# Deceived

Nicola Cornick

Rumor has it a certain notorious Princess has not a feather to fly and is looking for a gentleman to ease her financial worries. Perhaps the Earl of S. is the man she seeks…. – The Gentleman's Mercury, 1816Princess Isabella never imagined it could come to this. Bad enough she faces imprisonment for debts not her own. Even worse that she must make a hasty marriage of convenience with Marcus, the Earl of Stockhaven–the man she'd loved and lost so long ago. But that he now wants revenge by demanding she be his in more than name only…well, that is simply intolerable!As the London gossips eagerly gather to watch the fun, Isabella struggles to maintain a polite distance in her marriage. But the more Isabella challenges Marcus's iron determination, the hotter their passion burns. This time, will it consume them both–or fuel a love greater than they dare dream?

## Nicola Cornick will whisk you back to Regency England—where you can escape into a world of passion and privilege…deceit and desire! Praise for international bestselling author and RITA®Award finalist Nicola Cornick:

“The Earl’s Prize is a captivating Regency story with an interesting and engaging twist. Two wonderfully human characters are presented that are remarkably intelligent and a pleasure to get to know…. This is a purely delightful story, which I enjoyed immensely.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

(A 4½-star review)

“Nicola Cornick has written a merry romp about Regency London that will make you wish you had been there.”

—romance-cafe.com on The Season for Suitors

Deceived was the runner-up for the Romantic Novelists Association’s prestigious Elizabeth Goudge Trophy 2005, where it was judged to be:

“A masterclass…. A vivid range of emotions and sensations….”

## Nicola Cornick. Deceived


Dear Reader,

When I was a child we used to go to the seaside every summer and stay in an old cottage with a wild garden. There were bent old trees to hide in, and stone statues, and the long golden curve of the sand to play on. It was this old house and garden that I remembered when I was writing Deceived. I wanted my heroine, Isabella, to have a place that she loved and could run away to. The old house at Salterton became the place of Isabella’s childhood memories—and the place where she first met Marcus and fell in love. In the story, when Marcus, in his quest for revenge, threatens to take everything from Isabella that she cares for, Salterton is the one place she is determined to fight for.

I love old-flame stories. I love reading them and I love writing them. There is something exciting about unfinished business and something poignant about what might have been. Can Isabella and Marcus overcome all the barriers and misunderstandings that fate has put between them and rekindle the love that they found in the house by the sea all those years ago? I hope that you enjoy reading Deceived and finding out!

With love,


To the Cornick family with my thanks

and all my love.

Deceived

I recognize the marks of the old flame of love.

—Dante

## CONTENTS

Part 1–Revenge

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Part 2—Seduction

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

## Part 1–Revenge

London, June 1816

This newspaper is pleased to record the return to these shores of a certain notorious princess, whose arrival will be greeted with great glee by the gentlemen of the Ton. Rumor has it that the Princess IDC has not a feather to fly and is looking for a gentleman to ease her financial worries. Though whether the infamous lady will take him as lover or husband remains to be seen….

—The Gentlemen’s Athenian Mercury, June 12, 1816

## CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS A HELL OF A PLACE to look for a husband.

Most discerning females, given a choice of marriage mart, would prefer the genteel familiarity of Almack’s any day to the rather more dubious qualifications of the Fleet Prison.

Princess Isabella Di Cassilis did not have that luxury. Princess Isabella was desperate.

She had explained to the jailer that her requirements were very specific. She needed to marry a man who owed so much money that to take on her twenty-thousand-pound liability would be a mere drop in the ocean of his debt. She needed a pauper—a strong one, since she did not want him dying on her and leaving her heir to his debts as well as her own—and she needed him now.

It was of no consequence to Isabella that she would be ruined if this escapade ever came to light. She was beyond ruin already. The more fastidious members of the Ton closed their doors to her, so what harm could a little more scandal do? She might even accomplish the remarkable success of being ruined twice over in one lifetime. It would be a considerable achievement for a lady of only nine and twenty.

Isabella Standish had not been born to be the princess of a European country, not even an insignificant one such as Cassilis. Her father had been a minor member of the Ton who’d aspired to be important but had never quite achieved his ambitions. Her grandfather had been fishmonger to King George III, ennobled by the monarch in one of his bouts of madness after he had partaken of a particularly tasty piece of rainbow trout. The family title was therefore not only newly created but also the butt of some hilarity, to the great mortification of the second Lord Standish, Isabella’s father.

It had been Isabella’s misfortune that at the age of seventeen she had been walking down Bond Street the day before her wedding and had caught the roving eye of the jaded Prince Ernest Rudolph Christian Ludwig Di Cassilis, who had been charmed by her prettiness and her unspoiled manners. Prince Ernest had immediately made a counteroffer for her hand in marriage. It was an offer that her father was not minded to refuse, as he was about to be bankrupted by his extravagance. Prince Ernest’s arrival was most timely, for Lord Standish if not for his daughter. The wedding that took place a few days later was not the one that Isabella had intended.

It was also entirely Prince Ernest’s fault that a widowed Princess Isabella, some twelve years later, was following a turnkey down the narrow stone corridor into the depths of the Fleet Prison. Ernest had died most inconveniently in the arms of his mistress, leaving his widow nothing but debts and a tarnished name. When she’d returned home to England, Isabella had discovered that her late husband’s infidelity had been financial as well as physical. He had run up debts in her name. He had used her to fund his debauches and she had been so happy to be on a different continent from him that she had not even noticed. So now she was driven to desperate measures of her own to extract herself from the disaster Ernest had brought on her.

Isabella shrank within her black cloak and pulled the hood more closely about her face. All her senses were under assault. It was almost as dark as night inside the prison. The air was thick with heat and the smoke of tobacco, but the scent did nothing to mask the deeper, more noxious smell of hundreds of fetid bodies pressed close. Raucous voices were raised in endless uproar, mingling with the scrape of iron fetters on stone and the wailing of babies and children in forlorn chorus. The floor was greasy and the walls ran with damp, even in the summer heat. Hands grasped blindly at the folds of Isabella’s cloak as she passed. She could feel the despair of the place like a living thing. It seeped from the walls and wrapped her about with misery. Shock and compassion thickened her throat until the hairs rose on the back of her neck and she shivered with horror. Before she had entered this hellhole she had thought that she was in desperate straits. She had not even known what desperation was. And yet the distance between her situation and this was perilously short. A man—or woman—could slip once from their comfortable path and end up forgotten and unlamented in this pit.

She paused at the corner of the corridor and fumbled in her reticule for her small collection of coins. She could not really afford to part with them, but there were some whose need was greater than hers. She thrust the money toward the jailer.

“Here…Take these for the mothers and their babies.”

The jailer shook his head. He did not take the money, for he still had a tiny shred of decency left. In the faint light his face betrayed pity but Isabella could not tell if it was for his charges or for her naiveté.

“With all due respect, ma’am, it would do no good. The mothers would spend it on gin and the babes would starve anyway.”

Isabella hesitated, instinct prompting her to scatter the coins in the darkness and pray that some good would come of it. Then she saw the eyes watching her greedily from out of the shadows—insatiable eyes, full of hate and cupidity. The strong would trample the weak in their attempts to get to the money first and it would all be for nothing.

The turnkey took her arm, drawing her on. “Not far now.” Then, with a rough attempt at comfort as he felt her shiver, he added, “We keep a better class of prisoner in the Warden’s House, madam. Nothing to fear.”

Nothing to fear.

The words repeated over and over in her head as she shivered.

She had but three alternatives, Mr. Churchward had said with bluntness unusual in a lawyer. Marriage, or exile, or the debtor’s prison. None of these options had been in any way appealing.

They had been sitting in the drawing room of her house in Brunswick Gardens when Churchward had broken the news of Ernest’s debts. For all his frankness, the lawyer had spoken to her with compassion, as though such delicate matters were unfit for a lady’s ears. Isabella had appreciated his thoughtfulness, and when she had neither fainted nor indulged in a fit of the vapors, Churchward had looked infinitely relieved.

A torch flared at the end of the passageway. The jailer opened a heavy door and it scraped across the floor with a protesting creak, as though there was seldom cause to use it. He stood back to allow Isabella to precede him. The air was fresher here, though it still carried the smells of tobacco, sweat and stale food.

The jailer stopped in front of a cell door, spat on the ground, then hastily wiped the back of his hand across his mouth as a concession to the fact that he was addressing a lady. “Here we are, madam. I have just the man for you. John Ellis. A gentleman by birth, healthy, very poor, so I’m told.”

Somewhere in the depths of the jail, someone screamed. It was a sound unearthly and terrifying. Isabella shuddered and forced herself to concentrate. She knew that there were questions she should ask. If only she did not feel so callous and calculating. This was a man’s life she was purchasing with the remains of her money. She bought her liberty at the price of his incarceration.

The plan had seemed quite neat in theory. Tidy, albeit ruthless. She would pay a prisoner to take on her debts. He would be behind bars. She would be free. Now that it suddenly involved a real person, the plan seemed grotesque. Nevertheless, it was his life or hers….

“Does he…have any family or friends?” She asked.

The jailer smirked. He understood what she needed to know. “No, madam. There is no one to buy him out of here and I am sure he could be persuaded to take your debts on into the bargain. He has nothing to lose by it.”

“How long has he been here?” Now that she was on the point of committing herself, Isabella found that she was hesitating, looking for opportunities to put off the moment.

“Three months, near enough, and set fair to be here for the rest of his time, so I understand.” The jailer cocked his head as he looked at her. “You’d not be wanting it any other way, ma’am?”

“No, thank you,” Isabella said. “A permanently absent husband is precisely what I require.”

The jailer touched the crisp banknotes that were nestling in his pocket. He had seen a number of ladies come to the Fleet in search of husbands. Some were looking for a father, no matter how belatedly, for an infant that was about to make its appearance in the world. Others were looking to escape a repugnant match. A few, like this lady, were trying to evade a crushing debt by marrying a man who was already in jail and could take on his wife’s obligations as well as his own without it making a ha’porth of difference to him. There were plenty of men in the Fleet who would have been willing to take her on for the price of a bottle of gin, but the lady’s requirements were precise. She was Quality, and she needed a man who was a gentleman by birth, but desperate enough not to be too scrupulous. Fortunately he knew plenty who fit the bill.

There was quality and then there was Quality with a capital Q, the jailer mused. No amount of clothing borrowed from a maid could conceal the fact that this was a lady, possibly even a countess. She vibrated with a kind of despair that he had seen many times before when a person was about to make a pact with the devil. The jailer had little pity left in him. Sentiment was dangerous in his job. He fingered the money once again. Countess, duchess, it mattered nothing to him. He would find a match for the queen herself if she paid him enough. And he would ask no questions.

The door of the cell crashed open and another turnkey tumbled out, slipping on the greasy floor and spilling the contents of the tray he carried. He was swearing under his breath. The thin stew slid off the plate and splattered Isabella’s cloak.

“And don’t come back until you have something edible to offer me,” a masculine voice said from within the cell. It was a pleasant voice but it was edged with a distinct undertone of menace.

“Is that your Mr. Ellis?” Isabella said dryly, as something thudded against the cell door as though to emphasize the words further. “It sounds as though he has the devil’s own temper.”

“Aye, a surly fellow is John Ellis,” the jailer confirmed. “Not that you need trouble yourself over that, ma’am.”

“I imagine that I would be bad tempered were I incarcerated in here,” Isabella said. She looked about her and shivered. “Best to get it over with, then.”

The cell was dark, lit only by one small barred window high in the wall. The first thing that shocked Isabella was that this better class of gentleman did not even possess the means to purchase a room of his own. He must be poor indeed. Her second thought was that this was not the more spacious and airy accommodation of the higher reaches of the Warden’s House, but a dim chamber where the air was almost as fetid as in the stews. She felt sick with nerves and disgust.

Three men were crouching on the floor playing a game with dice and counters. They barely looked up as the door opened, so intense was their concentration. Only pennies were being wagered but the world could have ended and they would not have broken up the game.

Another man squatted in a far corner where the water ran down the walls and soaked his shirt. He appeared not to notice it. He was rocking on his heels and crooning softly to himself, and he looked at Isabella with incurious eyes. She looked back with grief and pity, remembering the times when she had been in a position actually to aid such poor unfortunates rather than look at them with such helplessness.

The thought recollected her to her current situation and she looked around for Mr. John Ellis, her unlikely savior.

At first she could not discern him at all, other than as a shadowed figure seated at the rough table with his back to the light. Then he moved, and she saw that he had been reading, for he still had a book in his hand.

Despite the jailer’s description of him as surly, Isabella saw humor and vitality in his expression before it was quenched like a blown candle, leaving nothing but a grim austerity. In the dim light his face was hard, all clear-cut planes and angles beneath a dark tan that spoke of much time spent in hotter climates. His jaw was strong and square, and the uncompromising lines of his face were too harsh to be described as conventionally handsome. That seemed too soft a word. He emanated an attraction far more primitive and compelling than mere good looks. It was an attraction to take the breath away. Isabella had met many handsome men, men of charm and address. A princess tended to have such privileges. None of them, however, had driven the sense from her mind and the breath from her body in a way that made her feel slightly faint.

John Ellis placed the book on the table in front of him and looked up at her for a very long moment. There was a stillness about him that was striking. He did not say a word.

“Stand up when a lady enters the room,” the turnkey snapped at him.

The gentleman allowed his gaze to travel very slowly and insolently down Isabella’s entire body, from the peak of her hood to the tips of her shoes. Then, with equal deliberation, he removed his booted feet from the table and sat up a little straighter, but still he did not stand. There was an insolent appraisal in his eyes that brought the blood to Isabella’s face and her chin up in haughty defiance. His gaze fixed on her face and he did not look away for a single instant. His eyes were hard, his expression that of a man who has seen and done too much and will never again feel any emotion stronger than indifference.

Recognition, shocking and instantaneous, hit Isabella in the stomach. The world closed in around her. She felt seventeen again and a heedless debutante, barely more than a child. She remembered how her eyes had met those of this gentleman, not across some romantically crowded ballroom, but prosaically, over the teacups in her aunt’s shabby drawing room at Salterton.

“Who is that young man?” she had asked her aunt, Lady Jane Southern, and Jane had smiled and replied:

“His name is Marcus Stockhaven, my dear, and he is a lieutenant in the navy.” Jane had frowned a little as she’d watched Isabella’s expressive face. “Do not develop a tendre for him, Bella, for your mama would never allow the match. He is a nobody.”

She had spoken too late, of course. The tendre had blossomed instantly as Isabella had sat there, her gaze locked with the direct dark one of the man in the doorway. She had felt excited and faint and deliciously helpless to fight against her fate.

“He has no money and no expectations and your mama wishes you to marry well,” Jane had reminded her crisply, but her words of warning had been like an echo fading in the dark. Isabella had paid them no heed and had rushed headlong into first love. It had been a love that was going to end, quite properly, in a wedding. But then she had been obliged to marry Prince Ernest and everything had gone wrong….

Now, as her gaze met and held that of Marcus Stockhaven in much the same way as it had done in that faded drawing room twelve years before, Isabella felt a stunning sense of awareness and loss. A longing seared through her that made both the love and the heartbreak feel sharp and alive, as though all the feelings she had thought were dead had merely been sleeping and were awoken to instant life.

