rolled her eyes at her folly and returned her gaze to the street. Right, he’d instructed her to pay attention…
But then the second her mind drifted back to earth she saw the man again. The one who’d followed her. She blinked, not quite believing her eyes, but it was definitely him. Dark hair, medium height. He didn’t seem to have seen her, but he appeared to be searching the crowd. She didn’t know who he was, but she had an awful idea who might have sent him.
She immediately stooped to pick up her bag, gripping it tightly. She gave William Stanton one last glance, but he was still occupied with his driver. So much for riding in his carriage.
She turned her body slowly in the other direction, hoping not to attract any attention as she eased deeper into the crowd. She looked over her shoulder, hoping the man still hadn’t noticed her.
But now he was heading in her direction.
She turned her head and started walking faster, not caring if it looked odd. He hadn’t necessarily seen her; perhaps it was chance that he’d seemed to be closer. After a few long strides, she turned again. This time, there was no sign of the man. She hoped she’d lost him. Or, perhaps, he’d merely blended in with the crowd. He could be as close as ever.
She started to run.
Isabelle arrived at her boarding house an hour later with a swiftly beating heart. She’d taken a circuitous route, hoping the man wouldn’t reappear. And, as far as she was aware, he hadn’t. She’d run much of the way, stopping to catch her breath only a few times; after a mere ten minutes she’d abandoned the marble heads on the side of the road. Worthless anyway, and they slowed her down.
Now, she stood at the top of her front steps, facing a slightly shabby door. She wondered if the man knew where she lived, and she supposed he probably did.
She wouldn’t think about it. She began fishing around her pocket, hoping that she hadn’t lost her key in the rush. She’d already forgotten it once, and Miss Standish, the house’s temperamental proprietor, had been remarkably put out about having to answer the door.
Isabelle located the key easily, and the door opened without so much as a sigh to notify Miss Standish that she’d returned. In the four days she’d been staying there, she’d learned it was best to avoid her.
Isabelle quietly closed the door behind her and returned the key to her pocket. But then…what was that? The key had clinked against another heavy, brass object. She removed it, frowning.
It wasn’t brass, actually. It was William Stanton’s gold watch.
Good God, she’d stolen it after all.
Chapter Three
It was a typical, damp English afternoon. Will was in his drawing room, weighing the effort of walking to his club against the gloomy pleasure of perusing his paper in search of bad news. He turned the page, allowing inertia to win. A portly tabby cat curled in the carved giltwood chair across from him, shooting aggrieved looks every time he rustled the paper. He appeared to be in as bad a temper as his owner.
Will’s bad mood could be blamed entirely on the female sex. His mood had soured soon after he’d turned his back on Isabelle Thomas the previous afternoon. At first, he’d actually felt rather pleased with himself as he’d crossed the road, leaving her to wait. His mind had only been half on the argument between his driver and the greengrocer, so much so that he hadn’t even balked when the man insisted he be compensated for his entire cart of vegetables when most still seemed perfectly saleable. Instead, he’d been thinking about the intelligent, beautiful, mysterious girl who would unexpectedly be visiting his house—a prospect that suggested many interesting possibilities.
He didn’t mind buying her necklace, or even paying over the odds for it; it was a small price to pay to keep her off the street. And he’d hoped that once he’d taken care of that small matter, he might convince her to have supper with him, or perhaps go to the opera. He wondered how she’d react to that sort of invitation. Her blushes suggested she wasn’t terribly experienced, but she appeared to be old enough and independent enough to make up her own mind. He’d felt inordinately satisfied when he’d finally succeeded in making her smile. He usually charmed women with ease, but her…well, it felt like a real achievement. Her adorable smile had more than made up for her prickliness.
Of course, he’d changed his mind once he realised that she was a thief, and a thief so skilled she hadn’t even had to steal. She’d so beguiled him with her charms that he’d simply given her his watch—and sixpence, for good measure. The whole thing was gallingly ironic since he’d accused her of lacking common sense.
After he’d realised that she’d fled, he’d spent two angry hours searching the slums before finally giving up and returning home. He’d been damned fond of that watch; it had belonged to his grandfather.
Only once he’d reached his house, his mood got even worse. A letter awaited him there, from Miss Hume. She must have sent it within hours of his departure from her blasted school. It seemed that Mary was being sent home, and since he was her guardian, her home was now his. According to the letter, sometime during the evening after he’d left, Mary had snipped a large segment of hair from one Major Fitzgerald’s daughter’s head, using a sharp pair of scissors. Her possessions had been packed posthaste, and she would arrive, courtesy of Miss Hume, some time tomorrow morning. Miss Hume did not plan on inviting her back. She was Will’s responsibility now, and he didn’t have the faintest idea what to do with her. He knew nothing about children, girls in particular, and it might take months to find another school that would accept such a hoyden.
He lay down his paper and took the letter from his inside pocket, glancing yet again at the strident lines of text. Bloody unpredictable females, young and old…
A quiet knock on the drawing room door interrupted his ill-tempered thoughts.
‘Yes?’
Bartholomew, his butler, entered cautiously.
‘Good morning, my lord. It is your cousin.’
This wasn’t welcome news. Will had several cousins, but all but two of them were considerate enough to leave him alone in the mornings. It was certain to be one of the demon twins, Henrietta or Venetia.
‘What—here? Which cousin?’
‘Which cousin indeed?’an arch voice called in from the hall. ‘Surely you must know that Venny’s at Waddlehurst with Philip and the children.’
Henrietta Sandon-Drabbe sailed into the drawing room, not waiting for permission to enter. She was a year younger than he, and the top of her head stopped just shy of his chin. She’d once been very pretty, and her pale blonde hair and blue eyes undoubtedly continued to appeal to most casual observers. Will, however, had a difficult time separating her personality from her appearance. She was intrusive, manipulative and bossy, as was her sister. Since they normally travelled as a pair, he considered himself lucky to have only one to deal with that morning.
Bartholomew wisely eased out of the room, closing the door behind him. Will folded the letter and laid it next to him on the sofa, forcing a smile as he rose. ‘I hope she’ll be away for a long time?’
‘Until the end of the summer, sadly. But I know she would approve of my mission this morning.’
He
