Here comes the snag. John slid his gaze to his brother’s friend when Jamie said, “You explain.”
“Your Grace, I have a simple problem,” Miles Montgomery began. “I fear my stepmother will neglect my sister while I am out of the country.” He paused for a moment as if summoning his courage and cleared his throat before finishing. “I am requesting that you become Isabelle’s temporary guardian for the duration of my—”
“No.”
“Your Grace, I implore you. Isabelle has brains, heart, and courage,” Miles continued, undaunted by the refusal. “She won’t be any trouble, she’s uncommonly pretty with blond hair and—”
“I despise blondes,” John interrupted. “At the age of forty, I plan to remarry, to the ugliest brunette I can find.”
Ross burst out laughing, earning himself a censorious look from his older brother.
“Isabelle is an accomplished young lady,” Jamie interjected.
“Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and accomplished?” John drawled, his voice dripping sarcasm.
“More violet than blue, Your Grace,” Miles corrected him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Isabelle’s eyes are a violet shade of blue.”
Ross Saint-Germain smiled at the remark.
John cast his brother a wholly disgusted look. “At what is this paragon of womanhood accomplished? Intricate embroidery? The pianoforte?”
“Isabelle plays the flute,” Miles told him.
“Divinely,” Jamie added.
“Flute playing isn’t at all the thing in these modern days,” Ross said, earning himself a sour look from his youngest brother.
“She must be accomplished at fashions and gossip,” John speculated. “All ladies of quality possess that talent.”
“Isabelle prefers to dress simply,” Miles said, shaking his head. “She never engages in gossip.”
John hooted with incredulous, derisive laughter. “Show me a woman who doesn’t gossip,” he said, “and I’ll show you a woman who cannot speak. So, my young friend, what are you sister’s other accomplishments?”
“In addition to playing the flute, Isabelle manages numbers most excellently,” Miles answered.
“Numbers?” John echoed. “What do you mean?”
“Isabelle does the bookkeeping on my household and estate ledgers,” Miles told him. “Of course, I check her work quarterly.”
“You trust a woman with your finances?”
Miles Montgomery nodded.
John stared at him for a long moment. “Your sister sounds like an interesting young lady,” he said, “but I cannot agree to your request.”
Miles turned to Jamie. “I won’t leave Isabelle in Delphinia’s custody.”
Jamie turned a pleading look on his oldest brother. In turn, John glanced at Ross and sent him a silent plea for help.
Ross smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“Very well,” John relented, unwilling to disappoint his youngest brother. “I will become your sister’s temporary guardian and oversee your financial accounts.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Miles glanced at Jamie and then continued, “There is another tiny favor I need.”
“You are pressing your luck, Montgomery,” John warned.
“Isabelle will be eighteen on the first day of May,” Miles said, giving him an affable smile. “If I haven’t returned by then, do not agree to a marriage between Isabelle and Nicholas deJewell. Nicholas developed a fondness for my sister, which she does not return. Whenever he visits, Isabelle feels stalked. He’s harmless, but my stepmother approves a match between them if Isabelle will have him. If you have the inclination, marry her yourself, else she needs to make her come-out into society.”
“I will respect your wishes regarding deJewell, but my reputation with the ladies is slightly tarnished,” John said. “The girl’s reputation will be ruined if I sponsor her.”
“I think that sponsoring the girl is a wonderful idea,” Ross spoke up.
John snapped his head around to stare at his brother. It was just like Ross to cause trouble for him. How could he extricate himself from this foolishness with his brother recommending the absurd notion?
“Mother never enjoyed the pleasure of raising a daughter,” Ross continued. “Aunt Hester and she will relish the opportunity to introduce such an accomplished maiden into society.”
“A legal document must be drawn and signed,” John said, surrendering to the inevitable. “Bring it to Saint-Germain Court tomorrow afternoon. I have a previous engagement. If you will excuse me?”