Then Stockhaven spoke, and the shackles of the past were broken.

“A lady,” he said thoughtfully, his gaze still resting on her. “I think you mistake. What possible reason could a lady have for coming here?”

One of the gamesters looked up and made a remark so coarse that Isabella winced. She raised a hand to stop the swelling indignation of the turnkey.

“Thank you,” she said crisply. “I will deal with this. Please show…Mr. Ellis…and myself to a room where we may speak alone.”

Her request caused some consternation. Evidently the jailer had not anticipated that she would require a private conversation and there were few facilities to deal with such an eventuality.

Marcus Stockhaven got to his feet. “You wish to speak privately with me, madam?”

“I do,” Isabella said.

Stockhaven’s voice was smooth and cold and its tone was mocking. “Surely you are aware that the price of privacy is higher than rubies in a place like this, madam?”

“It is fortunate then that I have brought my emeralds with me,” Isabella said, with composure. “Their price is higher than that of rubies.”

She put her hand in her reticule and withdrew the emerald bracelet that Ernest had given her when their daughter was born. He had told her that had the child been a boy then the bracelet would have been of diamonds. The emeralds were second best, like her marriage. She had never quite measured up to Ernest’s expectations, but at least his gift would come in useful at last.

In the dark light of the cell, the jewels glimmered with a deep radiance. The gamblers paused; one swore with awe and avarice.

“A private room,” Isabella repeated to the jailer. “At once.”

“At once, madam,” the jailer repeated, adjusting his assessment of her from countess to duchess. He had not considered the possibility of a foreign princess because she sounded so English.

An empty cell was found in short order. It was bare but for a moldy mattress, one hard chair, a table and a slop bucket. It was also cold. The jailer grabbed the bracelet from Isabella’s outstretched hand and it disappeared into his pocket quicker than a mouse down the throat of a snake. Marcus Stockhaven tucked his book beneath his arm and followed her from the one prison cell into the next with as little concern as though he were taking a walk in the park. Isabella admired his nerve at a time when her own feelings were in tatters. Her nerves were trembling; the conflict inside her echoed by a telltale quiver through her body.

The door scraped closed. There was a long silence, which Stockhaven did not break. He did not offer her the chair but took it himself, sitting watching her, his head at a slight slant, a quizzical look in his dark eyes. Isabella found it deeply unsettling. But then, he had always been able to disturb her with a mere glance.

“Well?”

Isabella jumped at the authoritative tone. Already it felt as though the balance of power in the interview was tilting away from her and that was all wrong. She needed to keep control of this. It was imperative that she dictate the terms. She struggled to regain the initiative.

“I—” Suddenly the words stuck in her throat. It was inconvenient to be troubled by scruples now. After she met with Churchward, she had gone straight out to the Doctors Commons to procure the special license. From there she had gone to the Fleet to purchase a husband. Desperation had kept her going and prevented her from questioning her actions too deeply. Whenever doubts had surfaced, she had fixed on the grim prospect of prison, and that had blotted out all else. But now, under the pitiless dark stare of Marcus Stockhaven, she was lost for words.

Stockhaven raised one black brow sardonically. “I have all the time in the world,” he said, “but I would prefer you to state your business as soon as possible, madam. It is a surprise to see you after all this time, and not a particularly welcome one. So…” He shrugged, and said, “Say your piece and let me get back to my book.”

Isabella swallowed hard. So he was not going to greet her with open arms. Of course not. How foolish of her to expect it when she had jilted him in the most painful and humiliating way imaginable. The shreds of their past passion mocked her.

“I thought that it was you,” she said slowly. “I recognized your voice.”

“How very flattering, after all these years,” Stockhaven said dryly. He leaned his chin on his hand. “What are you doing here?”

Isabella glanced toward the door, where she imagined that the turnkey’s ear was welded to the grille. There could be no names exchanged now if she wanted to preserve her anonymity, as presumably he wished to preserve his.

“I was looking for someone,” she said.

“But not me, I assume.” Stockhaven came to his feet with a compact grace. He was tall and broad-shouldered and his presence seemed to dominate the shabby cell. There was latent power in every line of his body—power that the stuffy confines of the room could not stifle. Isabella found that she was instinctively backing away, though he made no move toward her. She took a deep breath and forced herself to hold her ground.

“No, I was not looking for you specifically,” she said, “but now that I have found you—” She paused. Could she come out with the proposal now? No, that was a little too blunt, even for her. Besides, there were things that she wished to know.

“More to the point,” she said, “what are you doing here, sir, under the name of John Ellis?”

She saw his dark gaze narrow on her acutely, and although his expression was blank a few seconds later, she read his feelings clearly enough. This mattered to him. He did not want her to give his true identity away and he would certainly have preferred that she had not stumbled across him in the Fleet of all places.

“Forgive me, but that is none of your business.” His tone was clipped.

“I think it might be.” Isabella took a step farther into the cell. There were a hundred and one doubts and reasons hammering in her mind, telling her that it was the worst possible idea in the world to petition Marcus Stockhaven to marry her. She ignored them. She had been offered a chance, the possibility of a bargain, and she was going to take it.

“I have a proposition for you, sir,” she said, once again careful not to address Stockhaven by name. “Help me and I will…help you. At the least, I will hold my tongue and tell no one that I have seen you.”

Marcus Stockhaven did not speak. There was a quality in his silence that intimidated her. She hurried on. “I do not suppose that anyone knows that you are here?”

Still he did not reply.

“I do not suppose that you wish anyone to know that you are here?” Isabella pursued.

This time she saw that her words had penetrated his silence. He gave an involuntary movement. Again that hard, dark gaze raked her. “Perhaps not.”

“The disgrace of the debtor’s prison—”

“Quite so,” he interrupted her. “Are you seeking to blackmail me, madam?” His mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “I regret I cannot pay.”

“I do not want your money,” Isabella said. “I need a favor.”

“A favor from me?” Stockhaven’s smile deepened. “You must be desperate indeed to even think of asking.”

“Perhaps so. As you must be to be here in the first place.”

Stockhaven acknowledged the hit with an inclination of the head. “So? In what way may we be…mutually…helpful?”

There was an element in his tone that brought color to Isabella’s cheeks. There had always been something about this man that cut straight through her defenses and made them as thin as parchment. She felt astonishingly vulnerable, deeply disturbed by his presence and the memories he stirred. She sought to disguise her nervousness.

She looked around the filthy cell, from the water seeping through the walls to the bare mattress boasting a single dirty blanket.

“In return for a favor from you, I will not only hold my tongue but I am prepared to make your stay here more comfortable,” she said. “A room of your own, clean linen, good food and wine—” she looked at the book he had placed on the table “—more books to read…”

Isabella saw his gaze narrow on her thoughtfully. She took a step closer to him in silent appeal. For a moment Marcus Stockhaven was silent. She could feel herself trembling as she waited for his response.

“How generous,” he said. “So what is it that you want?” His tone was even but his dark eyes were very cold.

Isabella took a deep breath. For a moment she was poised on the brink and then there was no return.

“I want you to marry me,” she said.

## CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS DOWNRIGHT OUTRAGEOUS.

Marcus John Ellis, seventh Earl of Stockhaven, had been waiting for an opportunity like this for twelve long years. He had not expected it to present itself in the Fleet Prison.

Marcus was accustomed to dealing with the unforeseen. Eight years spent in His Majesty’s Navy before unexpectedly coming into a distant cousin’s earldom had given him a wide and colorful experience of life. This, however, was something that he could never have anticipated. It was ironic, amusing, extraordinary. And it should have been out of the question, of course. But it was also remarkably tempting.

“You are twelve years too late, my love,” he said sardonically, and watched the color rush into Isabella’s cheeks at his casually cruel use of the endearment that had once meant so much.

“The church was booked, the bridegroom in attendance, the only thing that was missing was the bride—if you recall.”

He watched her thoughtfully. She looked almost the same and yet heartbreakingly different from the debutante of seventeen who had jilted him at the altar. In the dank confines of the prison, she seemed hopelessly out of place. It made no odds that she had taken steps to disguise her appearance with a plain black cloak and practical boots. For a start, she was a great deal cleaner than anyone else who had set foot in his cell during the past three months. Then there was the fact that she smelled not of rank sweat and tobacco but innocently of jasmine. He remembered that scent on her skin and in her hair. Autumn hair, he had once told her, layered with hues of gold and copper and russet like fallen leaves. The memory sharpened an edge of hunger in him. He felt his body harden in response to images that were as potent now as they had been twelve years before. Isabella naked in his arms, his hands on her, dark against the paleness of her skin, her gasp of shocked delight as their bodies touched, famished, desperate, forgetful of everything but the shimmering desire that burned between them. He had taken her fiercely, with no consideration for her virginity, and she had responded with unguarded passion. Then, afterward, in the intimate dark of the summerhouse…

“I should not have been so wanton….” She had sounded astonished at her own behavior and the capacity for pleasure that he had unlocked within her. He had drawn her damp body close to his and kissed her with humility and a blissful disbelief that had echoed her own.

“You are lovely and I will always love you.”

It had been sentimental, boyish stuff and it had been ripped apart brutally when she had left him standing at the altar and married someone else. Yet infuriatingly, no one had ever compared to Isabella in his eyes, not in all the long years since he had last seen her.

They had met as often as they could in the gardens of Salterton House. The secrecy had added an edge of excitement to their trysts that seemed well nigh unendurable. He had burned up with the need to possess her, each time more potent than the last, each caress a brand on her skin that was echoed in his heart. There, in the cool darkness of the summerhouse, he would pull her to him, his hands feverishly pushing aside the lace and silk of her clothing, kissing her with savage fervor, invading her body with his in a heated tangle of desire and need. The turbulent emotions she aroused in him had driven him to near madness.

Marcus blinked to dispel the memories and tried to rein in his galloping imagination. Such images were not conducive to clear thinking. But it was no wonder that he lusted after her even now. He had been a long time without a woman, for the whores who plied their trade in the Fleet held no interest for him. Besides, this woman would be enough to tempt a saint.

“Your love,” she said, and the ragged anger in her tone quenched his desire as sharply as a bucket of cold water. “I was never that, was I, Marcus? You married India quickly enough after you lost me. One cousin or the other—it seems it mattered little to you which.”

Marcus felt a violent flare of fury. He had been waiting twelve years to have this very subject laid bare between them and now she dared to put the blame on him?

“I was never so careless as to lose you, as you put it,” he said. “You discarded me when your prince made a better offer—”

She made an instinctive gesture of protest and he broke off. His heart leaped. For a second he had been convinced that she was about to refute his claim and say something of profound importance. He waited, in hope and sharp anticipation. Then her eyes went blank and he could feel the moment slip frustratingly away.

“You are correct,” she said. “That was precisely what I did. But that was a long time ago and this squabbling avails us nothing. It was foolish of me to think that you would be more inclined to help me than a stranger would. I imagine that the reverse is true.”

It was true. To see her now brought all Marcus’s feelings of anger and betrayal flaring into life again. For her to admit to being as venal as he had believed, with such barefaced lack of regret, seemed almost impossible. And yet it was all of a piece with her behavior. She had married for advantage, scorning him when a more promising offer had come along. She had cheated her cousin India out of her inheritance. And now she needed money again and she was prepared to bargain for it with the same ruthless lack of sentiment.

Only this time it appeared that he held all the cards. She needed his help. She was in his power.

“Sit down,” he said abruptly. The demand came out more harshly than he had intended and he saw her jump. She was as tense as a wild animal on the edge of flight. It was implicit in the way her fingers were locked together to prevent them from shaking visibly, and in the determination and anxiety he could read in those dark blue eyes. Evidently she was in such dire straits that even she felt nervous.

She looked startled at his request, as though she had assumed he would refuse her and tell her to be gone. He could see that she was anxious to leave now but he wanted to detain her. He had been given a second chance, unexpected and startling as it was. He had been given the opportunity for revenge.

It would not be simple. He would have to lure her into trusting him, but she was desperate and so he had a good chance of success. She must be desperate to even think of petitioning him for marriage, with what stood between them. He could tell that she was driven to extreme measures. He could read it in her uneasiness. So it was time to take advantage.

He gestured to the chair, moderating his tone.

“I beg your pardon. Will you not take a seat, Isabella?”

Her eyes widened a little at his use of her name. It appeared that she was about to give him a setdown for his familiarity. That was revealing. Very few women rebuffed Marcus Stockhaven. Mostly they encouraged any intimacy he was prepared to grant.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I prefer to stand.”

He understood instinctively that she had no wish to be put at a disadvantage by sitting while he had perforce to remain on his feet, there being only one chair in the cell. She was feeling vulnerable already and did not wish to give him the upper hand. Most decidedly she was a challenge. He felt his interest quicken.

“We could both sit down together over there,” he said, gesturing to the mattress in the corner.

There was a flash of disdain in her eyes. “I think not, sir. I do not seek to share your bed.”

“Not this time.” Marcus allowed his dark gaze to sweep over her once again. He kept all bitterness from his tone. “You merely want my name this time, or rather, my alias, since I imagine that anonymity suits your purpose as well as it suits mine. I am assuming that you wish to take advantage of my imprisonment for debt?”

He paused. A slight inclination of the head was her only reply.

“So.” He thought about it. “You owe money. A considerable sum.”

He saw a flicker of what looked like anger in her eyes but again she merely nodded.

“Your plan is to marry a debtor who agrees to take on your liability as well as his own. There is nothing your creditors can do to recover the money. Meanwhile your husband languishes in here for the foreseeable future and you are free to do as you wish. Do I have it aright?”

“In every detail.” She matched him in coolness, although he was certain that beneath the facade she was nowhere near as dispassionate as she appeared. He gave a short laugh, incredulous. It seemed that she never changed. It had all been about money before and so it was again.

“You certainly have the effrontery to carry it off, madam.”

“Thank you,” Isabella said sweetly.

There was a short silence, sharp with defiance. She raised her brows.

“So? Do you accept my proposal?”

Marcus almost laughed at her audacity. He was tempted to capitulate—she was walking straight into his trap, running even—but if he was to find out the things he wanted to know, he realized that he had to press his advantage first.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but there are certain things I must know before I consider granting you the protection of my name.”

She gave him a dry look. “I misjudged your situation then, sir. Are you in a position to be any more selective than I?”

Infinitely. Marcus did not say the word aloud, but he thought it. Isabella was not to know that, of course. She had assumed, not unnaturally, that he was confined in the Fleet because he was in debt. All indications suggested it, but it was in fact far from the truth. And since she had not asked him outright, Marcus was not about to tell her.

“How much do you owe?” he inquired. He pulled the chair toward him and sat astride it with his arms along the back, training his gaze on her face.

Her chin came up. She looked haughty. He read in her expression that she did not like the situation she was in and the measures she was obliged to take. She put him straight immediately.

“I owe nothing on my own account,” she said. “My late husband ran up debts of twenty thousand pounds in my name. I was abroad and had no notion of it. It was only when I returned to this country that I discovered the extent of my difficulty.” She stopped, biting her lip to quell the anger that was so evidently bubbling inside. Marcus smiled at the snappish tone. So she was furious with Prince Ernest Di Cassilis for landing her in such a predicament. She was proud and she hated her situation. Proud, beautiful and bankrupt. A damnable combination.

