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Prologue
Warwickshire, England, 1804
“God mend your ways,” the girl snapped at her stepsisters. In a flash of movement ten-year-old Isabelle Montgomery grabbed her beloved flute out of one sister's hands and her fur-lined cloak out of the other sister's hands. Whirling away, she dashed out the bedchamber door and ran down the corridor. “Mama said you're supposed to share with us,” shrieked twelve-year-old Lobelia.
“We'll tell Mama,” eleven-year-old Rue threatened.
“I don't give a rat's arse,” Isabelle called over her shoulder without breaking stride. “Isabelle scooted down the narrow stairway and, startling the servants, burst into the kitchen. Ignoring their surprised gasps, she escaped out the door into the April afternoon. Pausing a moment to catch her breath, Isabelle wrapped her cloak around herself and then started across the manicured lawns toward the woodland where she could evade her stepsisters' greed. She crossed the estate's stately drive built of mellowed plum-red bricks and gray stone dressings and gazed at the bordering masses of blue violets, nodding yellow daffodils, and blooming forsythia.
Joyful spring surrounded Arden Hall. Yet bitter winter gripped her ten-year-old heart and tears welled up in her eyes.
Blinking her tears back, Isabelle stared at the Montgomery family chapel and the graveyard beyond it. They'd buried her father that morning. Who could ever have guessed that her wonderful, healthy father would succumb to the dreaded white-throat disease? Now her dearest papa lay beside her long-dead mother. If only her brother Miles hadn't returned to the university immediately after the funeral.
Isabelle reached up and touched the gold locket she always wore. It contained her mother's miniature, the image of a woman she'd known only in her heart. If her real mother hadn't died, she wouldn't have those two nasty stepsisters or her stepmother, Delphinia.
Squaring her shoulders, Isabelle turned away from the sight of her parents' final resting place and passed through the giant oaks that separated the park from the woodland. She needed to get away from her stepfamily and mourn the loss of her father. Afternoon was fading rapidly into twilight, but the prospect of supping with her stepmother and her stepsisters disturbed her more than being caught in the woodland at night.
With a heavy heart Isabelle walked in the direction of the Avon River. Lilacs mingling with moss scented the air inside the woodland. Here and there she saw the brown and green stripes of jack-in-the-pulpit and the crimson crowns of rock columbine. Delicate white bloodroot blossom pushed up through downy leaves, and tightly coiled spirals of fiddlehead ferns were just beginning to emerge.
Springtide hearalded an active season for nature spirits and flower fairies. Cook had told her so.
Isabelle shook her head at such a fanciful notion and then paused as a sound, fainter than a whisper on a breeze, reached her ears. Someone was playing a flute. The rich tones floated through the air and enticed her to follow them toward the Avon River. With each forward step she took, the flute's song grew louder and clearer. Its hauntingly lonely melody mirrored her mood.
Isabelle quickened her pace. Breaking free of the trees, she stopped short at the sight that greeted her. A shabbily dressed old woman sat on a tree stump beside the river and played a flute. The gray-haired, wrinkled-faced crone abruptly stopped playing and looked at her. Suddenly afraid, Isabelle stepped back two paces.
“What's your name?” the woman asked with a smile.
“Isabelle Montgomery,” she answered.
Glancing toward the river, Isabelle saw the evening mist beginning to form and swirl. She peered up at the sky. Shades of lavender and mauve streaked the western horizon. Should she leave or stay? Delphinia would be very angry if she returned home after dark.
“Sit down,” the old woman invited her.
Isabelle heard the kindness in the woman's voice and responded to it. She crossed the short distance separating them and sat down on the ground beside her.
“I live at Arden Hall,” Isabelle announced without preamble.
“Why is a Montgomery living at Arden Hall?” the woman asked.
“My late mother was the heiress of Arden Hall,” Isabelle told her. “She married Adam Montgomery, my father. We buried him today.”
“So young to be orphaned,” the woman said, patting her hand in sympathy. “I'm Giselle.”
“Elizabeth was my mother's name,” Isabelle told her.
“And you loved her very much.”
“I never knew her.” Isabelle opened the locket of gold and held it out for the woman to inspect the image inside.