John stood and started to cross the well-appointed chamber toward the club’s entrance. He could well imagine the wicked grin gracing Ross’s face at that moment.
Behind him, John heard Miles Montgomery whisper loudly, “Do you think he’s going to visit his mistress?”
“Which one?” Ross asked.
“Well, I once saw him with an ebony-haired beauty,” Miles said. “I believe I heard she was an actress.”
“John pensioned Lisette Dupre off several years ago,” came his brother’s reply.
Passing the newly installed bow window in the middle of the façade, John inclined his head toward Beau Brummell, who had made the celebrated window his own domain. The front door had been moved to the left of the window.
“Your Grace, have yourself a good evening,” Brummel called by way of a greeting.
“I’ve made other arrangements,” John said, making the renowned dandy smile.
John stepped outside into a moonless night, darker than his own midnight black hair and eyes. Heavy fog swirled around him like a voluminous cloak and appeared especially eerie in the soft glow from the streetlamps.
Spying Gallagher with his coach on the opposite side of St. James’s Street, John gestured for the man to remain where he was. There was little sense in maneuvering the coach around when his destination was in the other direction.
Silently cursing himself for agreeing to become the Montgomery maiden’s guardian, John stepped into the street and started to cross. Suddenly, a coach materialized from nowhere and careened down the street.
“Watch out!” John heard his coachman shout. He leapt back in time to save his own life—but not, unfortunately, his evening attire, now splattered with mud.
Gallagher reached his side. “Are you injured, Your Grace?”
“No, but I’ll need to return to Park Lane to change out of this mess.” John touched the coachman’s shoulder. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“It was my pleasure, Your Grace.” Gallagher gave him a toothy grin. “Besides, your death would mean unemployment for me.”
“What I admire about you, Gallagher, is your practicality.” John smiled at his longtime coachman and then looked down the deserted street. “I cannot believe the driver of that vehicle failed to see me.”
“He saw you all right, Your Grace,” Gallagher said, opening the coach door for him. “It was as if he was aiming for you.”
John sat back inside his coach and pondered his man’s words as they drove the short distance to his home on Park Lane. That the driver of the other coach was aiming for him was absurd. The only person in England who hated him was William Grimsby, and his former brother-in-law was intent on paupering him. Grimsby was smart enough to want his fortune. There was no profit in assassination. No, the near-miss was undoubtedly one of those freakish, unexplainable accidents.
* * *
Arden Hall, December
“God’s breath.” Seventeen-year-old Isabelle Montgomery tossed her quill down in consternation. After pushing several wisps of blond hair off her face, she fingered her gold locket and stared with murderous intent at the column of numbers on page twenty-four of the household ledger book.
“These numbers refuse to be tallied,” she said. “Do you know anything about mathematics?”
Isabelle looked at the old woman sitting in the chair in front of the hearth. Giselle still wore the tattered garb she’d been we
aring for the past seven years.
“I know nothing about numbers.”
Isabelle felt her irritation rising. At times, the old woman’s presence in her life felt more like a penance than a blessing, yet she loved her dearly. After all, Giselle had been her only friend since her father’s passing.
“I assumed that celestial beings knew everything,” Isabelle said.
“Apparently, you assumed wrong.” Giselle cast her a look that said she knew her young charge’s thoughts. “When you find the correct answer yourself, the victory will be that much sweeter.”
“I haven’t time to waste today.”
“And what is so pressing?”
Isabelle cast a longing look toward the window where the afternoon sun filtered into the room, its rays beckoning her to escape the drudgery of the ledgers. “I want to sit in the garden and play my flute. Couldn’t you help me this one time?”
“I’ve heard you say that before,” Giselle said. “My answer hasn’t changed. Do it yourself. Suffering is good for the soul, you know.”
“I deserve a little enjoyment, too.”
“Child, patience is a virtue.”