“How very annoying for you when Prince Ernest used to be such a rich man,” he said affably. “Such misfortune can overset anyone’s plans.”

Her eyes flashed. She understood all the things that he was implying. That she had jilted him because he was poor. That she had married Ernest for his title and his money. That everything that had come upon her was poetic justice.

“As you say.” Her tone was colorless. “It is most unfortunate.”

He had to admire her coolness. She had shut the door firmly in his face and denied him the pleasure of provoking her.

“If Prince Ernest had a penchant for misusing your name, you might have wished to keep him under closer scrutiny,” he said.

To his surprise, he saw a flicker of amusement in her face.

“I had no wish to be anywhere near Ernest, sir,” she said. “In fact, I ignored him as often as possible. No one liked him very much and I was not the exception to the rule. I even had to bribe the servants to attend his funeral and pay them double to put on a pretense of grief.”

Marcus could feel his interest becoming more acute. He could not seem to help himself. When he had first met Isabella, he had been bowled over by her apparent sweetness. When she jilted him, it had been a profound shock. He had realized then that she was an adventuress. She had used that tempting body and wayward prettiness to entrap a rich and dissolute prince. Now she was using a different form of bribery to lure him into a marriage of convenience. Anger shook him. He wanted to make her admit her culpability. She was defiant and morally corrupt and ready to sell herself for gain. And he was no longer a green youth to be taken in.

He looked at her a little quizzically. “So it was not worth it in the end, then?”

Their eyes met.

It was never worth it.

Isabella did not say the words aloud, but for a disconcerting moment Marcus was sure that he had read them in her eyes.

“I cannot see the purpose of your impertinent questions,” she said sharply. “I do not care to speak of my marriage.”

Marcus raised his brows. “You do not think, then, that you owe me an explanation for what happened twelve years ago?”

She looked disdainful. “What can that matter now?”

He wanted to shake her. Of course it mattered. She had taken all his youthful dreams and hopes and crushed them beneath the heel of her dainty shoe. And she had done it in passing, as though it had been of no importance. She had stolen his illusions. He had been physically experienced when he had met her. He had been the seducer. He accepted that. Yet he had also been emotionally untried, with a youthful innocence and trust that had been entirely at her mercy. It was that which Isabella had ended and for that she owed him.

He thought of India. His wife. She had been Isabella’s cousin. He knew that he had married her for all the wrong reasons, grasping after something that Isabella had promised that had eluded him. India too had suffered at her cousin’s hands. Marcus had discovered how Isabella had set her family against one another in her quest for riches and status. She had been entirely driven by greed.

Now was the time to collect on the debt she owed him, but he had to bide his time. He could feel his anger increasing with every word and sought to control it with cool reason. It was true that cold-blooded revenge was more satisfying than a hasty reprisal. He would accept her proposal and then, although she did not know it, she would be in his power rather than the other way around.

There were still a few things that he needed to know. The more he knew of her plans, the easier it would be to thwart her.

He shrugged. “Perhaps you are right and what has passed between us no longer matters. After all, this is a matter of business. Explain to me how you envisage our agreement working.”

She gave him a suspicious look, as though she could not quite believe that he had let the matter go so easily, but then she capitulated. Evidently she was so anxious to secure her future that she was prepared to make concessions.

“This so-called marriage between us would be a short-term measure to see me over a temporary financial embarrassment,” she said. “Once I have sold my house and realized my inheritance, the debt will be paid off and the marriage annulled.”

Marcus frowned. “In that case, can you not simply wait for your money to come through? It would surely be easier than contracting a marriage you do not want.”

Isabella was shaking her head. “Matters of inheritance take time to resolve and it is time that I do not have. But in a little I shall be unencumbered by both debt and marriage.”

There was a pause. Marcus found that his pride revolted at the thought of being used and discarded, no matter that he was manipulating the situation as much as she.

“I dislike the idea of being married off and then dismissed at a whim,” he said slowly. “It is demeaning.”

Isabella smiled with genuine warmth this time. “Well,” she said sweetly, “you now know how it feels to be a woman.”

Touché. He felt the clash between them like a ripple of memory along the skin. This was how it had always been with Isabella. She would challenge him rather than placate him as most women were wont to do. She had been unpredictable and exciting, and the friction between them had driven his need to take and possess her. He had been besotted with her. He had proposed marriage; she had accepted. That last spring at Salterton, before she had returned to London, they had plighted their troth secretly in the gardens and he had promised to follow her up to Town with all speed and ask her father for permission to pay his addresses to her. Marcus had not been concerned about his lack of prospects. He was a man who took his opportunities and sought out new ones. It never occurred to him that he had nothing to offer.

Lord Standish had agreed to his suit with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm. If Marcus believed that he had prospects, his future father-in-law had not been so easy to convince. Marcus had been undeterred. He had remained undeterred up until the last moment when he had been waiting in the church of St. Mark’s in the Field—the fashionable St. George’s in Hanover Square having already been booked—and had noticed a suspicious lack of guests on the bride’s side of the nave. Time had ticked past and Isabella had failed to arrive. Even at the last, Marcus had been unable to believe that she had jilted him. He had tried to see her, only to be turned away from her house. He had sworn that he would not believe ill of her until he heard her reject him with her own words. But she had never offered him an explanation either way.

She had never spoken to him again.

Society had been quick to judge. When the absent bride married Prince Ernest Di Cassilis in a private ceremony by special license the very next day, scandal had burst over them in a tidal wave. Ernest carried his new wife off to Cassilis and Marcus had returned precipitately to sea. He had felt a great need to be occupied. And so he had pursued the French instead of women, had gained commendations of his superior officers for his reckless bravery and had never wanted to return to shore. It was only the unexpected inheritance of the earldom from his childless cousin that had obliged him to accept a different type of responsibility. He had taken up his estate reluctantly, gone up to London and met India Southern, Isabella’s cousin, at a ball…

But he would not think about that. Throughout his marriage to India, the ghost of Isabella had dogged their steps. He had never been able to forget her or dismiss the powerful feelings of recognition he had felt for her from the first. He felt the same attraction as before calling to him now, drawing him in. They looked at one another and the air between them was bright with the sparks of that old flame.

Marcus had not meant to stir up old memories. What he had meant to do was discover exactly what Isabella intended with this marriage of convenience. It was also important to know that there were no troublesome lovers hanging about who might jeopardize his plans. The fact that Isabella was here alone and unprotected in the Fleet suggested that she had no current lover, but he had to be certain.

He turned away from her, crushing down the attraction, feigning indifference.

“I do not understand why you needs must make a Fleet marriage,” he said. His voice was a little rough, betraying him. “Surely there are a dozen rich and respectable men queuing up to offer for you, Isabella? Twenty thousand is not so much to a man of means, particularly if he gains a beautiful wife into the bargain.”

Isabella did not appear to take this as a compliment. Marcus was interested since he thought it inevitable she must have been told many times that she was a beauty. People tended to tell princesses that even if it were not true.

“There is no one I wish to marry,” Isabella said, “and more to the point, no one who would wish to marry me.”

Her head was bent and she evaded his gaze. Marcus thought she seemed genuinely ruffled. He watched her, waited.

“I have…that is, my reputation—” She looked up suddenly and the expression in her eyes went straight through Marcus’s defenses like an arrow into the heart.

“You may not have heard it, but my reputation is ruined,” she said with a simplicity that reminded him of the girl she had once been. “No one respectable will offer me marriage now.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. He had heard all the stories. He knew her name was soiled beyond repair. Prince Ernest Di Cassilis had been known as the Profligate Prince. His debauches in all areas of his life were legendary. It was inevitable that his wife should be tarred with the same brush.

Once again he allowed his gaze to travel over Isabella, itemizing the evidence as he went. Beneath the shadow of the hood, her gaze met his directly. Her eyes, wide and blue, were very clear. Although she was no debutante now, a youthful innocence had survived in her face. It was impossible—utterly impossible—to see her as a woman with a terminally tarnished reputation.

He felt a moment’s savage pleasure at what had befallen her. Call it revenge or bitterness or even justice, but an ignominious part of him wanted her to be unhappy and to suffer for her betrayal of him. Yet at the back of his mind was the smallest flicker of sympathy for her. He denounced himself as a fool. She was a witch and he cursed his susceptibility.

“Put back your hood,” he said abruptly.

She paused. It was evident that she had grown more accustomed to giving than receiving orders. But then she complied and pushed back the hood of her cloak.

The impression of virtue was reinforced when he could see her properly. She had the sort of face that had been pretty in youth but had matured into beauty as she grew older. Her hair was dark gold, straight and fine, simply confined by a blue ribbon. Thick black lashes shadowed the line of her cheek. There was strength as well as beauty in the bones of her face; he looked again and amended that to resilience. Something—or someone—had made her suffer and she had learned to endure it and be strong. Marcus knew a little about how that felt. For a moment he experienced an odd mix of curiosity, protectiveness and anger at the thought of anyone hurting her. The love he had had for her had run deep and it was difficult to forget.

Damn it. Damn her. He was turning soft at the very moment he had to be ruthless.

Isabella raised one dark brow in ironic query and he realized that he had been staring. Truth to tell, it was difficult not to. He wanted to kiss her. No, he would not stop at mere kissing. He would do a great deal more. He wanted her very much.

“Well?”

It was her turn to snap the question. Marcus reflected ruefully that she might have a mouth lush and made for kissing but her tongue was as sharp as a seamstress’s needle.

He shook his head.

“I cannot believe you would receive no offers,” he said. “Surely you exaggerate—”

“No.” She shut her lips very tightly. It was evident that no further information would be forthcoming on that topic. Their eyes met and held. He could feel the tension in her. She was desperate but she would never beg.

Marcus let out a long, careful breath. He could turn her away, in which case she would be ruined and left to molder in the debtor’s prison herself. He would like to see that happen. It would be a poetic revenge.

On the other hand, he could marry her and exact a different and rather more satisfying form of retribution.

Isabella was not taking the delay well. He was pleased to see that she was barely able to control her impatience. Good. He needed her to be so on edge that she would snap up his offer when he finally made it.

She walked over to the table and picked up the book that he had been reading, holding the spine to the light so that she could see the title. “Theoretical Naval Architecture,” she read aloud. “It would need to be theoretical since I am told that you are likely to spend the rest of your days in here, sir.”

Marcus cocked a brow.

“So?” he said. “What is your point?”

She flicked him a glance. “My point is that according to the jailer you owe a great deal of money. More than you are ever likely to be able to pay. Your family and friends are apparently unwilling to help you. Or perhaps—” she put the book down and looked up to meet his eyes “—as I suggested earlier, they do not even know that you are here? I am guessing that that is why you use the name of John Ellis. It is a sop to your pride and to keep your shame from being known in the Ton. So…you would not wish me to tell anyone your true whereabouts, or make your disgrace known…”

Her blackmail made him smile inwardly. It seemed she would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. But there was a problem. She had stumbled very close to the truth through making all the wrong inferences. It was certainly the case that no one knew he was in the Fleet and that he could not afford for the information to become public. It was not because he was ashamed of his debt, though. He was running a complicated operation and no one could know about it. Isabella could not be permitted to tell the world what she had deduced.

Even so, he would play the game by his rules, not hers.

“So you seek to persuade me to change my mind by offering to keep my presence here a secret if I agree to marry you?” He arched an eyebrow. “It seems an unequal bargain, even with some books and food and wine thrown in to sweeten the pill.”

He saw her fingers clench on her reticule. She could not conceal it—she was shaking. Oddly, the sight unsettled him. He could feel her desperation and he did not want it to touch him. He did not want to feel sympathy for her.

He did not care what happened to her. He would not care. He could not.

Isabella was watching him, trying to interpret his expression.

“You are not in a strong position to strike an agreement, are you, sir?” she said steadily.

“Neither are you,” Marcus countered swiftly. “How long would you survive in a hellhole like this, Isabella? For it is surely where you will end if you cannot pay your debt.”

He saw her shudder but she met his eyes with defiance. “My state is not as parlous as yours,” she said. “I can find another candidate for my hand.”

“A candidate for your debts,” Marcus corrected. “Do not dress it up as something it is not.”

His anger was seething again now, whipped to a rage by her blatant determination to buy herself a husband with the last of her money and prostitute herself. He held his fury in check by the merest thread, but she could sense it.

Her eyes sparked with a fury to match his own. “Very well. If you refuse me, I shall buy myself another debtor. Is that plain enough for you?” She whirled around on him.

“And then I shall tell everyone of your disgrace, sir. A peer of the realm incarcerated in the Fleet for debt and so ashamed that he would rather hide his identity than accept the censure of the world! What would the scandalmongers make of that, I wonder? Reputation is so fragile, is it not?”

Marcus caught her wrist and pulled her around to face him. “If anyone knows the answer to that, then it is you! What would the Ton make of a disgraced princess trying to buy a debtor to save her skin?”

There was a silence heavy with challenge. Beneath his fingers Marcus could feel the racing of Isabella’s pulse. Her skin was very soft. She felt warm and sweet. Temptation stirred, slicing through him like a knife. Instinctively his grip tightened, pulling her toward him. In another second she would be in his arms, her mouth crushed beneath his.

This time she was the one who stepped back, freeing herself from his grip. “I do not see why this needs must take much more time,” she said. “I have made a business offer and I am awaiting your final response. If you refuse me I shall simply proceed to the next man in here who will agree.”

That was direct. Marcus felt a certain admiration for her. And he knew she would have no trouble in finding a man. They would be running a sweepstakes for the privilege of taking her on, debts notwithstanding. The thought of her proposing marriage to any of his cell mates impaled him with an intense and entirely inappropriate jealously. Damnation, he must be addled in his wits, or at the very least be led astray by some other far more basic part of his anatomy.

“You will have no difficulty in finding a man if you are not too particular,” he agreed unpleasantly. “There are plenty such hopeless souls in here.”

At last he had driven her to breaking point. He saw the moment when Isabella’s composure snapped.

“I am desperate, too, you know!” The words burst from her and she could not erase a quiver of grief from her voice. “I am very tired of struggling—” She stopped, and Marcus saw her make a huge effort to steady herself. She was turning away, shielding her vulnerability from him. She pressed her hands together tightly. “This is nothing to the purpose.” Her voice was muffled. “I think that I should leave.”

Marcus put his hand on her arm. It was too late. It had been too late from the first moment she had made her outrageous proposition. He was damned if he was going to permit her to offer herself to some other debtor, and exchange a bottle of wine in return for a scrawled signature on a marriage certificate. If anyone were to wed her, it would be him, and then he would take great pleasure in turning the tables and taking settlement for everything that she owed him. She was his—at least until all debts were paid.

He looked at her. She had not moved but, despite her stillness, her heart was in her eyes. Marcus’s world shivered, spun and settled on a different axis.

“I will do it,” he said. “I will marry you.”

