Only one person in the group of eight showed any evidence of sorrow. Isabella Leslie stood in a corner, softly sobbing, a handkerchief to her eyes. Her grandfather had been her entire life, the center of her world, the most kind and indulgent friend and parent.

And now he was gone and she was alone.

His illness had been long and lingering. She'd thought she'd had time to say her good-byes, to reconcile herself to life without him. But the immensity of her sadness was threatening to overwhelm her. She scarcely heard the lawyer's words as he read her grandfather's will. Until a stark and utter silence struck her senses and she looked up to see every eye in the room trained on her.

"Your grandfather left you sole heir, my dear," old Mr. Lampert quietly said.

"As if she didn't know," her aunt snapped. "He could have had the decency to leave us small portions at least, the dotty old coot."

"Mr. Leslie's wishes were quite plain," the lawyer replied, "and his mind was clear. He spoke to me only yesterday, reminding me of my duty to Isabella."

"For a tidy sum, I don't doubt, you'll see to her care," her uncle growled.

"My fees were paid long ago by Mr. Leslie. Isabella owes me nothing."

"Then we won't require your presence any longer, Lampert," Isabella's eldest cousin curtly said, his corpulent body quivering with rage. "Get out."

"Harold!" Isabella softly exclaimed, shocked at the discourtesy.

"Get out, Lampert, or I'll throw you out," her cousin barked, ignoring Isabella's outcry. He moved with ominous intent toward the frail, elderly man who after casting a distraught glance at Isabella scrambled from his chair and backed toward the door. Greatly outnumbered, physically threatened, he stammered, "Forgive me, Miss Leslie," and escaped the room.

"Wretched little man," her uncle muttered, walking to the desk and picking up the pages of the will in his beefy hand. Crumbling them into a ball, he tossed them into the fireplace flames. "So much for Uncle George's will." Turning to his wife, he held out his hand. "Give me the marriage license." As she unfastened her reticule, he nodded in the direction of the clergyman who had conferred last rites on George Leslie. "Keep the ceremony short, if you please. I've wasted enough time cooling my heels in this house, waiting for that old codger to die. Harold, get over here."

Isabella's heart had begun beating furiously as she listened to her uncle give orders, and the sly glances she was receiving from her relatives did nothing to soothe her fears. She knew how they felt about her, and while she'd not expected congratulations from them for her inheritance, she'd not considered them dangerous. "If you'll excuse me," she quietly said, wishing to remove herself from the ominous situation, "it's been a fatiguing week." She began walking toward the door.

"Stay where you are," her uncle murmured, his tone acid with dislike. "We're not done with you yet."

"You can't order me about." She kept her voice firm with effort. Suddenly in the midst of enemies, her heart was beating furiously.

"Now, that's where you're wrong, my dear."

The menace in his voice wrapped around her like icy fingers, the wicked gleam in his eye mirrored in the others watching her. "Uncle Herbert, consider-this is my home now, I'm of legal age, as you're well aware, and you have no control over my life."

"As soon as you're married to Harold, he'll have control of your life. As God intended when he made women subservient to men."

"Married!" She turned ashen for only a moment before her cheeks flushed a blazing red. "You must be mad! My cousin Harold suits me not at all"-her voice rose as she surveyed the fleshy, overdressed man who fancied himself a dandy-"and if I should chose to marry, your son certainly wouldn't be a candidate."

"She's saying our Harold isn't good enough for her! Herbert, how dare she, when everyone knows her mother-well, it can't be mentioned, of course, in polite company. Now, you just listen to me, my high-flown missy," Abigail Leslie cried, shaking her thin finger at Isabella, "you should be honored Harold is willing to take you as his wife. He could have any number of wellborn ladies."

"Then he should marry them!" Isabella always bristled at allusions to her mother's unconventional background, as if sailing a ship around the world detracted from one's quarterings. Her mother had bluer blood than any of these bourgeois bankers.

"Mr. Leslie, sir, you said the young lady was amenable to the hasty marriage." The minister abruptly rose from his chair, an expression of consternation on his face.