“Patience is not numbered among the virtues. Isabelle cocked a blond brow at the old woman. “How can it be that a guardian angel doesn’t know the seven virtues?”
“Buy me an indulgence,” Giselle said, shrugging. “I can list the seven deadly sins. Do you want to hear them?”
“No thank you.”
“There you are.” At the sound of that voice, Isabelle snapped her head around to see her stepmother marching across the study toward the desk. Years of practicing self-control kept Isabelle from grimacing at the unwelcome sight. Unconsciously, she touched the golden locket containing her real mother’s miniature. The feel of it always calmed her nerves.
“I have had the most wonderful news,” Delphinia Montgomery said, waving a letter in the air.
“Someone must have suffered a horrible death.”
Isabelle glanced at Giselle and smiled. The old woman was probably correct about that.
“Why are you smiling?” Delphinia asked, her expression confused. “Why are you looking at the hearth while I speak to you? You aren’t going to start talking to yourself again, are you?”
Isabelle silently cursed herself. She had nearly been caught again. Giselle was so real that she forgot others were unable to see or hear her, which did create problems.
“I was thinking about something else.” Isabelle managed a smile when her stepmother’s expression cleared. “What wonderful news do you hold in the palm of your hand?”
“Dearest Nicholas will be stopping for a visit on his journey to London.”
“Damn,” Giselle swore.
“Make that a double,” Isabelle muttered.
“A double what?” Delphinia asked. “Isabelle, are you ill today?”
“No, merely a little tired.”
“Take my advice,” her stepmother said. “Look toward Nicholas as a possible husband. My nephew is a prime catch, you know.”
“I have no desire to marry anyone at the moment,” Isabelle said, keeping her revulsion off her face. “I have household accounts waiting, if you will excuse me.”
Delphinia took the hint and crossed the chamber to the door, but paused before leaving. “Speaking of accounts, I have somehow managed to spend my monthly allowance,” she said, her smile ingratiating. “Could I have—?”
“No. If I gave you extra money today, you would be looking for more tomorrow. Learning to budget your money would be wise.”
“Now, listen to me, young lady—”
“I have no intention of listening to you,” Isabelle interrupted. “If your monthly allowance isn’t enough, ask my brother to increase it.”
“I shall do just that.” Delphinia left the study in a huff, slamming the door behind her.
“She upsets me.”
“Would it bankrupt your brother if you slipped her a few extra coins now and then?”
“Her allowance is more than ample,” Isabelle informed the old woman. “My stepmother’s pockets have holes in them. I am responsible for my brother’s household accounts. If I gave her money each time she asked, my brother’s estate would suffer.”
Before the old woman could reply, the door swung open. Again, Isabelle struggled against a grimace as she watched her stepsisters advancing on her. She hoped they hadn’t come to beg for money, too. When Giselle chuckled, Isabelle cast her a warning look.
“Don’t take that attitude with me,” the old woman scolded her. “You could have saved yourself this sisterly visit by giving Delphinia what she wanted.”
“I dislike people who say “I-told-you-so.”
“You always say it,” Giselle shot back.
“I do not.”
“Isabelle is talking to herself again,” nineteen-year-old Rue whispered to her sister.
“She’s crazy,” twenty-year-old Lobelia whispered back. “What man will want to marry the sisters of a woman who belongs in Bedlam?”
“We aren’t blood relatives,” Rue said.
Isabelle refused to acknowledge their slurs. After the past ten years, she should be accustomed to their insults, yet her stepsisters still held the power to hurt her feelings. She couldn’t fault them for believing her crazy. Having a guardian angel wasn’t as wonderful as she had once thought.
“What do you want?” Isabelle gave them her attention.
“Money,” Rue blurted out, and then cried “Ouch!” when her sister pinched her.
“I have no money for you,” Isabelle told them. “Enjoy the remainder of your day.”
“We need new gowns for our spring season in London,” Lobelia said.