## CHAPTER THREE

WHEN SHE HAD BEEN SEVENTEEN, Isabella had dreamed of marrying Marcus Stockhaven. This marriage, however, was not the stuff that dreams were made of. In deference to the occasion, Marcus had paid two shillings to a fellow prisoner to borrow a clean shirt but there had been no hot water for him to shave. The chapel was gloomy, with no floral decoration to brighten the atmosphere. There were no guests and no one to dance at the wedding. It was, in short, a miserable business.

The priest had to be prized away from his brandy bottle. He glanced at the special license with vague interest and looked with a great deal more energy at the fifty guineas Isabella proffered to encourage his participation.

Marcus was also scrutinizing the special license as they stood before the altar in the Fleet chapel. His brows rose infinitesimally as he scanned the lines.

“Who is Augustus Ambridge?” he asked. “As your future husband, I feel I have the right to know.”

“Oh…” Isabella felt confused. She had forgotten that she had been required to supply the name of a bridegroom in order to purchase the marriage license in the first place. Lacking any inspiration, she had chosen the first name that had come into her head, that of a gentleman who had been an admirer of hers in the two years of her widowhood, but whose intentions had never been either permanent or honorable.

“He is a…friend,” she said.

Marcus’s brows rose farther. “A friend? I see.”

“Not that sort of friend,” Isabella said. She could hear the thread of defensiveness in her tone and wondered why she felt the need to explain herself to him. She owed Marcus no information. He was to be her absentee husband only and, under the circumstances, it mattered nothing to him how she comported herself, since he could do nothing about it. Yet something in that steady dark gaze compelled her honesty.

It always had. The feeling unnerved her.

“He is merely an acquaintance,” she said. “I have a great many such.”

“I see,” Marcus said again, and Isabella had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from pleading her innocence. That was not the way she did things. Never complain, never explain. Those were the tenets of royalty.

Looking at Marcus, at the hard, uncompromising line of his mouth and the forbidding light in his eyes, she wondered how such a man could have ended by being incarcerated in the Fleet. If such a thing had happened to Ernest, it would have been no surprise at all, but Marcus was deep where Ernest had been shallower than a muddy puddle, strong where Ernest had been weak, perceptive where Ernest had been worse than insensitive. Or, more to the point, Marcus had been all of those things when she had known him before. Twelve years could bring many changes in a man. She must remember that she knew nothing of him now.

She fidgeted with her cloak to conceal her nervousness and distract herself from the thought that she was making a very big mistake. She had wanted to meet, marry and part, remaining a stranger to her husband at all stages of the process. Yet already she had broken her own rules. She felt more deeply involved than she had ever intended to be.

“You will see that I have crossed out Augustus’s name,” she observed, pointing to the document and adopting a crisp attitude to mask her feelings of vulnerability.

“So that I may insert mine?” Marcus said, scowling. “I think that probably stretches the legality of the situation.”

Isabella twitched the license from between his fingers and handed it to the priest. “The license is legal enough and with another hundred pounds the wedding will be recorded properly in the register. The marriage certificate will be enough to satisfy my creditors.”

Marcus took the quill from the desk and wrote his name above that of Augustus Ambridge on the license. He scored out the other man’s name with another thick black line, although it was already obliterated. His face was grim and Isabella’s heart sank. This felt terribly wrong and suddenly she was not sure that she could go through with it. She found that she was shivering and shivering, like a dog left out in the cold. She folded her arms tightly to try to comfort herself.

“Do you have any paper?” Marcus asked the priest.

The old man looked startled, as though Marcus had requested some unacceptable privilege. After a moment, he trotted across to the dingy side chapel, returning with a sheet of rough parchment that he handed over with a look that implied another sum of money would now be in order. Isabella sighed and passed across two shillings, which disappeared into the pocket beneath the dirty surplice.

Marcus dipped the quill in the ink pot and scribbled a few lines, dusting the paper with sand to dry it. He handed it to Isabella.

“Take this. I would not wish there to be any ambiguity.”

Isabella frowned as she scanned the paper. He had written a few curt lines to the effect that he was prepared to take complete responsibility for the debts incurred in his wife’s name. If anything was destined to make Isabella feel even more squalid and money-grubbing than she already did, it was these few lines. They emphasized the commercial soul of the agreement in a manner that left no room for sentiment.

“Witnesses?” Marcus said. There was a clear note of impatience in his voice now.

Isabella’s heart sank still further. That was the one thing she had not considered.

“I had not thought—” she began. She looked over her shoulder. The jailer was standing behind them looking hopeful. No doubt he thought there was another few pounds in it for him, both in acting as witness and in keeping quiet about it afterward. Perhaps he could even rustle up one of his colleagues to be the other signatory to the marriage lines. Hysterical laughter bubbled in Isabella’s throat. Married in the Fleet, with a turnkey as witness and the priest half-drunk on the brandy she had supplied as part of the bribe…how ill-fated could a wedding be? She pressed a hand to her lips to suppress her amusement.

The jailer rubbed his palms on his dirty trousers, whistled up one of the other warders and came forward as the priest beckoned. Marcus took her hand. His touch was impersonal and yet a flicker of awareness ran through Isabella like a flame through tinder, catching in an instant and distracting her thoughts from everything but him. She almost snatched her hand away, so acute was her response to him. She knew that he would be able to feel her trembling, and felt as vulnerable as though she had been stripped naked. This was not how it was meant to be, with her emotions at the mercy of this man.

The service began. It seemed to Isabella that they were racing through it, for a Fleet wedding was never going to be a long and languorously romantic affair. There were no lingering glances of affection between bride and groom or indulgent smiles from the chaplain. There was a tense silence broken only by the mumbled words of the service, Marcus’s decisive tones as he made his responses and Isabella’s own, more hesitant words of commitment. At one point she faltered, engulfed by memories of her first marriage twelve years earlier, and Marcus’s hand tightened on hers as he turned to look at her. She thought that she would read impatience in his eyes, but when she looked up at him, he was watching her with a strangely speculative interest. She drew on the shreds of her courage and straightened, repeating her vows in a stronger tone.

“Do you have the ring?” the priest asked.

Isabella shook her head. She had not remembered that she would need one and since she had pawned all her jewelry to meet some of her debt, she could not have provided one anyway. She heard Marcus sigh with resignation. A moment later he had taken his signet ring off and placed it on the open pages of the priest’s Psalter. Isabella shot him an agonized look.

“You cannot give me your signet ring!”

Marcus looked unimpressed. “This is not the time and place to discuss it.”

“But I—”

Marcus ignored her and turned back to the priest. “Proceed.”

He took the ring and slid it onto her finger, clasping his hand briefly around hers in an oddly protective gesture. The ring felt warm and heavy on Isabella’s hand. It was too big for her—she fidgeted with it, turning it round and round on her finger. It was inscribed very plainly with four entwined letters. M…J…E…S… She traced the lines in the gold.

It felt quite wrong to be taking Marcus’s signet ring, wrong and too personal when she had wanted nothing more than his name on a piece of paper.

The priest folded the Book of Common Prayer away under the sleeve of his dirty surplice. He had already scribbled the marriage certificate and now he thrust it at Isabella and waited for his fee, anxious for the matter to be finished. Isabella’s fingers were shaking as she folded the document carefully and stowed it in her reticule. This was her liberty, the paper that spelled her freedom. Yet when Marcus had let go of her hand at the end of the service, she had felt more alone than ever, free but not comforted.

Marcus was watching her. She thought that there was an element of mocking amusement in his eyes. No doubt he found her predicament comical, the scandalous Princess Di Cassilis obliged to marry a debtor…

“Well?” he said.

“Thank you,” Isabella said, finding herself unable to look at him.

“Do not mention it.” Marcus was smiling but it was not the sort of smile that comforted her. “I do believe that in return you offered me something.”

Isabella met his eyes. Her errant heart skittered nervously. Her throat felt suddenly dry. Images of those long-lost evenings mingled in her mind; the tender touch of his lips against her damp skin, the dry salty scent of the sea mingled with old roses, the blazing heat of that summer…but the flames of that passion were long dead after many winters.

“Some bottles of wine, the means to purchase some proper food and a few items to make life more tolerable?” Marcus prompted when she did not speak.

“Oh, of course.” Isabella could feel herself blushing at the vastly different direction her own thoughts had taken. She paused. Her purse was almost empty, but it was not that that held her back. To repeat the offer of such a crude inducement had seemed unthinkable after Marcus’s angry rejection of it earlier.

“I was intending to pay you,” she admitted, “but I thought you had dismissed my suggestion.”

Marcus smiled again, with more genuine humor this time. “I am not so proud, I assure you. Besides, I thought that we had agreed that this is a business venture? We made a bargain.”

“So we did,” Isabella said. She fumbled for the coins and pressed them into his hand. He tucked them away in his waistcoat pocket.

“And you must take your ring back,” she added hastily, making to draw the gold signet ring from her finger where it had rested for such a short time.

Marcus shook his head, taking her hand and holding the ring in place. “Keep it,” he said. “Until we meet again.”

Isabella felt a pang of disquiet. “Will that happen?”

“Assuredly.”

“But not until we are safely unwed.”

Marcus’s smile deepened. “Of course.”

They stood looking at each other for a moment. Isabella felt strangely at a loss.

“I suppose that I should go?” she said uncertainly.

Marcus’s voice took a mocking edge at her obvious discomfort. “I suppose that you should. It is, however, customary to kiss the bride on the wedding day.”

Isabella’s nerves jumped. She took two steps backward until her skirt brushed the wooden upright of the front pew. This time when she withdrew from him, he followed her. She put out a hand to ward him off.

“As you have reminded me, this is a business arrangement, sir, and that was not part of the bargain.”

Marcus smiled at her again. It was a lazy smile, full of intimate challenge. She was not sure whether he was doing this out of revenge or devilry or simply to amuse himself, but his proximity was enough to shatter her composure. She wanted to escape but she could not move.

The jailer was becoming restive and fidgeting behind them, anxious to get his man back to the cells. Marcus ignored him. He took a single stride forward, caught Isabella’s arm and drew her to him, bringing the tips of her breasts up against the rough material of his jacket. He bent his head. His grip tightened on her arm. Then he was kissing her.

The pressure of his lips was no more than a whisper against hers. Even so, it was enough to cast Isabella back into the past, where the memory of his kiss had been locked away along with all the other tumbling images of passion. She had hidden those feelings from herself and from others for so long and now they were stirring, threatening to break out. So much for dust and ashes. Any tenderness there had been between them might be long gone, but the attraction still flared as hot as ever. It terrified her.

She made a small, incoherent sound and tried to put some space between them, but suddenly Marcus’s arms were about her and his mouth moved over hers with an expert thoroughness that stripped away every vestige of defense. The sensual heat washed through her, burning her up, scorching her to the tips of her toes.

No one had ever kissed her the way Marcus had. Ernest had indulged in a few cursory embraces before getting down to the consummation of their marriage but his lovemaking had lacked any tenderness. In all honesty, it could hardly be dignified with the word lovemaking. A less appropriate description would be difficult to find.

Ernest had not courted her; he had bought her. Bought her, taken what he wanted, tried to mold her to his tastes. And when she had proved less than satisfactory, he’d claimed that she had reneged on their bargain, and they had continued in a hollow sham of a marriage until he died. No indeed, there had been precious little romance and no true passion in Isabella’s life. Until now.

She trembled in Marcus’s arms. The touch, taste and desire mingled as he kissed her, then released her a little only to reclaim her mouth once again. Isabella’s body roused from what felt like a long sleep as she felt the hardness of him, his strength and control. Then it was all over and he let her go with an abruptness that plunged her back into darkness.

The atmosphere between them was blistering. Marcus’s face was shadowed but in his eyes burned a flame that seared her.

“You should not have—” she began.

His expression was hard. “It needed to be done.”

“Time to go,” the jailer said from behind them. He fingered the money in his pocket suggestively. “Unless you would prefer to stay a while longer, madam? A cozy cell for the two of you to celebrate wedlock?”

Wedlock. It sounded very final.

Marcus raised an eyebrow in inquiry. Isabella wrenched her gaze away from him. “No,” she said. “No, thank you.”

Marcus turned away from her without a further word and fell into step before the jailer. He did not look back. Isabella listened as their footsteps faded away and the door of the chapel swung silently closed behind them. For one mad moment, she wanted to run after Marcus and drag him back, make him stay with her. But he had gone. That was it. It was all over.

The priest touched her arm.

“You will be wanting to be away from this place, ma’am. Allow me to escort you out.”

Isabella followed him in something of a daze through the warren of shadowed corridors and out into the daylight. The door clanged shut, leaving her out on the street. The air was bright and the afternoon was loud with the vibrant noises of the city. She felt very odd, light-headed and confused, as though she had awoken from a vivid dream, a dream laced with sensuality and long-buried desires. Except that this had been no dream. She was legally married to Marcus Stockhaven—or perhaps illegally, given the circumstances of their wedding. The thought made her heart clench with emotion.

His signet ring felt heavy and unfamiliar on her finger. She wondered why he had not pawned it to buy himself more comfort. But a man’s pride was a delicate thing and maybe selling off the family’s arms was a step too far, even for a debtor in dire straits. He could scarce be said to have graced the Stockhaven name with his behavior.

He had not sold his signet ring but he had given it to her. Isabella felt a passing regret for the fact that she could not wear it. Nevertheless, she would keep it safe, and once the marriage had been annulled she would send it back to him. No matter that he had said they would meet again. She knew it would be better—safer—never to see him.

She could feel the marriage certificate stiff in the reticule beneath her arm. She was free and she was secure from arrest, and surely that had to be the most important matter. Yet as she walked quickly out of the labyrinth of alleys that snaked about the Fleet, a deep feeling of disquiet possessed her. She wondered why she was so anxious. After all, Marcus was locked up in debtor’s prison and she was at liberty to carry on as though nothing had happened. She had exactly what she wanted.

For a moment she contemplated what might happen if Marcus were to regain his freedom and a shiver of apprehension shook her. With Marcus imprisoned, she felt safely in control of the situation. Marcus at liberty would be a very different matter. There was no way one could control a man like that. He was too strong, too forceful.

She turned her face up to the sunshine for comfort and told herself that it was impossible that Marcus would ever be free. Her debts would be dismissed, her inheritance would be proved and then she could pay for an annulment. She had no cause ever to see him again.

Nevertheless, she felt afraid.


MARCUS WAS LYING on the mattress in the empty cell, which was now his own, the book about naval architecture lying untouched by his elbow and a bottle of wine almost as untouched beside it. The cell looked exactly as it had when he had stepped in there in the weak light of morning. There was nothing to show that Isabella Di Cassilis had ever been there and in doing so had changed his life. There was no sign of her, yet her presence lingered in the air and wrapped itself about him so that it was impossible to think of anything else.

During the preceding twelve years he had thought about Isabella sometimes, but he would dispute that he had ever pined for her. His mouth twisted in bitter amusement. He was not a man to dwell on those things that might have been. He was not cut out to be a martyr. Bur while he had always believed that he had put the entire matter of his ill-fated, youthful love affair behind him, he now knew that was not so. Now he knew he wanted Isabella and he wanted a reckoning.