“With your pale blond hair and your violet eyes, you certainly have the look of her,” Giselle said.
“Thank you. I consider that a compliment.” 
“So, Belle, what sadness besides your father's passing brings you to my woodland?” Giselle asked.
“How do you know my bother's pet name for me?” Isabelle asked, surprised.
“Sharing troubles always lightens the burden,” Giselle answered, ignoring her question. “I've years and years of experience in dealing with problems.” The crone shivered suddenly and dropped her gaze to the cloak. “I've been sitting here for a long time and I'm very cold. May I borrow your cloak?”
With out hesitation Isabelle removed her cloak and wrapped it around the old woman's shoulders. “Consider it yours,” she said, plopping down on the ground again. “To clothe the naked is a corporal work of mercy, and I intend to earn a place in heaven. Then I will finally meet my mother and see my father once more.
Giselle nodded her approval and pulled the cloak tighter around her stopped shoulders. “Child, tell me what else brings you to my woodland.”
“Lobelia and Rue, my stepsisters, tried to steal my flute,” Isabelle began. “My flute and my locket are my mother's legacy to me. Cook told me that my mother played the flute like a nightingale in song. Delphinia, my stepmother, fired Mrs. Juniper as soon as we buried my father. Juniper loved me the best. That is the real reason she had to go, not because she drank cold tea. And what is wrong with someone preferring cold tea?”
“Who is Juniper?” Giselle asked.
“Juniper was my nanny until today, and she disliked my nasty stepsisters,” Isabelle answered. “My brother, Miles, returned to the university after the funeral. I do hope he arrives there safely.”
“I'm positive that, wherever he is, Miles is well,” Giselle answered.
“Are we friends, then?” Isabelle asked brightly, her eagerness all too apparent in her expression and her voice. “I've never had a friend and don't really want to go home. May I live with you until Miles returns to Arden Hall?”
“Your brother's homecoming may be delayed a long time,” Giselle told her. “Who will guard his estates if you live with me in the woods?”
Isabelle shrugged, her hopeful expression drooping.
“What do you want more than anything else in the whole wide world?” the old woman asked, as if she had the power to grant wishes.
“I want to be loved,” Isabelle answered, her loneliness apparent in her violet-eyed gaze.
“Listen, child. Don't ask me how, but I know things,” Giselle said, reaching out to touch her hand. “Someday a dark prince will rescue you, but only if your return to Arden Hall.”
“Rescue me from what?”
“Questioning well-meaning elders is rude in the extreme,” Giselle chided her. “Now then, this prince will be the man who believes you are lovelier than a violet in the snow.”
Isabelle gave her an incredulous stare. Even she knew that no one could foretell the future.
“You don't believe me?” Giselle asked. “Would you care to see what he is doing this very moment?”
Isabelle gave her a smile filled with sunshine and nodded her head vigorously.
“Come.” Giselle rose slowly from her perch on the tree stump and held her hand out.
Isabelle looked from the wrinkled face to the gnarled hand. Then she stood, too, and placed her hand in the woman's.
Giselle led her to the river and knelt in the grass at the water's edge, saying, “Gaze into the water, little one. See what the future brings you.”
Isabelle saw nothing at first, and then a shimmering image formed slowly. An older man, at least twenty years, looked directly at her. His hair and his eyes were darker than a moonless midnight.
“Who is he?” Isabelle asked without taking her gaze from the image in the water. “Is he a foreign prince?”
“No foreigners dwell within the kingdom of the heart,” Giselle said. Her gnarled hand tapped the river and the prince's image vanished in the rippling of the water. “It's past time you ran home.”
“Will I see you again?” Isabelle asked, standing when the woman did. “How will I find you?”
“I'll find you,” Giselle told her.
Isabelle looked around. Late afternoon had faded into twilight, and she feared walking alone through the woodland.
“Simply follow the shining whiteness of the birch tree,” Giselle said as if she knew her thoughts, and pointed toward the woodland.
Isabelle's gaze followed the old woman's finger. The shining white of the birch trees lit a path through the woods where there had been only darkness a moment earlier.
“I do hope I'll see you again,” Isabelle said. On impulse she planted a kiss on the woman's wizened cheek.
