The house soon quieted of her stepsisters’ excited chatter, and Isabelle sat in front of the hearth with a blanket wrapped around herself. She waited for what seemed like hours before her old friend arrived.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” the familiar voice asked.
Isabelle saw Giselle sitting in the chair beside hers. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I’m here now.”
“Where was the dark prince?” Isabelle asked without preamble. “I never saw him.”
“That’s strange,” the old woman remarked. “I saw you dancing with him.”
That jerked Isabelle into full awareness. “I danced with him? No princes were in attendance.”
“I’ve told you several times, child. Princes don’t always wear crowns.”
“Well, which man was he?”
Giselle cast her an ambiguous smile. “If you want to know the answer to that, you must see with your heart and not with your eyes.”
Chapter 7
“Bull’s pizzle,” John muttered, his irritation growing.
His coach had taken the left turn from Piccadilly into Berkeley Square and then had come to an abrupt halt, nearly toppling him off the seat. Looking out the window, John saw the quagmire of coaches. “What the bloody hell is happening?”
“Congestion, Your Grace,” Gallagher called.
John opened the coach’s door and leapt out. “Return to Park Lane,” he ordered his man. “I’ll walk home.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
John started down the street toward his destination. In the distance, he spied three gentlemen descending the front stairs of Montgomery House. Lords Finch and Somers spoke with Major Grimase for a moment and then went their separate ways to their respective coaches.
The sight of the three gentlemen visitors to Montgomery House meant that he’d successfully launched his ward and her stepsisters into society. So, why didn’t that make him feel relieved? Instead, his ward’s apparent success made him feel uncomfortable. The possibility of her marrying one of those three shallow men disturbed him. Well, he was her guardian. Whoever wanted to court her would need his permission, and he would never agree to a marriage between Isabelle and one of those fops.
John reached Montgomery House a moment later. He started up the stairs, but heard a voice behind him, saying, “Flowers for yer lady, m’lord?”
Turning around, John saw a flower girl. He stared at her bedraggled appearance for a long moment and then dropped his gaze to her basket filled with violets and forget-me-nots.
John despised peddlers. It was one such peddler who had sold Lenore the herb that . . . Shaking off the bad memory, he said in a clipped voice, “No, thank you.” He turned his back on the girl and walked up the stairs.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Pebbles greeted him, stepping away from the door to allow him admittance.
“Good day to you.”
John heard the sound of laughter. Isabelle and her stepsisters were enjoying a surge of popularity. Marrying all three of them off shouldn’t be too difficult. He had no intention of playing mother hen to three young maidens for very long.
“The others are in the drawing room,” Pebbles told him.
John dropped his gaze to the foyer’s wall table. Upon it sat a silver tray laden with calling cards. “Why are these calling cards here if the ladies are receiving visitors?”
“Lady Isabelle suffers the headache,” Pebbles informed him. “Several of the visitors wished to be remembered to her.”
John lifted the pile of calling cards. He inspected each one slowly.
“With all due respect, Your Grace, those calling cards are meant for my lady,” Pebbles said.
John snapped his dark gaze to the majordomo. “Are you questioning Isabelle’s guardian?”
The majordomo’s expression cleared. “I’m very sorry, Your Grace. I’d forgotten that—”
“I forgive your lapse in manners and appreciate your loyalty to my ward.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. Shall I escort you to the drawing room?”
Instead of answering, John looked at the last three calling cards in his hand. Unpleasant emotions he’d thought long-dead swelled within his chest. Nicholas deJewell, William Grimsby, and even his own brother had visited Montgomery House to pay their respects to Isabelle.
When the majordomo cleared his throat, John looked at him. “I won’t be staying.”
“Would you care to leave your calling card, Your Grace?” Pebbles inquired, a sarcastic edge to his cultured voice.
The Montgomery majordomo was incorrigible. John looked the older man straight in the eye and inclined his head. “I want this delivered to Isabelle.” He pressed his own calling card into the man’s hand.