Marcus rubbed a hand across his eyes. He had tried very hard to shut Isabella out of his mind and his life, but he had not been able to ignore the tales entirely. Her husband’s name had been a byword for depravity, especially in his later years when he had traveled through Europe trailing a raffish court behind him like a wayward comet and taking with him a wife whose name was inevitably ruined by association with his debauchery. Marcus thought of Isabella and the crippling blow that her late husband had dealt her. Twenty thousand pounds was an immense debt to burden her with, but no doubt the feckless Prince Ernest had cared as little for that as he was reputed to have cared for his wife. And one could argue that it was only just that Isabella, who had married for money, should in her widowhood be crippled by debt.

Marcus shifted, trying to achieve a more comfortable position on the hopelessly uncomfortable mattress. Isabella had chosen to marry Prince Ernest and she was now reaping the consequences of that decision. She had jilted Marcus heartlessly to marry a rich and titled man. That was the simple truth. Marcus had fallen for the charms of an adventuress.

He had not wanted to feel anything for Isabella Di Cassilis when he met her again. He had wanted to look at her and feel nothing—no love, no hatred and certainly no desire. He had failed singularly. It had taken him all of ten seconds to realize that he still wanted her and, when she had trembled under the onslaught of his kiss, he had forgotten the grim surroundings of the Fleet and ached to take her there and then on the cold stone floor of the chapel.

No indeed, indifference was the last emotion on his mind.

Marcus got to his feet and walked over to the small grille that covered the window. Tantalizing brightness flooded in, promising all the things that he had given up—light and liberty and the freedom to do whatever he wished. He had gone voluntarily into the Fleet for a most particular purpose and Isabella’s assumptions about his financial state, while logical, could not have been further from the truth. He could buy up her debts three times over and not notice the difference.

He paused, staring at the small square of light. What did he want from Isabella Di Cassilis? She had chosen him for no more reason than that he was a convenient husband in the same way that she had made a calculated decision to marry Prince Ernest all those years before. Marcus had given her the freedom to escape her debts. He owed her nothing more. But she…she owed him an explanation of the past as well as a reckoning for the present. When he paid off her creditors, she would owe him a great deal more.

His work here was almost complete. He had been intending to call for his release in a week’s time anyway, but that could easily be brought forward by a few days. It was probably preferable to leave now anyway. Isabella’s visit, and her largesse, had made him a figure of curiosity and that he could not afford. Already there was a buzz in the air, talk of his wife’s beauty and speculation about her true identity. Secrets could not be kept in a place like this.

Marcus stared up at the small blue square of sky above his head. He did not deceive himself that Isabella would be pleased to see him at liberty. If there was one thing he had learned from their interview, it was that Princess Isabella Di Cassilis—or more accurately, the new Countess of Stockhaven—did not wish for a husband in anything more than name.

Marcus grinned. Too bad. She was about to get one. There was business unfinished between them.

He called for a pen and ink, spending one of Isabella’s guineas lavishly on the privilege of having the letter delivered immediately to an address in Brook Street.

The note was very simple:

Alistair, my plans have changed. I rely on you to get me out of here with great despatch. My thanks, S.

He paused, then added a postscript.

Pray find out for me, if you would, who are the major creditors of Princess Isabella Di Cassilis.

The turnkey was waiting to take the note. Marcus knew the man would fulfill his commission. The jailers in the Fleet had a fine instinct for power and they could sniff the change in Marcus’s fortunes.

This, they knew, was a man who would soon be free.

## CHAPTER FOUR

MR. CHURCHWARD THE ELDER, of the renowned London firm Churchward and Churchward, lawyers to the noble and the discerning, was startled to receive a visit early the following morning from no less a personage than Princess Isabella Di Cassilis. He had seen the princess only the day before, when he had had the melancholy duty of informing her of her late husband’s appalling debts. Princess Isabella had taken the news well and had promised him that she would apprise him shortly of the steps that she meant to take to clear the sum. It seemed that she had already found a solution.

Mr. Churchward came forward, hand outstretched. Had Princess Isabella not already been seated, he would certainly have dusted the chair for her. Although he professed a total impartiality toward all his clientele, it was in fact the case that Princess Isabella was one of Mr. Churchward’s most favored clients. The lawyer had some very chivalrous ideas about ladies in distress and he would have liked nothing more than to see a hero on a white charger ride to the rescue of this particular courageous lady. Unfortunately he was not that man. He was only her lawyer.

“Madam!” He took her hand and shook it warmly. “There was no need for you to come to my chambers. I should have been delighted to call upon you.”

“I would not dream of putting you to so much trouble, Mr. Churchward,” Isabella said with a smile that made Mr. Churchward tingle down to his toes. “This is a simple matter and will take a mere moment. I have come to settle my debt and I wondered whether you would deal with Henshalls for me?”

“Of course!” The lawyer shuddered to think of a lady as delicate as the Princess setting foot in the moneylenders’ offices. Not that Princess Isabella appeared fragile, precisely. A lady who had survived the rigors of marriage to the feckless Prince Ernest was to be congratulated on her hardiness. Mr. Churchward shook his head. His expression said all that was needed on the subject of profligate princes who ran through a fortune and then proceeded to accumulate debt with the gusto that others collected paintings or Grecian antiquities. Irresponsible, foolish, selfish, callous and downright unpleasant were descriptions of Prince Ernest that might have sprung to Mr. Churchward’s lips had he been less discreet. His mouth compressed to a thin line as he regarded the lady who was obliged to reap the consequences of Prince Ernest’s financial recklessness.

The princess gave him another of her mischievous smiles, which set his blood pressure awry and caused him to blush deeply. Delving in her reticule, Princess Isabella extracted a piece of paper.

“I believe that Henshalls will find this in order,” she said sweetly. “They will not care for it much, but they cannot argue with it.”

Mr. Churchward, who had expected to be holding a money order, found that he was in fact clutching a marriage certificate. Further perusal confirmed that it was for a marriage contracted in the Fleet Prison. Accompanying it was a note that stated that a certain John Ellis was prepared to take on his wife’s debts in their entirety.

Mr. Churchward gasped and adjusted his spectacles, the better to confirm the news his sinking heart was telling him.

“But madam…I…You…”

“I took your advice, Mr. Churchward,” Isabella said, “and arranged a marriage. You will find that it is quite legal.”

Mr. Churchward was flushed with agitation. The certificate dropped from his nerveless fingers to the wooden table. He moved several files agitatedly and at random, upsetting the ordered calm of his desktop.

“My advice was to marry a gentleman of fortune, Princess, not a debtor!” he spluttered. “Upon my word, madam, I cannot believe—” He broke off and scanned the sheet of paper. “It is legal, you say?”

“Of course.” Isabella looked very collected. “It is also temporary. As we agreed yesterday, Mr. Churchward, I would like you to place the house in Brunswick Gardens up for sale. I think it will fetch a goodly sum, for it is in quite a fashionable neighborhood. Once the sale is made and Aunt Jane’s legacy is also proved, I will pay Henshalls what I owe them.”

Mr. Churchward made a whimpering noise like a cat inadvertently trodden upon. He removed his glasses and polished them feverishly. The dent that they had left on his nose was bright red against the pallor of the rest of his face. Even his voice sounded pale.

“And the marriage, madam?”

“I will end that as well, of course.” Isabella snapped her reticule shut with a decisive click. “It is a matter of convenience only. Mr. Ellis will be confined to the Fleet for the foreseeable future.”

Various objections flitted through Mr. Churchward’s mind. Doubtless the princess, like many other persons unacquainted with the law, thought that it was relatively simple to achieve an annulment of a marriage. Most people erroneously assumed that non-consummation was sufficient grounds. He started to rehearse the explanations in his mind, saw the decisive set of Isabella’s jaw, and decided to bide his time. It was, after all, too late. Part of the skill in dealing with his noble clients lay in choosing one’s moment. This was not the right time to suggest to the princess that she might in fact be wed for better or worse.

Mr. Churchward mopped his forehead with his large, practical handkerchief.

“I shall not take any more of your time, Mr. Churchward,” Isabella said. She gave him a final, very sweet smile. “I shall be leaving Town for my house in Salterton in a few weeks, but I should be delighted to entertain you to tea before I go.”

“Salterton…Of course…We must speak further about your inheritance….” Mr. Churchward mumbled. Another raft of objections came into his mind. He had not yet had the chance to speak to Princess Isabella in detail about her legacy from her aunt, Lady Jane Southern, for other more pressing matters had taken precedence. He wondered how much the princess knew about her inheritance of Salterton Hall and the encumbrances upon the estate.

Churchward mopped his brow again. Should he acquaint her with the difficulties now, and explain the very delicate nature of her relationship with her tenant in the dower house? He hesitated. Best not. Isabella was already on her feet in preparation for leaving. He did not wish to detain her now.

“Perhaps we might make an appointment for next week, madam,” he suggested. “I would appreciate the opportunity to acquaint you with the detail of your estate.”

Isabella nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Churchward. Will Tuesday be convenient?”

She was already halfway out of the door, leaving nothing but a faint, delicious perfume shimmering in the air. Churchward heard her give an airy farewell to the staff in the outer office; there was the sound of her steps on the stairs, gathering speed as though she were rid of some tiresome encumbrance. Mr. Churchward smiled wryly. By the time she reached the street she would be almost running.

He perused the marriage lines and the promissory note for a third time. His hand stole toward the drawer of his battered cabinet, where a bottle of sherry was hidden for emergencies. This was a full-scale emergency if ever there was one. He paused. It would, however, be better to deal with Henshalls first. He did not relish giving those most ruthless of moneylenders the news that Princess Isabella Di Cassilis’s debts were now impossible to claim, the responsibility of some luckless wastrel in the Fleet Prison. He reached for his hat and folded the marriage lines within the pocket of his waistcoat. Sometimes he felt he did not get paid sufficient for the trials of his work. Still, for Princess Isabella Di Cassilis he would do almost anything.

An hour later, Mr. Churchward tottered back up the stairs to his chambers. He had been pale before; now he was ashen. He went directly to the cabinet, extracted the sherry and resisted the temptation to drink it straight down from the bottle. He was shaking so much that the neck of the bottle rattled like a cannonade against his sherry glass. He collapsed into his chair with a heartfelt sigh, raised his glass and gulped the revivifying liquid down with as little regard as though it had been water.

To his great amazement, the Henshall brothers had been very pleased to see him. Only an hour before, they had received a visit from a gentleman who had settled in full—and in cash—the debts of Princess Isabella Di Cassilis. There had been handshakes all round.

Mr. Churchward lay back in his chair as the sherry warmed his veins. He tried to make sense of the aspects of the case that puzzled him, which were practically all of them. Princess Isabella had given him to understand that her new husband was under lock and key and would remain so for the foreseeable future, yet when Churchward had arrived at the moneylenders’ he had discovered that the gentleman was not only at liberty but had already paid the princess’s debt.

He wondered why on earth Isabella had not told him her husband’s true identity.

He wondered what on earth Marcus Stockhaven, one of the richest men in the Ton, had been doing in the Fleet Prison.

And he wondered what the devil his two most noble clients were doing contracting an apparent marriage of convenience and then expecting him to arrange an annulment.

“Dear oh dear oh dear,” Mr. Churchward said unhappily, emptying the sherry bottle into his glass. A third glass of sherry was previously unknown in Mr. Churchward’s experience, but such unsettling circumstances called for extreme measures.


“HOW DO I LOOK?”

Marcus Stockhaven tilted his head to one side, the better to appreciate the set of his neck cloth in the mirror above the drawing-room mantelpiece.

“Like a man who has spent three months trying to tie his cravat in a dark cellar,” his friend Alistair Cantrell said brutally.

Marcus grinned. “That bad?” He surveyed his reflection thoughtfully in the mirror and rubbed a hand over the stubble shadowing his chin. “I need a barber.”

“You need more than that.” Alistair looked around. “Where is your valet?”

“I gave all the servants leave of absence whilst I was away,” Marcus said. “Why do you think you are pouring your own brandy?”

He watched as Alistair folded his lanky length into the armchair beside the fireplace. Stockhaven House was small as London town houses went, and wholly unostentatious. The Earls of Stockhaven had never felt the need to boast their wealth and lineage through vulgar display, and Marcus was no exception. Nevertheless, a house like this required a staff to run it. The room was cold, for the June evening had turned unseasonably damp. No fire glowed in the grate. The dust sat thickly on the cherrywood furniture and the whole house felt faintly unloved.

“So,” Alistair said, turning from contemplation of his brandy to study Marcus’s face. “Why the change of plan?”

Marcus shrugged. “My business was all but complete,” he said, “and I was starting to draw attention in a manner that I could ill afford.” He took a mouthful of brandy, grimaced and put his glass down. “Either someone has been selling off my liquor whilst I was in the Fleet and replacing it with tea dregs or I have lost my taste for brandy.”

Alistair looked amused. “It has an excellent flavor, Marcus.”

“Then my sense of taste has definitely been ruined by the disgusting swill that passes for food inside,” Marcus said, sighing. “I thought as much. A man must be desperate indeed to tolerate such appalling slops.”

Alistair grinned. “Just like Harrow, as I recall. But did you discover what you wanted?” He gestured with his brandy glass. “Did you find Warwick—and his criminals? You must know that I am expiring with curiosity. Tell me all.”

Marcus stretched out his long legs toward the empty fire grate. He felt as chill as the house, cold and empty. One of the reasons he had been able to spend three months in the Fleet was that there was no one to notice his absence. In the years since his wife had died, he had traveled widely. No one was in the least surprised when he disappeared for months on end, and positions in his service were eagerly sought since his servants had the longest holidays in London.

In the three days since his release from the Fleet Prison, he had noticed more than ever before the emptiness of Stockhaven House. It was odd, for previously his solitude had never disturbed him. Now, however, he felt that he wanted more—although he was not sure exactly what more was. A house full of servants did not seem the answer.

“I discovered that the prison is a fertile ground for the recruitment of men to the criminal fraternity,” he said, in reply to Alistair’s question. “Debtors who are desperate for their freedom will promise anything to those who buy them out of jail.”

Alistair pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “Just as you thought. But surely it would be better to recruit a bunch of hardened criminals in Newgate rather than the Fleet?”

Marcus shook his head. “What is the point of recruiting a man who may well hang the next day? The debtors of the Fleet are a better class of criminal. Some may not even be criminals at all. But all are frantic for lack of money, and the man who can buy them out of prison has a hold over them for the rest of their lives.”

“Is Edward Warwick one such?” Alistair asked.

Marcus nodded. Hunting Warwick, a criminal mastermind, was the reason he had gone into the Fleet in the first place. “He is certainly one of the main players,” he said. “I spent three months in a cell with men who were terrified of his very name. All my cell mates were too afraid to tell me more than the merest scraps of information about him. I learned that Warwick buys a man’s debts—buys their very souls—so that they dance to his tune.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “It sounds as though you were wise to make your inquiries incognito. You never met the man yourself during your time in the Fleet?”

“Unfortunately not, although he regularly visits the prison to recruit his men. But perhaps it was fortunate that Warwick and I have not yet met.” Marcus’s mouth took on a grim line. “We will one day and I would wish to be better prepared.”

Alistair Cantrell nodded. “So did you discover anything useful about the fire at Salterton? Can you tie it to Warwick for sure?”