Giselle smiled. “I promise I will visit you often.”
Isabelle started down the path through the birch trees. She looked back once but saw only darkness. Ahead was the only way to go.
A friend, Isabelle thought, happiness swelling within her heart as she ran toward Arden Hall. At long last she had a friend in whom she could confide.
Shivering from the evening chill, Isabelle sneaked inside the mansion the same way she'd escaped, through the servants' entrance. She burst into the kitchen, startling the servants again, and then raced up the narrow stairway to the second floor.
Isabelle reached the safety of her bedchamber and bolted the door. Now her stepsisters couldn't bother her. If Delphinia wanted to scold her for sneaking outside, she would need to shout through the locked door.
Intending to fetch a shawl, Isabelle hurried across the chamber. Suddenly, she stopped short and her mouth dropped open in surprise. On her bed lay the fur-lined cloak she'd given the old woman.
Sweet celestial breath, Isabelle thought, a smile of joy lighting her expression. Giselle is my guardian angel.
CHAPTER 1
London, November 1811
Thirty-year-old John Saint-Germain, the fifth Duke of Avon, tenth Marquess of Grafton, and twelfth Earl of Kilchurn, relaxed in his favorite chair inside White's Gentlemen's Club on St. James's Street and stared, in turn, at each of his three companions. His twenty-five-year-old brother, Ross, seated in the chair on his left side, cast him a mildly amused smile. Directly opposite him sat his twenty-three-year-old brother, Jamie, who sent him a hopeful look; Miles Montgomery, his youngest brother's bosom friend, sprawled in the chair on his right side but kept his gaze on Jamie.
“Bull's pizzle,” John said, his dark gaze returning to his youngest brother, effectively wiping the hopeful expression off his face. “I cannot believe this is the urgent matter that required I leave Scotland earlier than planned.”
“We cannot lose the opportunity of a lifetime,” Jamie argued with passion. “The profit on this investment will earn us a small fortune.”
“I already possess a large fortune,” John reminded him. He ran a hand through his midnight black hair as he watched a disappointed expression appear on his brother's face.
“How can you be certain this speculation will turn any profit?” John asked, relenting at the sight of the change in his brother.
“Your Grace,” Miles Montgomery spoke up, drawing his attention. “Nicolas deJewell, my stepmother's nephew, tipped me off about it. He heard it from a well-placed man at Baring Brothers, which represents the United States' banking interest in England.”
“How much is deJewell investing?” John asked.
Miles Montgomery hesitated and then shook his head. “Nicolas is short of funds at the moment. I promised him a share for tipping me off—out of my profits, I assure you.”
“Miles and I plan to travel to New York personally,” Jamie added, his hopeful expression returning. “I promise we won't leave anything to chance.”
“England and the United States are not in accord at the moment, and friction is mounting with each passing day,” John replied. “What if war breaks out?”
Jamie shrugged. “So we'll be stranded in New York for longer than we expected.”
“What do you have to say about this?” John asked, sliding his dark gaze toward his brother Ross.
“I have no opinion concerning its success for failure,” Ross answered. “The required sum isn't enough to bankrupt the Saint-Germains, so I say give Jamie the money.”
John studied his youngest brother's eager, hopeful expression. At twenty-three Jamie Saint-Germain was the baby of the family and, until now, had demonstrated no inclination toward anything but social activities. This business venture could be the very thing to transform Jamie into a responsible adult.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” said a deep, grating voice.
All four men looked at the tall blond man who stood beside their table. The newcomer stared at them with a decidedly unfriendly expression.
“Grimsby,” John said by way of a greeting and inclined his head.
“What a heartwarming picture of family life,” Grimsby commented, staring at the Saint-Germain brothers. He shifted his gaze to the only stranger in the group and said, “I don't believe we've met.”
“Miles Montgomery is the Earl of Stratford,” John said, making the introductions. “Miles, Meet William Grimsby, the Earl of Ripon.”
Miles Montgomery stood, shook the other man's hand, and then reclaimed his seat. Grimsby cast him a sardonic smile.
“A pleasure to meet you, my lord,” Grimsby said. “Take a friendly warning: If you have a sister, keep her away from the Saint-Germains.” Without another word William Grimsby walked away.