At the interruption, Isabella quickly glanced around the room, looking for a ready exit should her uncle truly intend to force this farcical marriage. The doorway to the hall was blocked by numerous stolid bodies-Harold's fat form among them. But the windows facing the street opened on a small balcony only a few feet above the sidewalk. Her cousins Amelia and Caroline, seated before the windows, weren't likely to be formidable obstacles. Only capable of squealing or giggling, neither would raise a finger to stop her, and with their rotund bodies balanced precariously on Grandpapa's small Renaissance hassocks, she could easily bowl them over.

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

"You don't really think I'm going to allow myself to be married off to Harold, do you?" she hotly inquired. "I'll gag and tie you if necessary." "Such a marriage would never stand in court." "We have sufficient witnesses to testify to your willingness," her uncle silkily said. "And we're all going to see that you're properly wedded and bedded this night." He surveyed the various relatives with a fierce gaze, as though reminding them of their duty. "You'll be married right and tight," he went on, smiling at her with a well-pleased complacency, "and the money will be kept in the family, as is only proper."

All the tears and sorrow she'd been experiencing only moments before were burned away by a rage so towering, she silently swore she'd see them all in hell before she married fat Harold. She was already running before her uncle had finished speaking, and the Misses Amelia and Caroline were dumped on the floor a second later with two hard shoves. Racing between the tumbled hassocks and flailing arms and legs, she jerked the drapes aside, wrenched the window open, and leaped through it onto the balcony. The cold rain struck her like a blow, but there wasn't time to completely register the wet and chill. Throwing a leg over the wrought iron railing, she pulled herself up and over and dropped to the walk below in a splash of muddy water. Her silk gown was already drenched, her stained skirts catching on her legs as she ran full out down the street.

The shouts and cries behind her only added to her speed, and when she reached the corner, she careened right, hoping to gain shadowed refuge in the tall oaks of St. James's Square. Moments later, panting, she slumped against the wet bark, trying to draw in much-needed air to her lungs.

Her gaze was trained on the corner.

If they turned left, she was safe.

Harold was first under the streetlamp in the intersection, followed shortly by his portly relatives-father, uncle, and two cousins. They apparently couldn't agree on a course, their raised voices echoing down the street, indecision in their milling forms. Then Harold seemed to point directly at her, although he couldn't possibly see her in the murky darkness of her surroundings.

Nevertheless, terror washed over her and, turning, she ran down King Street without waiting for further confirmation of their possible route.

Unable to avoid the light on the next corner, her saffron gown glowed in the night like a beacon as she sped past.

Immediately a hue and cry rose behind her, and she knew she'd been sighted.

A half block later, she turned again, then again in another block, hoping to evade her pursuers in the narrow lanes, and when she spied the flaming torches illuminating a fine-porticoed entrance, she raced down the wet cobblestones and banged on the blue door with both fists.

The portal abruptly opened before her, and she stumbled into an elegant foyer lit by a Venetian chandelier of such vast proportions, she wondered if she'd entered some hidden palace. Quickly surveying her surroundings, she took note of gleaming white marble and elaborate gilding, elegant paintings and plush carpets, and a majordomo so enormous and tall, she had to tip her head upward to see his face.

"May I be of some help?"

His calmness seemed to descend on her, and she could almost feel a lessening of her fear. "Forgive me for… barging in, but… someone was pursuing me." Her heart was pounding, her words broken by gasps. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to compose herself, hoping he wouldn't consider her some demented female and put her out in the street again. "If I might see… your master or mistress, I could explain…"

"Of course. Please, let me show you into the small drawing room." With a wave of his hand he indicated a highly polished door. "I'll have some towels brought to you," he politely went on as though soaking-wet women being chased in the night wasn't out of the ordinary. Opening the door, he ushered her into a candlelit room decorated with painted panels of colorful birds and foliage and quietly closed the door behind her.

The towels arrived quickly in the arms of a servant girl, and by the time the majordomo returned, Isabella was marginally dry. Her pale hair tumbled onto her shoulders in damp ringlets, and her gown, while soiled at the hemline, had been sponged to a semblance of presentable.