“Yes, I can,” Marcus said. His gaze turned inward, away from the cold, dusty room. It had been bad, that winter night at Salterton six months ago. It was the night that his wife’s mother, Lady Jane Southern, had died. He had been up at Salterton Hall trying to restore order and bring comfort to the servants, many of whom had served the Southern family for years. Marcus had been grief struck and bone weary, and when he returned to his own house in the grounds at nigh on midnight, he had wanted nothing but the oblivion of sleep. Instead, he had caught a lad in the very act of burgling his late wife’s chamber. The boy had overturned a lamp in his attempts to escape. In a matter of seconds the tapestries and curtains were ablaze and so was the boy’s clothing. The lad had made a desperate leap from the window in an attempt to escape.

The evening took on a nightmarish horror.

Fire was a terrifying phenomenon. Marcus had seen it rip through a battleship more than once. Even now he could hear the crack as the arsenal exploded and feel the shock wave run through the water. The fire that had gutted the second floor of his house at Salterton had been on a much smaller scale, but it was no less devastating. He could still see the image of the young lad lying on the gravel, a small, crumpled figure barely more than eleven years old, too pitiful to think of as a criminal. When he reached the boy’s side he feared him dead, but the youth was alive and delirious. His eyes were open and he kept repeating the name Warwick like an enchantment. When Marcus questioned him gently, he murmured, “Mr. Warwick sent me to find what is rightfully his.” And then he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Marcus called the physician, who was still up at Salterton Hall, and paid for the treatment himself. He felt an obscure guilt over the boy’s injuries, as though he were responsible for the lad’s plight. The boy was the son of one of the Salterton villagers and they took him home to nurse him. There was puzzlement and embarrassment in their eyes as they tried to explain to Marcus that Edward was a good lad and they did not understand where it had all gone wrong. Marcus did not press charges, despite the disapproval of the constable. And then a few weeks later he heard that the lad had run away, although still dangerously weakened by his injuries. His parents shrank still further into themselves and became shadows of the people they had been. Once respected and sure of their place in the community, they became like ghosts. John Channing worked in his cobbler’s shop as he had always done, but was dour and unsmiling. Mary Channing took in laundry but turned her face away from the gossip of her neighbors. And when Marcus called, he soon realized that his presence was a torment to them, not a comfort, for it reminded them of the disgrace their son had brought on their name.

It was then that Marcus determined to find out what had happened to lead Edward Channing astray. He wanted to discover the identity of the mysterious puppet master whose manipulations drove Edward to ransack Marcus’s house and then burn it down. He needed to know what the lad had been searching for.

And there was another mystery. On the evening of her death, Lady Jane Southern had a visitor. No one saw him leave and, in the aftermath of her death, most people forgot him. But Marcus possessed a strange conviction that his appearance had something to do with both Lady Jane’s death and the fire.

“Mr. Warwick sent me to find what is rightfully his….”

Marcus had no notion what it was that he apparently possessed. He had only the name of Warwick to give him a lead, and he trod very carefully in his investigations, making no overt inquiries, drawing as little attention as possible.

It was when he approached the home secretary, Lord Sidmouth, that he discovered the connection to the Fleet Prison. Sidmouth proved to be most interested in Warwick and his activities. The man was a master criminal, the home secretary had said, drawing his supporters from those desperate debtors who thronged the Fleet. He’d given Marcus tacit permission to continue his inquiries—inside the prison.

Alistair was waiting patiently, his gaze thoughtful on Marcus’s face. His friend was the only other person who knew of Marcus’s quest to find Edward Warwick.

“I had to go very cautiously to avoid suspicion,” Marcus said now. “I let slip that I had heard of a fire at a big house in Salterton, and of rich pickings there, and a few agreed that Edward Warwick had said that there had been treasure there but that it had not been found.”

“Treasure?” Alistair said, frowning.

“That was the word they used.”

“Which could be money, or jewels…”

“Or information.”

Alistair rubbed his brow. “Information in your own house of which you know nothing, Marcus?”

“Perhaps,” Marcus said. “Or information that Lady Jane possessed. Curious, is it not?” He turned his empty brandy glass between his fingers. “I am no closer to discovering what it is that Warwick wants, nor to finding out any more about the man himself than I knew before. He has as many names and disguises as he has criminal interests, but he is so feared and protected that I could find out little more.”

“So you asked in the Fleet and found little,” Alistair said thoughtfully, “and what do you propose to do now?”

“Two things,” Marcus said. He knew that he could not let the matter go now.

“I shall make further discreet inquiries into Warwick’s business here in London, and if that fails to turn up new information I shall return to Salterton, where it all began, and see what else I may discover from there. The renovation of the dower house is almost complete. It will be good to see how it progresses.”

“I suppose that you will have a new landlord now that Lady Jane has passed away,” Alistair said thoughtfully. “To whom did she leave her estate? Freddie Standish would be her closest male relative, I assume?”

“He is,” Marcus said, “but he does not inherit. The hall was not entailed.” He paused. The lease on his house at Salterton, which was little more than a cottage orneé that stood in the grounds of Salterton Hall, had been granted to him when he had married Isabella’s cousin, India Southern. He had plenty of houses but it had been a convenient arrangement to take Salterton Cottage for it provided India with a home of her own when she wished to visit her parents at the hall. Lady Jane had been fond of him and had allowed him to retain the lease after India’s death and although he had visited Salterton less frequently, he still paid a visit there every so often. It was on one of these visits that Lady Jane had told him that she had left Salterton Hall to Isabella on her death. Marcus had already known, though he did not say so. The terms of Lady Jane’s will had thrust a sharp wedge between herself and her daughter India when first they had come to light.

“Mama has always favored Isabella over me!” India had said to him once in a passionate outburst that was utterly out of character for her. “She told me that I had no need of Salterton because I was married to you, and that Isabella had always cared for the place far more than I!” India’s face had contorted with distress. “My cousin has been writing to Mama and pretending to an interest and a concern that she does not feel! First she marries that disgusting old man for his money and now she cuts me out of my inheritance! I cannot believe Mama would do such a thing to me!”

Marcus had tried to soothe her but India would not be comforted, and there had been a tense atmosphere between mother and daughter ever after. Since India had predeceased her mother, the matter of the inheritance of Salterton had become almost academic, but Marcus had never forgotten the bitter betrayal that India felt. It seemed a further example of Isabella’s cupidity.

A sardonic smile curved Marcus’s lips at the thought of his new wife as an heiress—and his landlady. What was it that Isabella had said? Her financial embarrassment was of a temporary nature and their marriage of convenience would last only until she had sold her house and realized her inheritance. He had assumed that she had some expectation of salvaging something at least from Prince Ernest’s estate, but now he wondered if it was in fact Jane Southern’s legacy that Isabella was relying on. It was another link in the shadowy chain of family ties and old history that bound them to one another.

“Freddie Standish needs the money,” Alistair said, breaking into Marcus’s thoughts. “He will not be pleased to lose the inheritance. He survives on nothing but his pay and Miss Standish’s meager allowance, so I hear. He is rather a ram-shackle fellow.”

Marcus had never had much to say to Freddie, Lord Standish. It was an accident of marriage that had made them cousins-in-law and their paths had seldom crossed. In fact he had once sensed a dislike of him in Freddie, all the stronger for remaining unspoken, and had steered clear of the man with an indifferent shrug.

He had a warmer regard for Isabella’s sister Penelope, a fearsome bluestocking who had the misfortune to share a small house with Freddie in an unfashionable part of Town. But Pen Standish never went into society, so he did not know her well.

“I could not see Standish choosing to live at Salterton,” Marcus said. “Town is his natural habitat.”

“He could always have sold the house,” Alistair pointed out.

“Which was no doubt one of the reasons Lady Jane chose to leave it to another member of the family,” Marcus said. “She wished it to go to someone whom she thought cared for it.”

Alistair looked quizzical. “Not to you, Marcus? The old lady was monstrous fond of you.”

“No,” Marcus said, shaking his head a little. “She did not leave it to me.”

“Then whom?”

“I believe her heir is Princess Isabella Di Cassilis,” Marcus said.

Alistair pursed his lips into a silent whistle. His eyes were bright. “So that was why you wished me to check on the princess’s debts! I had heard that she had returned to London. The papers have been full of the news.”

Marcus hesitated. Despite asking Alistair to discover the information on Isabella’s debt to Henshalls, he had not confided the truth of his marriage to his oldest friend. Alistair, who had been his groomsman at the ill-fated wedding twelve years ago, would be astonished to know that Marcus had offered marriage to Isabella now. No, he would be beyond astonishment. He would imagine that Marcus had lost his mind. And for Marcus to admit that his motive was a stark and ruthless revenge seemed somehow ignoble. It was not the sort of thing one man confessed to another. Nevertheless, he could not keep his friend in ignorance any longer. The whole of London would soon know of the match.

“There was another reason that I was interested in the princess’s situation,” he said slowly. “We were married on Tuesday.”

He waited while Alistair blinked owlishly, looked at the brandy bottle and then back at him. Alistair’s lips moved silently, forming the words princess and married. Marcus grinned.

“Damned if your brandy hasn’t been tampered with after all, Marcus,” Alistair said, after a moment. “Either that or I’m touched in the attic. I thought you said that you were married to the Princess Isabella. Must be hearing things.”

“You heard aright,” Marcus said. He smiled slightly. “I realize that the news of my nuptials is somewhat sudden.”

“And unexpected.” Alistair was frowning at him. “I had no idea that you were so attached to Salterton Hall that you were prepared to marry the heiress to gain it,” he added. “Why could you not simply make Lady Jane an offer to buy the house? Or was that too easy for you?”

“It was not like that,” Marcus said ruefully.

“A whirlwind courtship in the Fleet, was it?” Alistair said sarcastically. “Ah, the pure romance of it all!” He sat back in his wide armchair, looking resigned. “Damn it, Marcus, I hate the way you spring these surprises.”

Marcus sighed. “In truth there is little to tell. We met, we married and now I am come to claim my bride.”

“As one does,” Alistair said dryly. He shifted, rubbing his brow. “I suppose you are aware that Fleet marriages were made illegal nigh on fifty years ago?”

“I am aware.” Marcus stood up and dusted the sleeves of his jacket in an attempt to make the ancient evening outfit look a little less shiny and a little more acceptable for wearing in polite society. If he was to make a show of claiming Isabella, then he wanted to look his best to do it. His efforts were unsuccessful, however. He mused that perhaps he should visit his tailor as well as his barber on the morrow.

“This marriage, however, is not illegal,” he continued. “It was celebrated by a proper priest and authorized by special license. It is signed and sealed. You may trust Princess Isabella to have made sure of that. She could not afford for the marriage to be overset.”

Alistair nodded. “Of course. The debts.”

“Precisely.”

Alistair’s mouth turned down at the corners with deep disapproval.

“I do believe that one of us is mad here, Marcus, and I am not sure that it is I. How could you even countenance such an arrangement, given the history between yourself and Princess Isabella?” He caught Marcus’s sleeve and compelled him to sit down. “Cease fussing over that jacket, Marcus. Nothing will make it look any better. Instead tell me what is going on.”

Marcus sat back with a sigh. “It is a marriage of convenience,” he said. “Princess Isabella needed a husband to keep her debtors at bay and on the strength of our brief, previous acquaintance she approached me for assistance. Which I was—” He hesitated. “Persuaded to give.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Of all the rum starts, Marcus! Brief, previous acquaintance indeed!”

“I appreciate that it must appear strange,” Marcus said. He sat forward, feeling the constriction of the jacket across his shoulders. “Hmm. I require a new wardrobe—”

“To go with your new wife, I suppose,” Alistair said. “You are not making sense, Marcus. I thought that no one but I knew of your sojourn in the Fleet. How did Princess Isabella find you?”

“By happy chance,” Marcus said, a little grimly. “As I said, she needed a debtor and I was available.”

“The devil you were! Does she know that you were in the Fleet by your own choice?”

“Not yet,” Marcus said. “It is one of the many surprises that I have in store for her tonight. I cannot pretend that she will be pleased to see me, but that cannot be helped.”

Alistair peered at him. “I always thought that weddings were supposed to be happy affairs,” he said. “You do not seem very enamored of your bride, Marcus. Furthermore, this is not like you at all.”

Marcus fidgeted restlessly. He felt irritable and rather suspected it was with himself.

“On the contrary it is very like me. I become bored with the conventions of society—”

“So you arrange to be locked in the Fleet and then marry a shady princess into the bargain,” Alistair said.

“Exactly.” Marcus paused. “The marriage is a secret for the time being, however. I should be obliged if you would keep it so, Alistair.”

“Why?” his friend asked bluntly. “I mean, why is it a secret, not why should I help you keep it so, which goes without saying if you wish it of me.”

“There are various reasons,” Marcus said. “Firstly, my wife is unaware that I have achieved my release from prison and I wish to discuss the matter with her before our marriage becomes common knowledge. Secondly…” He hesitated. “Well, I have said that it is a match of convenience. It may be that the marriage will not endure long.”

Alistair was shaking his head. “Dashed irregular. The more I hear, the worse it becomes. Hope you know what you’re doing, Marcus.”

“I am not certain that I do,” Marcus conceded. “However, if I could ask you to keep the secret for now…?”

“Mute as an undertaker’s boy, I promise you,” Alistair said. He shook his head. “Lord, but I’d give a monkey to see the Dowagers’ faces when they realize another earl is off the marriage mart! And caught by a lady with such a scandalous reputation—” He stopped. There was a short and very pointed silence. The bleakness in Marcus’s heart was matched only by the pity in Alistair’s eyes.

“Just so,” Marcus said.

“My apologies,” Alistair said. “You will not wish to hear your wife’s name bandied about.”

Marcus shut his lips in a grim line. When Alistair had spoken he had felt the kick of rage through his body like a lightning strike. God help him, if a passing reference to Isabella could do this to him…he felt a white-hot possessive fury that beat anything he had ever experienced before. By rights Isabella Di Cassilis was his, now more than ever, and he would not rest until it was true in word and deed, and the memory of all that had gone before was wiped out.

He clenched his fists in his pockets and slowly released them.

“This is a marriage of convenience, Alistair,” he said, with a passable attempt at nonchalance.

“And so far the convenience appears to be all on the princess’s side,” Alistair pointed out. “I hesitate to appear meddlesome, Marcus, but what is the benefit to you?”

Marcus met his eyes very directly. “I want a reckoning. She owes me that.”

Alistair was shaking his head. “There is nothing so bitter and empty as revenge, Marcus. Let it go.”

“It is not for me,” Marcus argued, knowing that he was lying in part at least. “Princess Isabella drove a wedge between India and her mother that never healed.”

“And you feel guilty about India,” Alistair said heavily. “So you think to make Princess Isabella suffer for your guilt.”

The anger seethed within Marcus. “I would not allow many men to get away with such a remark,” he said through shut teeth.

“Not many men would have the guts to tell you the truth,” Alistair said with unimpaired calm.

The tension in the room simmered down a degree. Marcus gave a short laugh. “Damn you, Alistair.”

“By all means, old fellow,” Alistair agreed.

There was a silence.

“I do feel guilty,” Marcus admitted, after a moment. “India and I led such separate lives. I was never there for her.”

“She would still have died, Marcus. You were not responsible for that.”

