Visibly shaking, she held the letter for a few moments, terrified of its contents, fearful it was news of Dermott's death, not sure it wasn't easier not knowing. But she had to read it, she knew, so offering up a prayer of hope, she eased the seal apart, spread the sheet of paper open, and swiftly perused the brief sentences for the word "death."

None.

Inhaling with relief, she then began to read from the beginning.


Dear Miss Leslie,

Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I wanted to inform you of my son's feelings for you. As you may know, he's been severely wounded [Isabella's heart caught for a moment before the next phrase came into focus] but is now recovering at our home on the Isle of Wight. He feels you may harbor ill will toward him, and I'm very much hoping you don't. He's a good boy who's suffered a great sadness in his past. If you didn't know of this suffering, I was hoping that knowledge might excuse some of his conduct. He tells me his behavior has been less than chivalrous. Do come and see us. I'd very much like to meet the woman Dermott loves.


She'd signed her Christian name as though they were already friends.

Isabella gently traced the word love with her fingertip, happiness flooding her senses. He was alive! And blissfully, he loved her!

Every tear she'd shed in the past weeks was suddenly irrelevant, all her misgivings and uncertainties, her anger and resentment, wiped away by a single word. Paradise was hers, the entire world was hers, never had the sun shone so gloriously, nor the air felt so pure. Carefully folding the precious letter and placing it in her reticule, she ran from her suite and raced down the stairs, screaming for Joe.

Waiting with her phaeton in the drive, he accepted her joyful news with good grace, careful to mask his feelings, well aware of where her heart lay. And when Isabella said "I want to leave immediately," he only asked where.

"To the Isle of Wight. We'll have a change of clothes packed for us. I'd like to leave in ten minutes," she added, intent on departing with all haste.

Joe only insisted that Mike accompany them, and within the allotted time they were on the road south, carrying only light baggage. And early the next morning, after a long, grueling night on the road, just as the sun began to rise, they came to the ferry that would take them to the island.

They found Dermott's house closed except for a small staff of retainers, and Isabella's spirits, sustained at soaring levels during their journey south, abruptly plummeted.

"I'm sorry, miss, but his lordship went up to London and the countess be at Alworth," the housekeeper informed her, taking in the dust-covered state of the visitors' clothing. "If you'd care to clean up, miss, you're most welcome, considering the countess called you here."

"I must have misunderstood," Isabella said, flushed with embarrassment, thinking herself the world's biggest fool for hying south on the merest insinuation Dermott might care. "And thank you, but we have rooms on the mainland," she fabricated, not about to leave herself open to further embarrassment. What if Dermott were to return and find her there? Whatever his mother's motives, apparently he hadn't been informed. And if he were in London, no doubt his health was sufficiently restored that he was back in his old haunts. Having renewed hopes after the countess's letter that her love was returned, the pain of rejection was now doubly hurtful. And Isabella suppressed her tears only with supreme effort.

Joe and Mike were politely silent as they returned to the ferry, but they knew she felt as jilted as though she'd been left at the altar.


Dermott had spent the night in Higham at the King's Arms, having arrived in the area too late to make a social call. He'd barely slept, and by four, he'd given up even trying. Rising, he dressed himself, not wishing to wake Charles so early, and descending to the public rooms downstairs, he surprised the scullery maids who were just lighting the kitchen fires. Asking for coffee, he sat down in the kitchen and waited, making them extremely nervous. Although, as it turned out, he made the coffee himself. Neither of the young girls was familiar with more than her menial chores, while he'd made many a pot of coffee while out on campaign.

He was just pouring himself a steaming cup of fresh brew, when the cook came bustling out of her parlor, having quickly dressed when one of the maids came to warn her that a fine lord was making coffee in her kitchen.

"Good morning, sir," she said, sweeping a hand over her disordered hair. "Would you like something more with your coffee?"

"If it's not too much bother." Dermott couldn't possibly call at Tavora House at four-thirty in the morning, so he might as well eat. A bit of fortification for the coming ordeal probably wouldn't be out of order.

"Are you here for the races?" the cook inquired as she set about her cooking.

"Actually, no. I'm visiting."