Miles Montgomery turned in apparent confusion to the others. “What was that about?” he asked.
“My former brother-in-law,” John answered.
“Too bad Grimsby isn't your former brother-in-law,” muttered Ross.
“You only say that because his pranks have cost our shipping lines a substantial amount of lost profit,” John said, casting his brother a sidelong smile.
“How can you remain so calm?” Ross asked. “The man is bent on ruining the Saint-Germains.”
John shrugged. “William is upset about his sister's passing.”
“Lenore has been dead these past five years,” Ross reminded him.
“Brother, let it go for now.” John flicked a glance at Montgomery, who was listening to their conversation, and then shifted his gaze to his youngest brother, adding, “I'll loan you the necessary funds, but because of the growing friction between the two countries, you must first travel to Bermuda on one of my ships. From there you can journey via a neutral ship to New York. Agreed?”
Jamie Saint-Germain and Miles Montgomery looked at each other and smiled. At his friend's nod, Jamie turned to John and said, “There is one more thing we need.”
Here comes the snag, John thought, cocking a dark brow at his brother. He slid his gaze to his brother's friend when Jamie said, “You explain.”
“Your Grace, I have a simple problem,” Miles Montgomery began. “I fear my stepmother will neglect my sister while I am out of the country.” He paused for a moment as if summoning his courage and cleared his throat before finishing. “I am requesting that you become Isabelle's temporary guardian for the duration of my—”
“No.”
“Your Grace, I implore you. Isabelle has brains, heart, and courage,” Miles continued, undaunted by the refusal. “She won't be any trouble, she's uncommonly pretty with beautiful blond hair and—”
“I despise blondes,” John interrupted. “At the age of forty I plan to remarry the ugliest brunette I can find.”
Ross burst out laughing, earning himself a censorious glare from his older brother.
“Isabelle is an accomplished young lady,” Jamie interjected.
“Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and accomplished?” John drawled, his voice dripping sarcasm.
“More violet than blue, Your Grace,” Miles corrected him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Isabelle's eyes are a violet shade of blue.”
Ross Saint-Germain chuckled at the remark.
After casting his brother a wholly disgusted look, John asked, “And at what is this paragon of womanhood accomplished? Intricate embroidery? The pianoforte?”
“Isabelle plays the flute,” Miles told him.
“Divinely,” Jamie added.
“Flute playing isn't at all the thing in these modern days,” Ross said, earning himself a sour look from his youngest brother.
“She must be accomplished at fashions and gossip,” John speculated. “All ladies of quality possess that talent.”
“Isabelle prefers to dress simply,” Miles replied, shaking his head. “She never engages in gossip.”
John hooted with incredulous, derisive laughter. “Show me a woman who doesn't gossip,” he said, “and I'll show you a woman who cannot speak. So, my young friend, what are your sister's accomplishments?”
“In addition to playing the flute, Isabelle manages numbers most excellently,” Miles answered.
“Numbers?” John echoed. “What do you mean?”
“Isabelle does the bookkeeping on my household and estate ledgers,” Miles told him. “Of course, I check her work quarterly.”
“You actually trust a woman with your finances?”
Miles Montgomery nodded.
John stared at him for a long moment. “Your sister sounds like an interesting young lady,” he said, “but I cannot agree to your request.”
Miles turned to Jamie and said, “I won't leave Isabelle in Delphinia's custody.”
Jamie turned a pleading look on his oldest brother. In turn John glanced at Ross and sent him a silent plea for help.
Ross grinned and shrugged his shoulders.
“Very well,” John relented, unwilling to disappoint his youngest brother. “I will become your sister's temporary guardian and oversee your financial accounts.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Miles glanced at Jamie and then continued, “There is another tiny favor I need.”
“You're pressing your luck, Montgomery,” John warned.
“On the first day of May, Isabelle will be eighteen,” Miles said, giving him an affable smile. “If I haven't returned by then, do not agree to a marriage between Isabelle and Nicholas deJewell. She despises the man. If you have the inclination, marry her yourself, else she needs to make her come-out into society.”
“I will respect your wishes regarding deJewell, but my reputation with the ladies is slightly tarnished,” John said. “The girl's reputation will be ruined if I sponsor her.”
