dermott holler loud."

"I shouldn't have been in the middle of the road, but-" Isabella didn't care to elaborate on the complicated story. "By the way, I'm Isabella Leslie," she added, smiling at the mother and child, thinking how beautiful Dermott's lover was, small, exquisite with enormous dark eyes, Gypsy eyes. A rush of sadness overwhelmed her.

"You're Dermott's friend," Helene noted, smiling back. "He's talked of you."

"He has?" Even while she understood how unrealistic her expectations, her heart leaped with hope.

"Incessantly. Tell her, Tommy. Who has Dermott been talking about?"

"Hith horthes."

"And what lady?"

"Bad wady."

Helene laughed. "No, no, not her. The one who has hair of gold and a smile like-"

"A pwinthess?"

"That's the one."

"Is-bella." He stumbled over the pronunciation.

"Really?" Suddenly Lonsdale and her uncle, her recent terror, pragmatic considerations, dropped away before the joyful onslaught.

"They're gone. Lonsdale's phaeton's gone." Dermott's voice was gruff as he strode toward the carriage. "Not a sign of the bastards anywhere." Swinging up into the driver's seat, he glared at Isabella. "What the hell did you think you were doing, coming this far with bloody Lonsdale."

"Dermott," Helene chided.

"Forgive me, Helene," he said with a strained courtesy. "But this isn't any of your business. Answer me, dammit." He gazed at Isabella with fury in his eyes.

"I thought we were going for a ride in the country. I thought we were stopping for a lemonade. And while I thank you profusely for saving me, I don't think that gives you any right to become a tyrant."

"Lonsdale's a blackguard."

"He's accepted everywhere in society."

"I'm not arguing about this. You shouldn't have gone out with him."

"I appreciate your advice," Isabella tersely replied.

"Damn right you'd better."

Even little Tommy recognized the anger in Dermott's tone, and he stared at him wide-eyed; he'd never heard Dermott speak in such a voice.

"I'll drive you back to the City." It wasn't a statement; it was an order, curt and chill, uncompromising.

"Thank you very much," Isabella tautly said. She had no choice, and they both knew it.

The drive to Helene's cottage passed in silence, even Tommy's normal loquaciousness curtailed by the look on Dermott's face. After he helped Helene and Tommy down and spoke briefly to them, Dermott returned to the carriage and without comment snapped the reins. The horses jumped off.

Grim-faced on their journey back to London, he didn't speak.

After several tense miles, Isabella finally said, "I do thank you, Dermott. Very much. You must know how grateful I am."

"When I think of what Lonsdale might have done," he murmured, his jaw clenching in anger, the tick evident as she gazed up at him.

"Helene is very lovely. And Tommy is darling." They both had their jealousies.

"Don't change the subject."

"You're old friends, I understand."

He turned to her, a modicum of shock in his gaze. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I understand how you feel about Lonsdale."

"How can you possibly know how I feel about Lonsdale?"

"Because you've been berating me since you first saw me."

"You did a stupid thing."

"I don't see how it concerns you."

"You don't?"

"No. Tell me."

He chewed on his lip for a moment and then turned his attention to the road.

She wanted him to say he cared; she wanted him to admit to jealousy. She wanted what she couldn't have, she quickly realized, for when he looked back at her, his gaze was shuttered. "I wouldn't suggest you take long drives with anyone. Lonsdale is one of the less scrupulous, but any of your admirers might be interested in compromising you. For your money. Just a word of advice."

"Thank you. I'll keep it in mind. Now tell me about Helene."

"There's nothing to tell. When her husband died, she needed help and I helped her. I like Tommy, so I spend some time with them occasionally."

"You're not lovers?"

"I don't see that it's any of your business."

"You are lovers."

"Does it matter?"

"Not on any practical level."

"Good."

He was silent for the rest of the journey, and she didn't have the heart to talk. Not after such a deliberate indication of his feelings on independence. It was clear he wasn't interested in a relationship other than on his terms. Which meant a casual sexual liaison without strings or attachment.

And she'd die of sadness, sharing him with a host of other women.


He escorted her into the house and spoke to Molly as though she weren't present, as though she were a young child who needed a strong hand and stronger discipline. And when he left, he barely took leave of Isabella. He only nodded.


"I'm so sorry you had to be terrorized by Lonsdale " Molly commiserated, helping Isabella off with her jacket. "I blame myself for letting you go."

"No one's to blame but Lonsdale and my relatives. Damn them all." Isabella paced to the windows of the small back parlor where Molly had been eating an early supper. "They won't give up."

"Could you have them arrested?"

"Not likely." Isabella gazed out on the pristine green of the small lawn. "It's my word against theirs, and I'm considerably outnumbered."

"Then, I'm going to insist you have a bodyguard. If you had taken one with you today, none of this would have happened."

Isabella turned back to her friend. "I didn't think I'd ever say this, but you're right. Regardless of the lack of privacy, I don't dare be out alone."

"I know the perfect man. Joe Thurlow has given up the fight game. His best friend was killed in a match last year, and he lost all interest in the sport. He works for me from time to time. I know he's available."

Isabella came to sit down at the table with Molly. "Another thing." A small frown creased her brow. "Would you mind terribly," she slowly said, conscious she might be causing hurt, "that is-would it matter to you if I decided to retreat from society?"