“You ought to dress properly,” Rue added. “You are horribly out of fashion.”
Isabelle stared at their gowns. Her stepsisters wore ankle-length muslin dresses with squared necklines and long, full sleeves. Their bodices sported antique frills, and the hemlines had been adorned with bands of embroidery.
Dropping her gaze from their garments, Isabelle noted her own scooped-neck linen blouse and violet wool skirt. Her sisters dressed like fashionable ladies while she appeared a peasant.
“You are correct.” Isabelle shifted her gaze to them. “I am out of fashion. If you will excuse me, I have ledgers—”
“You will soon be eighteen and have your come-out into society,” Lobelia reminded her. There was forced gaiety in her voice when she added, “The three of us need new wardrobes in order to secure offers of marriage.”
“Won’t that be exciting?” Rue said, obviously attempting to elicit enthusiasm from her.
Isabelle stared first at Lobelia and then at Rue until both young women seemed to squirm beneath her displeased scrutiny. She didn’t like to think uncharitable thoughts, but her stepsisters would need more than the latest fashions in order to secure offers of marriage.
“Your thoughts mirror mine,” Giselle said.
“Go to London if it pleases you,” Isabelle said, struggling against the urge to answer the old woman. “Resign yourselves to last year’s fashions.”
“Your high-handedness is unfair.” Lobelia stamped her foot. “The fortune belongs to your brother, not you.”
Rue nodded her head in agreement.
“Then petition Miles for a new wardrobe,” Isabelle said. “I do not have the authority to purchase you new gowns and gewgaws.”
“We will do that,” Lobelia snapped. “I refuse to die an old maid on the shelf like you. Come, sister.”
“Too bad you suffer from freckles,” Rue called over her shoulder as they left the room. “Men dislike freckles, you know.”
The door clicked shut behind them.
Isabelle reached up and touched her nose. She turned a troubled expression on her old friend. “Do these freckles make me ugly?”
“What freckles?”
Isabelle smiled at her answer.
“Like a fine sprinkling of fairy dust, your fr
eckles make you even more irresistible than you already are.”
“You aren’t just saying that?”
“Do angels lie?”
Isabelle shook her head. “You always make me feel better.”
A knock on the door drew their attention.
“I wonder who that could be,” Isabelle said. “My stepfamily never knocks.”
Another knock sounded on the door.
“Enter.” Isabelle smiled when Pebbles, the Montgomery majordomo, walked into the study.
“Good afternoon, my lady.” Pebbles stood in front of her desk and winked at her. “I heard three witches on the warpath.”
Isabelle smiled. “Have you been eavesdropping again?”
“Of course, I’ve been eavesdropping,” Pebbles answered. “How can I protect you if I don’t know the witches’ plans?”
“Thank you, Pebbles.”
“Three witches were trampled to death in an unfortunate carriage accident,” Pebbles told her. “When they arrived at Heaven’s gates, Saint Peter told them there was no room in Heaven and the witches would need to return to Earth. They were to jump off a nearby cloud and shout whatever they wished to be called in this second lifetime. The first witch leapt off the cloud and called Lobelia.”
Isabelle felt her lips twitch with the urge to laugh.
“The second witch jumped off the cloud and yelled Rue,” the majordomo continued. “The third and oldest of the witches tripped and bellowed Shit.”
Isabelle burst out laughing and was joined by Giselle.
“I knew I could bring a smile to your face,” Pebbles said, passing her a missive. “A courier delivered this from London.”
“Thank you.” Isabelle watched the majordomo leave and then tore the missive open. “It’s from Miles, but I can’t imagine why he would hire a private courier.” She scanned the letter and then frowned. “God mend his ways.”
“Bad news, child?”
“Miles has left England on a business trip to America, and—”
“He’s gone to the colonies?”
“America is a colony no longer,” Isabelle told her.
The door burst open. Delphinia, Lobelia, and Rue charged like marauding soldiers into the study.
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