“I think that sponsoring the girl is a wonderful idea,” Ross spoke up.
Surprised, John snapped his head around to stare at his brother. It was just like Ross to cause trouble for him. How could he extricate himself from this foolishness with his brother recommending the absurd notion?
“Mother never enjoyed the pleasure of raising a daughter,” Ross continued. “Aunt Hester and she will relish the opportunity to introduce such an accomplished maiden into society.”
“A legal document must be drawn and signed,” John said, surrendering to the inevitable. “Bring it to Saint-Germain Court tomorrow afternoon. I have a previous engagement. If you will excuse me?”
Without another word John stood and started to cross the well-appointed chamber toward the club's entrance. He could well imagine the wicked grin gracing Ross's face at that moment.
Behind him, John heard Miles Montgomery whisper loudly, “Do you think he's going to visit his mistress?”
“Which one?” Ross asked.
“Well, I once saw him with an ebony-haired beauty,” Miles said. “I believe I heard she was an actress.”
“John pensioned Lisette Dupre off several years ago,” came his brother's reply.
Passing the newly installed bow window in the middle of the façade, John inclined his head toward Beau Brummell, who had made the celebrated window his own domain. The front door had been moved to the left of the window.
“Your Grace, have yourself a good evening,” Brummell called by way of a greeting.
“I've just made other arrangements,” John replied, making the renowned dandy smile.
John stepped outside into a moonless night, darker than his own midnight black hair and eyes. Heavy fog swirled around him like a voluminous cloak and appeared especially eerie in the soft glow from the streetlamps.
Spying Gallagher with his coach on the opposite side of St. James's Street, John gestured for the man to remain where he was. There was little sense in maneuvering the coach around when his destination was in the other direction.
Silently cursing himself for agreeing to become the Montgomery maiden's guardian, John stepped into the street and started to cross. Suddenly, a coach materialized from nowhere and careened down St. James's Street.
“Watch out!” John heard his coachman shout, and he leapt back in time to save his own life—but not, unfortunately, his evening attire, now splattered with mud.
“Are you injured, Your Grace?” Gallagher asked, reaching his side.
“No, but I'll need to return to Park Lane to change out of this mess,” John answered. He touched the coachman's shoulder and added, “Thank you for saving my life.”
“It was my pleasure, Your Grace,” Gallagher said with a toothy grin. “Besides, your death would mean unemployment for me.” The man chuckled at his own wit.
“What I admire about you, Gallagher, is your practicality.” John smiled at his longtime coachman and then looked down the deserted street, complaining, “I cannot believe the driver of that vehicle failed to see me.”
“He saw you all right, Your Grace,” Gallagher replied, opening the coach door for him. “It was as if he was aiming for you.”
John sat back inside his coach and pondered his man's words as they drove the short distance to his home on Park Lane. That the driver of the other coach was actually aiming for him was absurd. The only person in England who hated him was William Grimsby, and his former brother-in-law would never be part of an assassination attempt. No, the near-miss was undoubtedly one of those freakish, unexplainable accidents.
Arden Hall, December
“Sweet celestial breath,” seventeen-year-old Isabelle Montgomery muttered, tossing her quill down in growing consternation. After pushing several wanton wisps of blond hair off her face, she fingered her gold locket and stared with murderous intent at the recalcitrant column of numbers on page twenty-four of the household ledger book.
“These numbers refuse to be tallied,” she said. “Do you know anything about mathematics?”
Isabelle looked across the study at the old woman sitting in the chair in front of the hearth. Giselle still wore the tattered garb she'd been wearing for the past seven years.
“I know nothing about numbers,” the old woman answered.
Isabelle felt her irritation rising. At times the old woman's presence in her life felt more like a penance than a blessing, yet she loved her dearly. After all, Giselle had been her only friend since her father's passing.
“I assumed that celestial beings knew absolutely everything,” Isabelle remarked.
“Apparently, you assumed wrong,” Giselle replied, casting her a look that said she knew her young charge's thoughts. “When you find the correct answer yourself, the victory will be that much sweeter.”
“I haven't the time to waste today,” Isabelle complained.
“And what is so pressing?”