"You have friends in the neighborhood?"

"Yes."

"Where might that be?" Mrs. Notkins wasn't known as the most knowledgeable gossip in Higham without reason. She stood looking at him in expectation of an answer.

Amused at her catechism, he debated briefly whether his visit required secrecy. And deciding it didn't, he said, "Tavora House."

"Ah. The beautiful Miss Leslie. Such a shame about her poor dear grandfather, but she seems to have company now in her sorrow. A bodyguard," she reported in a confidential whisper. "Some says it's her relatives she fears. You're not one of them, are you?" Mouth pursed, she studied him and then shook her head. "You don't favor them Leslie men at all. Fat, every one of them, and no one can accuse you o' that."

"She's often with her bodyguard?" The hair on the back of his neck had risen like hackles.

"Of course. Why wouldn't she be? He's there to guard her, and that he does, right and tight. It's her money, you know," she added in the same conspiratorial whisper. "Them Leslies want it."

And by the time his breakfast had been prepared, he was completely informed of the activities at Tavora House during Miss Leslie's residence. Mrs. Notkins had a number of relatives on the staff there. Her extended family, native to the area since before the Conquest, she proudly explained, also included several local tradesmen, who added considerably to her knowledge of Miss Leslie's activities in Higham. In fact, her niece, who owned the milliner's shop on High Street, was expecting Miss Leslie later that morning for a bonnet fitting.

"So you might as well wait until she comes into town. That way you won't meet her on the road. Both herself and that there bodyguard of hers drive at a right fine clip-dangerous, some say. Wouldn't want you to have no accident coming around a curve on that narrow road."

Whether it was the coffee or the information dispensed, by the time he'd finished breakfast, Dermott found himself thoroughly discomposed and agitated. Leaving the King's Arms, he followed Mrs. Notkins's directions and walked down High Street to Miss Armistead's millinery shop. Staring into the window at the bonnets covered with muslin for the night, he wondered what Isabella was doing just then.

Was she just waking up beside Joe? Was it possible? Had he come so far both in terms of understanding and distance, only to find that Isabella had forgotten him and moved on to another man? Had he waited too long to recognize his heart? He turned from the shrouded display, from the shop, and walked away, plagued by jealousy and doubts.

Lost in his disconcerting thoughts, he walked the town with unseeing eyes, trying to reconcile the events described to him by the cook at the King's Arms with his own hopes and dreams. Wandering from street to street, he reflected on the possibilities open to him, on the course he should pursue in the wake of the new information he'd received.

Not least was concern for his mother. How would she deal with his return should he be unsuccessful in his suit? Would such a setback to her wishes harm the new equilibrium of her life?

He was personally capable of managing emotional pain. Hadn't he perfected the art in recent years? But he couldn't but be aware of the irony of his present situation, after having refused so many females. Perhaps Isabella would take pleasure in rejecting him. Would she even talk to him? he wondered. Or was she so involved with Joe Thurlow, she couldn't be bothered seeing him?

In time he became aware of the bustle of businesses opening their doors and shutters and setting up for another day of commerce. Checking his watch, he retraced his steps to the millinery shop on High Street, took up a vantage post across the street, and waited.

By ten, when she'd not arrived, he questioned the proprietress and was assured Isabella was expected.

By eleven, Miss Armistead thought perhaps Miss Leslie had had a change in plans.

By twelve, Dermott agreed and drove out to Tavora House to find her.


Miss Leslie had left that morning with Joe and Mike, he was told. But Henderson would reveal little else to the man who called himself Lord Bathurst. Whether it was because the entire household knew of the lordship's ill treatment of Isabella or whether Henderson questioned Dermott's identity after Joe's orders to treat all strangers with suspicion, no further information was forthcoming from Tavora House.

Frustrated, Dermott returned to Higham and offered Mrs. Notkins a substantial sum to discover Isabella's whereabouts. At first the cook feigned offense, but she could no more resist the lure of so much money than she could resist the delicious gossip she might uncover. The high-and-mighty London nobleman was used to getting his way. And Miss Leslie wasn't known for her submissiveness. There was the possibility of high drama in the offing.