Marcus moved restlessly. “If I had been here in Town instead of at Stockhaven…”

Alistair shook his head. “Marcus, she stepped in front of a carriage. It was an accident.”

Marcus did not reply. He wondered if there would ever come a time when he could think of his late wife without the mixture of paralyzing guilt and remorse that he felt now.

“I do not suppose,” he said after a moment, “that you know where Princess Isabella will be this evening?”

Alistair looked at him suspiciously. “What, am I your social secretary now? She is your wife. That is the sort of thing that a husband should know.”

Marcus sighed. “Touché, old chap. So?”

Alistair sighed, too. “You will find her at the Duchess of Fordyce’s ball. The old lady is very high in the instep, but not too high to welcome royalty.”

“Foreign royalty with a tarnished reputation?”

“Always welcome. It gives Her Grace’s guests something to talk about.”

“Hmm.” Marcus found that he disliked the idea of people gaping at Isabella as though she were a freak show. He knew he should not give a rush either way, but he did, and the knowledge was not entirely welcome.

“Do you have an invitation?” he inquired.

Alistair looked wry. “Second sons do not receive invitations to the Duchess of Fordyce’s events, Marcus.” He frowned. “I thought that we were going to White’s tonight?”

Marcus shook his head. “My plans have changed. I would like to indulge my sudden taste for society. Do you think the Duchess would welcome an itinerant earl, if not a younger son?”

“If the earl were rich and respectable enough, he would be welcomed with open arms,” Alistair said dryly. “I am not certain that she approves of you, though, Marcus. You are somewhat disreputable.”

Marcus looked offended. “I am not!”

“Well, at the least you are…” Alistair waved his hand about vaguely as though trying to pluck a description from the air. “Eccentric. Different. You are not in the normal run of earls. You have odd interests.”

“My interests are not odd.”

Alistair picked a book from the table and tilted it toward the lamplight. “Theoretical Naval Architecture,” he read aloud. “I rest my case.”

Marcus shrugged. “I am undertaking the design of a new frigate for the admiralty. They are plagued by those fast ships of the American Navy and wish to match their skill.”

Alistair laughed. “I doubt that such projects, worthy as they are, will convince the Duchess of Fordyce that you are anything other than unconventional, Marcus.”

“Well, if the duchess will not invite me then I must invite myself,” Marcus said. “I doubt that she will go so far as to throw me from the door.”

Alistair raised his brows critically. “You will attend a society ball looking like that?”

“Of course.” Marcus got to his feet. “My story is that I am but recently returned from Italy. They are a great deal more casual in their dress on the continent.”

“They would need to be deplorably so to pass muster looking as you do,” Alistair said with a grin. “However, if we are fortunate, the evening will already be well advanced and no one will notice us.”

“On the contrary,” Marcus said, “I intend to make an entrance.”

“To what purpose?”

Marcus’s eyes gleamed. “To disconcert my wife, of course. It will be my pleasure.”

He got to his feet. “An undertaker’s mute, eh?” he said with a look at his friend. “How very appropriate, when I imagine that Princess Isabella will view my arrival very much as the funeral of all her plans.” He clapped Alistair on the back. “Let us waste no more time. I am anxious to claim my bride.”

## CHAPTER FIVE

“STOCKHAVEN HAS BEEN ASKING about you, Mr. Warwick.”

The room, at the top of a building in Wigmore Street, was hot and oppressive. Downstairs the expensive modiste’s shop that fronted the business was closed for the night. The equally expensive brothel that operated at the back was just starting to get busy.

A dazzling peach-and-gold sunset was fading over the London rooftops, but inside the room, the dirty windowpanes seemed to block out all that was fresh and alive. A bluebottle buzzed plaintively against the glass, seeking escape. The candles hissed softly. The man behind the desk was writing. He did not pause, or look up.

“Where?” His voice was very quiet. It was one of the things about Edward Warwick that frightened people; the contrast between the smooth surface and the viciousness beneath.

“In the Fleet.”

“I knew that.” Warwick looked up and a slight smile touched his mouth. “I might almost feel sorry for him. Three months in that hellhole and not a thing to show for it.” His expression sharpened, slate-gray eyes narrowing. “I take it that no one talked?”

“Of course not.” The other man was standing in front of the desk. He had not been invited to sit. “No one would dare, sir.”

Warwick stood up. He was not a tall man. Indeed, his air of near-frailty might lead some to underestimate him. He was fair, willowy and of such indeterminate appearance that no one was likely to remember him clearly. Which was just as it suited him.

“Then why are you here, Pearce?” There was a distinct undertone of menace in Warwick’s voice now. “It cannot be to tell me something I already know. I hope you are not wasting my time.”

The other man was nervous. “No, sir. I’m here because Stockhaven got married. In the Fleet, three days ago. We thought you might wish to know.”

Warwick froze. “Married? To whom?”

Pearce gulped. “To the Princess Isabella Di Cassilis, sir.”

There was a silence. Nothing happened. Warwick was as still as though he had not heard. Nevertheless, Pearce quaked in his shoes.

“You are certain?” Warwick’s voice was very soft now.

“Yes, sir. Which means that Stockhaven—”

“Owns Salterton Hall now. Yes, I realize that.”

Pearce fell silent. Edward Warwick did not need him to make his deductions for him. He had a mind like a steel blade.

“I thought,” Warwick said, after a long interval, “that Princess Isabella was ruined by debt and would be obliged to sell Salterton. How damnably annoying.”

“Her debts were more pressing than we had been led to believe. She had no time.” Pearce shook his head. “Henshalls are very discreet, sir.”

Warwick sighed. Not even his intelligence was accurate every time.

“This is inconvenient.”

Pearce knew that to be an understatement. He waited.

Warwick sighed again. “Very well. Leave this with me. Watch Stockhaven, and keep me informed.” He opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a small bag. The contents clinked softly. Warwick pushed it across the desk to Pearce. “You have done well.”

Pearce was so relieved that his body came out in a cold sweat. He brushed a droplet away from his brow. “Thank you, sir.”

He took the money and went. The fresh air swirled along the corridor downstairs. He could hear the sounds of female shrieks and masculine laughter from the open windows of the brothel. He did not want to linger. He had money for drink now and he still had his job. And his life. The last man to occupy Pearce’s role had disappeared and turned up six weeks later in the Thames. One could never be certain with Mr. Warwick.


ACROSS TOWN IN BRUNSWICK Gardens, Isabella was reading the evening edition of the Gentlemen’s Athenian Mercury. That newspaper was taking a close interest in her affairs and she did not care for it.

Members of the Ton will doubtless be disappointed to have seen so little of the lovely Princess IDC since her return from foreign shores. Can it be true that the princess has become a recluse, or is it merely that she is so short of funds that she cannot afford a new dress in which to dazzle society? Or perhaps the upright society hostesses cannot countenance such a bird of paradise upsetting their nests? One matter is for sure—the Princess will not find a rich gentleman to meet all her needs if she hides away at home….

Isabella put down the paper with a sigh. For a week now that vulgar publication had been running a series of announcements on the return of a certain royal personage whom they coyly referred to as Princess IDC. It did not take the finest minds in Europe to identify which particular princess they were referring to. Isabella sighed again. It seemed that someone was selling information about her. Most of it was presented as speculation, of course, but a couple of times the informant had been uncomfortably close to the mark. There had been a reference to her need to sell the Brunswick Gardens house, for example, and an accurate description of its tasteless opulence. Isabella found it disconcerting that someone should know so much about her life.

“Miss Penelope Standish, Your Serene Highness.”

The butler’s smooth tones broke into her thoughts. Belton spoke with the air of a man announcing news in somewhat dubious taste. It had been clear to Isabella from the beginning that Belton was a servant of discrimination, who felt it might be slightly beneath his dignity to work for a family where the genes of King George’s fishmonger were combined with the poor reputation of a third-rate European prince. After all, he had served the most high-ranking families of the land. This could only be construed as a comedown.

The butler’s tone was not lost on the young lady who entered the library, for she gave him a twinkling smile. When he responded with a faint but irresistible twitch of the lips, she went into a peal of laughter.

“Good evening, Belton. I always have the impression that you wish you had a respectable duchess to announce.”

“Madam…” the butler said repressively. “It is scarcely my place to express a preference.”

Pen gave him another melting smile, very like her sister’s, and came forward to kiss Isabella.

“You look very doleful this evening, Your Serene Highness,” she said. “Have you lost a guinea and found a groat?”

“Please drop the Serene Highness nonsense,” Isabella besought. “I have asked Belton time and time again, but he insists that it is not appropriate merely to call me madam.”

“I should think not,” Pen said cheerfully, throwing herself down on the sofa with hoydenish abandon. “The least you can do is give your servants the gratification of addressing you properly if they have the privilege of working for a princess. There is nothing worse than a lady of consequence who will not accept her own importance, you know.”

“You talk a great deal of nonsense,” Isabella said. Nevertheless, she felt cheered. Until Pen had arrived she had been drinking a solitary cup of tea and staring blankly at the newspapers, wondering what the Gentlemen’s Athenian Mercury would make of the real truth. She had importuned a former lover to marry her; she had contracted the marriage in the Fleet Prison and she intended to have it annulled as soon as she could. If the editors of the papers knew the true story, their gossip columns would likely burst into flames.

“You look tired,” Pen was saying solicitously.

“I have not slept,” Isabella said with a sigh. “It puts me out of countenance.”

It was not in fact accurate to describe the last night as sleepless. Her bouts of wakefulness had been punctuated by broken dreams about Marcus of such astoundingly erotic content that she had been dizzy and aroused upon awakening, unable to banish him from her mind. She had been forced to dredge up her Latin declensions in order to try and bore herself to calm. It was the third night it had happened and thinking of it now was sufficient to put her out of countenance all over again.

“Are we not to attend the Duchess of Fordyce’s rout?” Pen inquired, stripping off her gloves. She gestured to her rose-pink gown. “Here I am dusting down the only dress in my wardrobe worthy of the occasion and I find you sitting here with a face like a December morning.” Her comical expression faded. “Oh! I forgot—you were to see Mr. Churchward this week about Ernest’s debts, were you not? Was it so very bad?”

“Worse than very bad,” Isabella confirmed.

Pen made a tutting sound. “Then I am surprised not to find you at your packing,” she said. “Was Mr. Churchward’s advice not to return to the continent?”

“It was one of the suggestions that he made,” Isabella said evasively. She did not intend to tell Pen about her marriage of convenience. This was no altruistic move designed to spare her sister the shock, but sprang from the certain knowledge that Pen would disapprove and, further, would express that disapproval in very pithy terms. And since Isabella intended to dissolve the marriage before the ink was dry on the certificate, there was no need for Pen to know anything. It would have been nice to have a confidante, but in recent years Isabella had become used to keeping her own counsel and, besides, she knew the one thing it would be dangerous to discuss was Marcus Stockhaven.

“This house is to be sold,” she continued. “Not that I regret that particularly, since it was Ernest’s and he furnished it in his customary deplorable taste.”

Pen looked around at the ostentatious golden ornaments and flamboyant decor. “It would be appropriate for a bawdy house,” she conceded, “but I cannot favor it for a residence.”

“Mr. Churchward thinks that a nabob may buy it,” Isabella said gloomily. “Home from home, so to speak.”

“A sound idea.” Pen reached over and rang the bell for another cup of tea. “And if you need additional funds,” she added, “you could sell off those gaudy knickknacks Ernest bought one by one.”

Isabella shook her head. “They are worthless. Just as my jewelry is mostly paste, so are the ornaments all made of gilt. The Di Cassilis treasures were pawned years ago to pay for Ernest’s pleasures.”

Pen sighed. “How very frustrating. You must have been tempted to go upstairs, cut up all of Ernest’s English clothes and throw them into the streets out of sheer revenge.”

Isabella frowned. “I cannot destroy those,” she said. “I need to sell them.”

The door opened to admit a footman carrying a tea tray with a fresh pot, a china cup and several floury scones.

Pen poured. “Scones at this time of the evening!” she said delightedly. “What a marvelous way to fortify oneself for a ball.” She stirred honey slowly into her tea. “Where will you live when the house is sold, Bella?”

“I intend to live quietly at Salterton Hall on the money that Aunt Jane left me,” Isabella said. “I rather fancy becoming a recluse.”

Pen, who was about to take a mouthful of tea, almost choked.

“You have windmills in your head, Bella, if you imagine that retiring to a seaside resort will turn you into a recluse,” she declared. “Surely you realize that you will always remain an object of curiosity, especially in a small society like that of Salterton?”

“After racketing around Europe in Ernest’s shadow, I assure you that a little peace and quiet is what I require,” Isabella said. “I am persuaded that Salterton will not find me in the least bit scandalous or even interesting.”

Pen gave a disbelieving snort. “And I assure you that they will. If I had any money I would bet on it.” The derisive note faded from her voice. “You will become bored, you know, Bella. It may seem appealing now to settle in a quiet backwater, but in a short while you will be looking for occupation.”

“I am sure that I will find something with which to occupy myself,” Isabella said comfortably. She had thought long and hard about her future and the idea of a quiet retirement was hugely attractive. “The sea cure, the circulating library, the visitors from Town…All will provide me with distraction.”

Pen’s face lit with a smile. “You could always write letters, I suppose. I remember that you were a prodigiously interesting correspondent during your marriage.”

Isabella grimaced. “I thank you, but no.” She tapped the newspaper. “It seems that some enterprising person has already chosen to profit from my activities. It is only a matter of time before my letters make it into print. It is most vexing,” she added. “Such a shoddy little publication, as well!”

“Would it have been better had the gossip been printed in the Times?” Pen inquired.

“Certainly. One gets a better standard of scandal in those sorts of papers.” Isabella sighed gustily. “It cannot be helped. My entire married life has been dogged by quizzes and gossips. But you will forgive me if I do not set pen to paper again.”

Pen’s brow was furrowed as she scanned the column in the paper.

“Do you know who is writing this?”

Isabella shrugged. “It could be anyone. Acquaintances, servants…Certainly it seems to be someone who has more than a little knowledge of my life.”

Pen bit her lip. “Do you intend to try and find out who it is?”

Isabella raised her brows. “I shall not bother. A little more tittle-tattle can scarcely harm me.”

Pen put the paper aside. “So if you are not to write letters,” she said, “the seawater cure it is. Assuming that you do not expire from the excitement first!” She paused. “You do know that you will have Marcus Stockhaven as tenant at Salterton? Aunt Jane leased Salterton Cottage to him when he and cousin India were married.”

Isabella, whose teacup had been balanced precariously on the arm of her chair, now jumped so much that the liquid cascaded onto the floor.

“Marcus Stockhaven? Why did you not tell me before?”

She realized that her words had come out much more stridently than she had intended. Pen was staring at her, a little flushed.

“Well, upon my word! I had no idea that the matter would be of such great import to you after all these years,” she said. “Is it not Mr. Churchward’s job to acquaint you with your inheritance, rather than mine?” She paused, adding more lightly, “Marcus has seldom visited Salterton since Aunt Jane died. You need have no fear of meeting him unexpectedly, if that is what concerns you.”