Isabelle cast a longing look toward the window where the afternoon sun filtered into the room, its rays beckoning her to escape the drudgery of the ledgers. “I wanted to sit in the garden and play my flute,” she answered. “Couldn't you help me this one time?”
“I've heard you say that before,” Giselle answered. “My answer hasn't changed. Do it yourself. Suffering is good for the soul, you know.”
“I deserve a little enjoyment too,” Isabelle countered in an irritated voice.
“Child, patience is a virtue,” Giselle replied, unruffled by the outburst.
“Faith, hope, charity, prudence, temperance, justice, and fortitude are the seven virtues,” Isabelle informed her, cocking a blond brow at the old woman. “Patience is not number among them. How can it be that a guardian angel doesn't know the seven virtues?”
“So, buy me an indulgence,” Giselle said with a shrug. “I can list the seven deadly sins. Want to hear them?”
“No, thank you.”
“There you are!”
At the sound of that voice Isabelle snapped her head around to see her stepmother marching across the study toward the desk. Years of practicing self-control kept Isabelle from grimacing at the unwelcome sight. Unconsciously, she touched the golden locket containing her real mother's miniature. The feel of it always calmed her nerves.
“I have had the most wonderful news,” Delphinia Montgomery exclaimed, waving a letter in the air.
“Knowing her as I so, someone must have suffered a horrible death.”
Isabelle giggled and glanced at Giselle. The old woman was probably correct about that, she thought.
“At what are you laughing?” Delphinia asked, wearing a confused expression. “Why are you looking at the hearth while I speak to you? You aren't going to start talking to yourself again, are you?”
Isabelle silently cursed herself. She'd nearly been caught again. Giselle was so real that she usually forgot others were unable to see or hear her, which did create problems.
“No, I . . . I was thinking about something else.” Isabelle managed a smile when her stepmother's expression cleared. “And what wonderful news do you hold in the palm of your hand?”
“Dearest Nicholas will be stopping for a visit on his journey to London,” Delphinia answered.
“Damn,” Giselle swore.
“Make that a double,” Isabelle muttered.
“A double what?” Delphinia asked. “Isabelle, are you ill today?”
“No, merely a little tired.”
“Take my advice,” Delphinia said. “Look toward Nicholas as a possible husband. My nephew is a prime catch, you know.
“I have no desire to marry anyone at the moment.” Isabelle replied, successfully keeping the revulsion she felt off her face. Nicholas deJewell reminded her of a loathsome weasel. “I have household accounts waiting, if you'll excuse me.”
Delphinia took the hint and crossed the chamber to the door, but paused before leaving. “Speaking of accounts, I have somehow managed to spend my monthly allowance,” she said with an ingratiating smile, “Could I have—”
“No,” Isabelle fixed a stern look on her face when she added, “If I gave you extra money today, you'd be looking for more tomorrow. Learning to budget your money would be wise.”
“Now, listen to me, young lady—”
“I have no intention of listening to you,” Isabelle interrupted. “If your monthly allowance isn't enough, ask my brother to increase it.”
“I shall do just that,” Delphinia announced and left the study in a huff, slamming the door behind her.
“Why do you always upset her?” Giselle asked.
“She upsets me.”
“Would it bankrupt your brother if you slipped her a few extra coins now and then?”
“Delphinia's allowance is more than ample,” Isabelle informed the old woman. “My stepmother's pockets have holes in them.”
“Remember, child,” Giselle said, “Blessed are the generous, for they will be shown generosity.”
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Are you now inventing scripture?”
“Whatever do you mean?” “Scripture says, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.'”
“Oh, my mistake,” Giselle said.
“What kind of angel cannot quote scripture correctly?” Isabelle asked.
Before the old woman could reply, the door swung open. Again Isabelle struggled against a grimace as she watched her stepsisters advancing on her. She hoped they hadn't come to beg for money too. When Giselle chuckled, Isabelle cast her a warning look.
“Don't take that attitude with me, child,” the old woman scolded her. “You could have saved yourself this sisterly visit by giving Delphinia what she wanted.”
I cannot like people who constantly say “I-told-you-so,” Isabelle thought.
“You always say it,” Giselle shot back.