After pocketing the other calling cards, John shifted his gaze to the majordomo. He stared at him for a long moment in a silent challenge.
The man’s lips twitched into a smile. “I’ve seen the sorry lot of them, Your Grace. I applaud your actions.”
“I’m so relieved.”
Outside, John glanced down the street toward Piccadilly. A shabby old woman stood several yards away and made a beckoning gesture. Was she calling him to follow her? He looked around, but saw no other pedestrian except for the flower girl.
Again the old woman beckoned him.
John walked toward her. The old woman disappeared down the stairs into the Montgomery garden area. When he stood poised on the top step, John spied Isabelle sitting alone on a bench. Her head was lowered as she concentrated on her knitting.
Wearing an intent expression, Isabelle Montgomery looked like a blond-haired angel. On the other hand, no one knew better than he what could be hidden behind a woman’s sweetness.
“Where did the old woman go?” John called, descending the stairs into the garden.
Isabelle turned at the sound of his voice. “I beg your pardon?”
“I saw a strange old woman disappear down the stairs.” John turned in a circle and scanned the deserted area. “You didn’t see her?”
Isabelle dropped her mouth open in apparent surprise. “Was she wearing a tattered black cloak?”
“Yes, she was.”
Isabelle shook her head. “I haven’t seen her.”
“You know what she was wearing, but you haven’t seen her?”
“I’ve seen her before, of course.” Isabelle gave him a sheepish smile. “Giselle always wears the same clothing.”
“Giselle, is it?”
Isabelle nodded. “Sometimes she visits Montgomery House to beg a meal and probably slipped into the kitchen without my noticing.”
John relaxed, accepting her explanation, and sat beside her on the bench. “You won’t find a prospective husband if you sit alone out here.”
“I’m not alone. I’m with you.” Isabelle stared into space for a long moment. “I’m afraid you’ve found me in a melancholy mood, Your Grace. I keep wondering where Miles is and what he’s doing.”
“Your brother and mine are in New York by now and, I hope, becoming successful businessmen,” John told her. “There is no need for sadness. They will return home this summer.”
Isabelle smiled at him. The prospect of her brother’s homecoming seemed to brighten her mood.
John had the sudden wish that she—or someone just as sweet—would look forward to his own homecoming. Once, a long time ago, he’d been foolish enough to think he’d found a love like that. How mistaken he’d been. Lenore Grimsby had married him for his title and made his life miserable before she . . .
“What are you doing out here when your drawing room is filled with admirers?” John asked, forcing himself out of his black mood.
“Avoiding them.” Isabelle gave him a mischievous smile. “I’m knitting a shawl.”
“For whom?”
“The girl who sells flowers in Berkeley Square,” Isabelle answered. “I noticed her lack of a warm outer garment.”
“You can’t save the world, Belle.”
“True, but I can chase the chill off one poor child.”
“Are you trying to earn yourself a white stone?” John teased. “You’ll need more than one stone to offset the lie you uttered last evening about how pretty your stepsisters looked.”
“The Lord forgives tiny flaws.”
“So, Mistress Montgomery, tell me why your lies are tiny flaws.” John stretched his long legs out in front of him and dropped his gaze to her hands, folded primly on top of her yarn. She had slender fingers, and her hands looked soft enough to—
“Is anything wrong?”
I was just wondering how those hands would feel caressing me? Would they grasp me tightly in the throes of passion? Good God, this virgin would swoon dead away if he told her what he’d been thinking.
She was staring at him, a puzzled expression upon her lovely face.
“I’m waiting for you to enlighten me about your tiny flaws,” John said.
“A bad lie always hurts, but a good lie, which is a tiny flaw, keeps someone from becoming angry or upset,” Isabelle explained. “A bad lie causes pain, but a good lie prevents it.”
“Mistress Montgomery, it’s a relief to know that you are as human as the rest of us,” John said, leaning close.
Isabelle blushed. “Of course, I’m human. What do you mean by that?”