“I beg your pardon,” Isabella said, still flustered. Her pulse was thrumming and her heart beating in her throat, and it was the mere mention of Marcus’s name that had done it. God forbid that she should meet him again. She would be a quivering wreck. But of course, she would not. She reminded herself that he was in prison. Perhaps the tenancy of Salterton had been a problem for him. Since he did not own the house, he would not have been able to sell it to settle his debts.

She used the opportunity provided by the spilled tea to turn away from Pen and gather up her shattered control. “I did not intend to sound so sharp, Pen. I was merely surprised.” She looked up, as flushed as Pen from surprise and guilty conscience. “I do apologize.”

Pen looked evasive. “Oh, it is nothing to the purpose. It must have slipped the minds of both Aunt Jane and myself to mention it in our correspondence.”

Isabella hesitated. There was an odd tone in Pen’s voice and an odd feeling in the room, as though something had been left unsaid. She waited but Pen merely avoided her gaze and fidgeted with her teaspoon, smearing honey over the saucer.

“I infer that Mr. Churchward did not mention the matter to you at all?” Pen added.

Isabella’s shoulders slumped. She recalled that on her first meeting with Churchward after she had returned to England, the lawyer had indeed attempted to tell her something of the encumbrances upon her new estate, but she had waved the matter aside. The issue of Ernest’s debts had become far more pressing than any other matter and she had forgotten all about the details of Salterton. It looked as though it would prove to be an expensive oversight. It seemed that she was tied to Marcus Stockhaven in more ways than she had anticipated, and none of them were welcome.

“No, he did not,” she said. “How provoking!”

Pen raised her eyebrows. “That Churchward forgot to tell you?”

“No! Yes!” Isabella collected herself. “I do recall him mentioning something about a tenant, but I did not pursue it.”

“Oh well…” Pen seemed anxious to let the subject go. “I imagine you will not be much troubled by Marcus. Salterton Cottage was damaged by fire a few months ago and is uninhabitable. Besides, Marcus chooses to live elsewhere—or to travel. One seldom sees him in society. I am not even sure where he is now.”

Imprisoned in the Fleet for debt, Isabella thought.

She swallowed a variety of uncomfortable feelings and kept quiet. Her overriding emotion was a deep and heartfelt desire for Marcus to be kept under lock and key. If he were ever to be free…the very thought of it was sufficient to make her insides quake.

At the same time, she was puzzled. What had happened to render Marcus’s financial state so dire? She had asked him but he had declined to explain and she had not pressed. Now she wished she had.

“I imagine you will not be much troubled by him…”

Truth to tell, she was already far more troubled by Marcus Stockhaven than Pen would ever know.

Her sister was fidgeting with her cup.

“I wish I could help you, Bella,” Pen was saying. “Financially, I mean. I know this is not how you would have wished your return to England to be.”

Isabella shook her head. She appreciated her sister’s generosity but Pen subsisted on next to nothing as it was. Their father had left her a small allowance, enough to permit her to live quietly in an unfashionable corner of London, but there was certainly not enough to make any kind of impression on Ernest’s debts.

“You are all kindness, Penelope,” she said, smiling, “but my situation is not too dreadful. I have managed to stave off bankruptcy for a few months and once this house is sold, I shall be solvent again and able to afford to live in the country if I am careful. In fact my plans are falling out rather well.”

Rather well if one discounted the small inconvenience of an unwanted husband, she amended silently. She made a mental note to ask Mr. Churchward for the particulars of annulment at once. She hoped that he might be able to speak of matters such as non-consummation of the marriage without too much personal embarrassment.

Pen’s chatter recalled her thoughts.

“I warrant that some country gentleman will snap you up,” her sister was saying. “A man of fortune and standing in Salterton society, who has great plans for the development of the place as a resort and wishes for a titled wife to add to his prestige.”

“God forbid,” Isabella said, shuddering. “I fear I would be too outrageous for such an upright man.”

Her sister looked at her. “True,” she said, after a moment. “There is something—” she hesitated “—something too sophisticated about you to sit comfortably in a small town with a small-town husband. You would always do something scandalous and shock the local worthies. I know you.”

“I am not scandalous!” Isabella objected. “Ernest was scandalous. I am quite…”

“Quite?”

“Quite respectable.”

“Doing it too brown, Bella,” Pen said with relish. “It is true that you are not disreputable in the sense that Ernest was, but being a princess has conferred certain privileges on you that make you dismissive of society’s rules.”

“I insist that you give an example,” Isabella said indignantly.

“Very well.” Pen seemed calmly assured of the truth of her assertion. “You put your elbows on the dinner table. You address the servants directly as though they were real people. You have been known to attend a sparring match at the Fives Court. You have ridden one of those newfangled hobbyhorse wheeled contraptions, which no lady could consider genteel—”

Isabella waved a dismissive hand. “Such matters are scarcely outrageous!”

“You told the Duchess of Saint Just that she treated her niece worse than a scullery maid—”

“Well, so she did. She forced the child to starch the linen until her fingers blistered!”

“And you told Prince Bazalget that he was an old lecher to consider marrying a seventeen-year-old girl.”

Isabella opened her eyes very wide. “I have strong feelings on such a subject.”

“Understandably,” Pen said. “But you do admit the accuracy of what I am saying?”

Isabella deflated a little. “I suppose so. Manners do not make this princess, do they?”

Pen leaned across and gave her a spontaneous hug. “You are splendid, Bella. But you will never be respectable.”

A certain raucous noise from the entrance hall at that moment suggested that the remaining member of the Standish family had arrived and that Isabella was not the only one to be less than respectable. Belton threw the library door open.

“Lord Standish,” he announced with dreadful calm, as though the evening could only degenerate further.

Like his sisters, Freddie Standish was very pleasing to the eye. Fair and slim, he was a general favorite with the matrons as long as he made no attempts to seek fortune by marrying one of their daughters. He shared the modest house in Pimlico with Pen and worked—nominally, at least—for a banker who liked the prestige of having a titled gentleman to deal with the social side of his business. Despite the ignominy of his situation, Freddie always seemed good-humored and blessedly unflustered. Isabella loved him for it, though Pen maintained with dry affection that Freddie only had one mood because he was too stupid to have developed a range of them.

“Good evening, Freddie,” Isabella said, tilting her face up for his kiss of greeting. “I was telling Pen that I have managed to stave off bankruptcy for a few months, until the house is sold.”

“Congratulations,” Freddie said, sitting down on the sofa and ungallantly obliging his sister to move up to give him more space. He looked about him. “Never liked the place myself. Far too vulgar.”

“Yes, it is,” Isabella said with a sigh. “I shall be retiring to Salterton instead.”

Freddie looked horrified. “Salterton? In Hampshire?”

“Dorset,” Pen snapped. “I told her it was a foolish idea.”

“Quite right,” Freddie said. He helped himself to one of the buttered scones on the dainty china tea plate. “Dorset is unspeakably dull. Why not try Kent instead, Bella?”

Isabella heard Pen give an exaggerated sigh. Not for the first time she wondered how the bookish and sharp-witted Penelope and the intellectually slow Freddie ever managed to share a house in anything approaching harmony.

“You will not wish to visit me, then,” she said.

“No danger of that,” Freddie said cheerfully. “I would rather work for a living than retire to Dorset.”

“You are already supposed to work for a living,” Pen pointed out.

“Only notionally,” Freddie said with a cheerful grin.

“Unfortunately I do not have that option,” Isabella said briskly. “As a governess or a maid I would earn insufficient money in my entire life to cover Ernest’s debts. And the only other alternative is to become a cyprian. I suppose one may work from home and do hours to suit—”

“Steady on, Bella!” Freddie was so scandalized that his half-eaten scone slipped off his tilting plate. Pen retrieved it.

Isabella patted his arm. “I apologize, Freddie. I was only speaking in jest.”

“So I should hope,” Freddie said, squaring his shoulders. “Head of the family. Couldn’t approve. Sorry, Bella, but there it is.”

“Of course not,” Isabella said comfortingly.

“I would rather you married Augustus Ambridge than contemplate a career as a demimondaine,” Freddie said. “And you won’t hear me say that very often.”

This time it was Pen who intervened. “I cannot agree with you, Freddie. Augustus Ambridge is the most tiresome bore.”

They fell to squabbling like a pair of schoolchildren and Isabella sighed. It was fortunate that one of the alternatives she was not considering was sharing the Pimlico house with her siblings. In that event she would likely run mad within two days. They did not even notice when she slipped out of the room to find her cloak and evening slippers for the ball.

As she came down the staircase, she met Belton in full sail, like a galleon with a following wind.

“Lord Augustus Ambridge has arrived and is awaiting you in his carriage, Your Serene Highness,” Belton announced, with a hint of approval in his voice at long last.

“Thank you, Belton,” Isabella said. She put her head around the library door, cutting through the wrangling of her brother and sister with a crisp:

“Children! Lord Augustus is here to escort us to the ball.”

“Just like the fairy godmother,” Pen said. She rose to her feet. “I am looking forward to this evening, Bella. As it is your first social event in the Ton since your widowhood, you may prove to me just how inconspicuous you can be.”

“I intend to,” Isabella said, glaring repressively at her. “I shall be as quiet and retiring as a nun, I assure you. It will be in no way a night to remember.”

## CHAPTER SIX

ISABELLA HAD ALWAYS CONSIDERED royalty to be vastly overrated. The same people who bowed and smiled this evening as she glided along the sumptuous red tartan carpet at the Duchess of Fordyce’s Scottish reception would have cut her dead when she had been little Isabella Standish, without a handle to her name or a feather to fly. In fact they had cut her dead. She recognized plenty of faces from her season as a debutante twelve years before but reflected that it was more likely that she would recognize people’s backs. She could still recall them turning away in disdain and those long-ago whispered conversations:

“Who is that?”

“Nobody, my dear…That jumped up fishmonger’s granddaughter, Isabella Standish…”

“Oh, oh I see…. I thought she looked well to a pass but now I realize that she is nowhere near as pretty as she would have been with a title and a fortune….”

Isabella paused patiently while Lord Augustus halted to receive the greeting of the Duchess of Fordyce herself, flanked by her three unmarried daughters and the bored-looking son and heir to the Fordyce millions. John Fordyce had brightened when he spotted Penelope following behind. Gentlemen did brighten when they saw the angelic-looking Penelope. The good impression generally lasted until she opened her mouth, when everyone else realized what Isabella and Freddie already knew—that she was a bluestocking with a tongue that could flay you alive.

“Lord Augustus!” The duchess was smiling so hard that Isabella feared her rouge would crack. She had heard that Her Grace seldom smiled for fear of the aging effect of wrinkling. Tonight, however, she had evidently granted herself a special dispensation.

“How utterly delightful to have you back with us in London, my lord,” the duchess said. “And with your dazzling companion! Your Serene Highness…” A fulsome curtsy followed. “Thank you for choosing to adorn our event this evening.”

Isabella heard Penelope give a snort of derision that she did not even attempt to turn into a cough. She gave her sister a quelling look.

“It is a great pleasure to be here, Duchess,” Isabella said, adding with scrupulous truth, “Your Scottish exhibition is quite spectacular.”

It was indeed. Ever since the Prince Regent had started a craze for all things Caledonian earlier in the year with his sudden and rather awkward nostalgic attachment to the Stuart dynasty, the Tory hostesses has adorned their houses with tartans and bagpipes and the dancing was all reels and strathspeys. Isabella could hear a fiddler tuning up in the ballroom to the right of them; when the strains of the violin where joined by the wheeze of the bagpipes, several people in the vicinity had the pained expressions of those suffering the earache.

“How marvelous,” Isabella said, as the duchess winced at the sound. She turned to Augustus. “We must certainly dance the reel later, my lord.”

The duchess beamed in relief and Augustus smiled, too, and gave Isabella’s arm a little squeeze of approval, which irritated her with its proprietory overtones. Augustus, whom she had first met when he was a diplomat at the Swedish Court and she and Ernest were in exile there, had never been any more than a useful escort to social events. She suspected that like many men over the years, he liked to give the impression of being more than merely her friend. Her presence gave the staid diplomat a slightly risqué, man-of-the-world aura that she knew he enjoyed. Yet if it had come to marriage, she knew that matters would have been very different. There was no possibility that Augustus Ambridge would have taken on her reputation and her debts in any formal sense. He would have run from the thought like a lily-livered rabbit.

The duchess was greeting Penelope now. Her tone had cooled by at least ten degrees since she was speaking to someone with barely a title and very little fortune, whom she had identified as being an unsuitable prospect for her son. It seemed that John Fordyce had other ideas, however. Led astray by Pen’s dazzling prettiness, he asked for her hand in the next Scottish dance.

“No, thank you, my lord,” Pen said sweetly, “I only reel when I am drunk, and in the words of Shakespeare, drink is good only for encouraging three things, one of which is sleep and another urine. I merely quote, you understand, to illustrate my point.”

One of the Fordyce sisters tittered behind her fan; the duchess’s face turned still with horror and John’s smile faltered as he backed away. “Some other occasion, perhaps,” he sputtered.

“Oh, I do hope so,” Pen said, smiling with luscious promise. “I look forward to it.”

“Come along, Penelope,” Freddie said hastily. “We are holding up the reception line.”

Pen permitted herself to be drawn away from the group and up the sweep of stairs toward the ballroom.

“And you think that I am outrageous, Pen!” Isabella chided, taking her brother’s arm as Augustus drew away from her with a hurried word and went off to seek the company of the duchess’s more respectable guests. “We must be a sad trial to you, Freddie.”

“Comes of having a fishmonger for a grandfather,” Freddie said cheerfully. “Neither of you ever had any idea of how to behave. I suppose I must be the one to set the good example.”

They reached the top of the staircase and he dropped their arms as abruptly as though they did not exist. A vision in pale blue had wafted across his line of sight.

“I say, there is Lady Murray!” he exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Excuse me—squiring one’s sisters about is the most lamentable dead bore.” And with that he dove into the crowd.

“Oh well,” Pen said, linking her arm through Isabella’s and drawing her into the ballroom. “So much for Freddie’s manners! Lady Murray is his latest inamorata, I am afraid. It will end in tears.”

“Hers?” Isabella asked.

“His,” Pen said. “She dangles him on a string and there are at least three other gentlemen she dallies with.”

“Now that,” Isabella said, “is outrageous. How is it that I am tarred with scandal whilst others behave badly and no one raises an eyebrow?”

“Hypocrites,” Pen said comfortingly. “Speaking of which, look at Augustus, Bella! He has eyes for no one but himself tonight.”

It was true. Augustus Ambridge had stopped in front of one of the duchess’s long gilt mirrors and was studying his appearance with intensity. Brown hair slicked back with Mr. Cabburn’s Bear’s Grease, a sovereign lotion for reviving thinning locks; buttons polished, shoulders ever so slightly padded, jacket bolstered with buckram from the Prince Regent’s own tailor, calves plumped out with a little wadding to improve the shape of his leg…Indeed, Isabella reflected that he was the very image of an elegant diplomat, and barely an inch of it was real.

“Oh, Penelope,” she chided. “Can you not at least try to like him?”

Penelope paused, apparently to give the matter genuine consideration. “No,” she said, at length, “why should I? Since you are not to marry him, there is no obligation on me to try. You are kinder than I am, you know, Bella. I would not even give him the time of day.”