“Sinners and criminals rationalize their flaws,” he teased her. “The truth is that all lying is wrong.”
Isabelle cast him a disgruntled look, but her lips twitched with the urge to laugh. “I disagree, Your Grace.”
John stood and changed the subject abruptly. “Before I leave, will you promise me something?”
“If it is within my power to do so,” Isabelle said, tilting her head to one side.
“Keep your distance from the Earl of Ripon. William Grimsby isn’t a suitable prospect for you. Consider anyone but him as a potential husband.”
The mulish expression that appeared on her face told John he had just made a blunder by forbidding her to consider one of the men she’d met the previous evening. She’d expressed no intention of finding a husband. He should have remained quiet about Grimsby’s unsuitability.
“I prefer to make my own judgments about people.” Isabelle gave him a sweet smile. “For obvious reasons, I never give credence to gossip.”
“Damn it, Belle. I’ve given you this wonderful season and opportunity to—”
“I never wanted a season in London,” she reminded him, rising from the bench.
“Do not forget the Debrett ball next week,” John said, turning to leave.
“I shan’t be going.”
“You’ll be there.” John called over his shoulder, and then climbed the stairs that led to the street.
“No, I won’t.”
John ignored her. He disliked women who needed to have the last word.
Reaching the sidewalk, John glanced to his left and saw the flower girl standing several yards away. He started down the street in the opposite direction toward Piccadilly.
I can chase the chill off one poor girl. He recalled his ward’s idealistic sentiment. Imagine, a lady knitting a shawl for a flower girl. There was no other lady in the ton he could imagine knitting for a flower girl, and that fact brought a smile to his face.
He stopped short. “Hey,” he called, whirling around. “Come here, girl,”
The disheveled flower girl hurried toward him. “Yes, m’lord?”
“What’s your name, child?”
“Molly.”
John reached into his pocket. All he carried was a five-pound note and a ten-pound note, both of which were too much money for the flowers she was selling. He knew he was behaving ridiculously, but the thought of his ward’s smile of approval made him pass the girl the five-pound note.
“I’ll take all of your flowers,” John told the surprised girl. “Deliver the flowers to Lady Isabelle Montgomery who lives in that house. You’ll find her in the garden down those stairs. Keep the change and get yourself something to eat.”
“God bless and keep ya, m’lord.” The girl hurried in that direction.
“And the same to you, child.”
John strode down Piccadilly in the direction of his mansion on Park Lane. Smiling to himself, he could almost hear the clinking of a white stone.
* * *
One long, lonely week passed.
Avoiding her gentlemen callers, Isabelle pleaded a headache each day. The duke had purchased the girl’s flowers, which still brought a smile to her lips. Perhaps John Saint-Germain was not beyond redemption. Though, he hadn’t made another appearance at Montgomery House, which confused her. The Times carried daily accounts of his nightly pursuits. Lady Amanda Stanley had accompanied him to the opera, and Lady Lucy Spencer had danced with him an indecent number of times at the small party she’d given at her town house. Even worse, Giselle had failed to make an appearance, leaving Isabelle isolated from the world and alone with her thoughts.
Isabelle came to a decision about her life. Beginning with the Debrett ball, she would smile at the world and flirt with her admirers. She also intended to keep each one of them at arm’s length until Miles returned from his business trip. Then she would retire to Stratford and pass several months sitting with Giselle beside the River Avon. Life had been placid until the Duke of Avon dropped into it. Recuperating from the inner turmoil that his nearness caused would take at least six months.
One week after her argument with her guardian, Isabelle accompanied Dowager Tessa and Aunt Hester to the Debrett ball. With them were Delphinia, Lobelia, and Rue. Determined to win the inner war she waged with her insecurity, Isabelle lifted her chin a notch as she descended the stairs to the Debrett ballroom.
Isabelle had never looked more beautiful. Her gown had been fashioned in a pale violet India muslin with gilt spangles. Its squared front sported mere straps over her shoulders, leaving the flawless ivory skin on her arms and shoulders exposed. She had dressed her hair in the antique Roman fashion, with her golden tresses brought together and confined at the back of her head in two light knots.
Isabelle appeared as sophisticated as the other young ladies of the ton. So why did she lack their confidence? She felt as awkward as the young, motherless girl who had sat beside the Avon River playing her flute.
And then Isabelle knew. She could dress up and pass for one of them, but she would never be one of them in her heart.
Isabelle touched her golden locket and hoped her mother’s loving spirit would help her through this evening and all of the other evenings until Miles returned. Then she thought of the Duke of Avon. What would he think when he saw her transformation from innocent debutante to sophisticated woman? Why was it so important to her that she please him? After all, the man was an insufferable rake.
Standing beside the duke’s mother and aunt, Isabelle scanned the crowded ballroom for him. John hadn’t arrived yet. Delphinia danced with Major Grimase, while Lobelia and Rue partnered Spewing and Hancock respectively.
“Good evening Your Grace,” said a sultry female voice.
“Lady Montague,” another woman said by way of a greeting.
Isabelle turned to see Amanda Stanley and Lucy Spencer smiling at John’s mother and Aunt Hester. Though the brunette and the redhead were speaking to the older women, both had their gazes fixed on Isabelle.
“I see the merry widows are hunting tonight,” Dowager Tessa drawled.
Both women smiled, apparently reluctant to offend the duke’s mother.
“Have you met John’s ward, Lady Isabelle Montgomery?”
“We haven’t been formally introduced,” Amanda Stanley answered.
“We’ve heard so much about her from her stepsisters,” Lucy Spencer added.
Determined not be intimidated, Isabelle gave each a haughty smile. “I’m certain that my dearest Lobelia and Rue have greatly exaggerated my finer points of character.” She turned her head in a gesture of dismissal and realized that behaving obnoxiously
was really rather easy.
And then Isabelle spied Nicholas deJewell wending his way through the crush of people toward her. She’d managed to avoid his almost-daily presence at Montgomery House by pleading a headache. How could she avoid dancing with him tonight? Feeling like a small animal caught in a trap, she nearly groaned at the thought of him touching her as they waltzed around the ballroom.
“Good evening, Your Grace . . . Lady Montague,” Nicholas greeted the older women first. “Good evening, Isabelle. I’ve missed seeing you this past week.”
Isabelle managed a smile for him. “I’ve been suffering from the headache, Nicholas.”
“You look fully recovered.” He reached for her hand, saying, “Come and dance with me.”
Unexpectedly, another hand snatched Isabelle’s out of deJewell’s grasp. Isabelle looked up in surprise and saw the Earl of Ripon.
“Sorry, Nicky. Mistress Montgomery has promised me this dance.” William Grimsby shifted his gaze to hers. “Didn’t you, my lady?”
“Yes, I did, Lord Grimsby.” Isabelle felt relieved to escape from Nicholas and pleased that one of the handsomest men she’d ever seen was inviting her to dance.
“Call me William,” the Earl of Ripon said, leading her onto the dance floor.
“You must call me Isabelle,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from the ordeal of dancing with Nicholas.”
“You don’t like deJewell?”
“Not particularly.”
“Why?”
Isabelle gave him a mischievous smile. “His ingratiating behavior reminds me of a weasel.”
The Earl of Ripon smiled. “Nicky does seem rather rodent-like. Why not a rat?”
“Nicholas hasn’t the rat’s intelligence.”
Grimsby laughed. “You, Isabelle, are as refreshing as an autumn breeze following the summer’s heat.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Why, making idle conversation with men was as easy as behaving obnoxiously.
“You waltz divinely,” Grimsby complimented her. “By the way, how did you ever become Saint-Germain’s ward?”
“My brother asked His Grace to become my temporary guardian while he journeyed to America on a business trip,” Isabelle answered. “Once Miles returns this summer, His Grace and I will part company. I do admit, Miles used good judgment. His Grace’s presence in my life has kept Nicholas at bay.”
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