“I do not,” Isabelle said out loud.
“Isabelle is talking to herself again,” nineteen-year-old Rue whispered to her sister.
“She's crazy,” twenty-year-old Lobelia whispered back. “What man will want to marry the sisters of a woman who belongs in Bedlam?”
“At least we aren't blood relatives,” Rue replied.
Isabelle stiffened in embarrassed anger, but refused to acknowledge their slurs. After the past ten years she should be accustomed to their insults, yet her stepsisters still held the power to hurt her feelings. Though she couldn't fault them for mistakenly believing her crazy. Having a guardian angel wasn't as wonderful as she had once thought.
“What do you want?” Isabelle asked, giving them her attention.
“Money,” Rue blurted out, and then cried “Ouch!” when her sister pinched her.
“I have no money for you,” Isabelle told them. “Enjoy the remainder of your day.”
“Dearest sister,” Lobelia spoke up. “We need new gowns for our spring season in London.”
“You ought to dress properly too,” Rue added. “You are horribly out of fashion.”
Isabelle stared at their gowns. Her stepsisters wore ankle-length muslin dresses with squared necklines and long, full sleeves. Their bodices sported antique frills, and the hemlines had been adorned with bands of embroidery.
Dropping her gaze from their garments, Isabelle noted her own scooped-neck linen blouse and violet wool skirt. Her sisters dressed like fashionable ladies while she appeared like a peasant.
“You are correct,” Isabelle said, shifting her gaze to them. “I am out of fashion. Now, if you will excuse me I have ledgers—”
“You will soon be eighteen and have your come-out into society,” Lobelia reminded her. There was a forced gaiety in her voice when she added, “The three of us need new wardrobes in order to secure offers of marriage.”
“Won't that be exciting?” Rue cried, obviously attempting to elicit enthusiasm from her.
Isabelle stared first at Lobelia and then at Rue until both young women seemed to squirm beneath her displeased scrutiny. She didn't like to think uncharitable thoughts, but her stepsisters were two of the plainest women she'd ever seen. They would need more that the latest fashions in order to secure offers of marriage.
“Your unkind thoughts mirror mine,” Giselle said from where she sat in front of the hearth.
“Go to London if it pleases you,” Isabelle said struggling against the urge to answer the old woman. “Resign yourselves to last year's fashions.”
“Your high-handedness is unfair,” Lobelia said, stamping her foot in displeasure. “The fortune belongs to your brother, not you.”
Rue nodded her head in agreement with her sister.
“Then petition Miles for a new wardrobe,” Isabelle replied. “I haven't the authority to purchase you new gowns and gewgaws.”
“We'll do just that,” Lobelia snapped. “I refuse to die an old maid on the shelf like you . . . Come, sister.”
“Too bad you suffer from freckles,” Rue called over her shoulder as they left the room. “Men dislike freckles, you know.”
The door clicked shut behind them.
Isabelle reached up and touched the bridge of her nose. She turned a troubled expression on her old friend. “Do these freckles make me ugly?” she asked.
“What freckles?”
Isabelle grinned at her answer.
“Like a fine sprinkling of fairy dust, your freckles make you even more irresistible than you already are,” Giselle told her.
“You aren't just saying that?”
“Do angels lie?”
Isabelle shook her head. “You always make me feel better.”
A knock on the door drew their attention.
“I wonder who that could be,” Isabelle quipped. “My stepfamily never knocks.”
Another knock sounded on the door.
“Enter,” Isabelle called, and then smiled when Pebbles, the Montgomery majordomo, walked into the study.
“Good afternoon, my lady.” Pebbles perched on the front edge of the desk and winked at her, saying, “Three witches were trampled to death in an unfortunate carriage accident. When they arrived at heaven's gates Saint Peter told them there was no room in heaven and the witches would need to return to earth. They were to jump off a nearby cloud and shout whatever they wished to be called in this second lifetime. The first witch leapt off the cloud and called Lobelia.”
Isabelle felt her lips twitch with the urge to laugh.
“The second witch jumped off the cloud and yelled Rue,” the majordomo continued. “The third and oldest of the witches tripped and bellowed Shit.”
Isabelle burst out laughing and was joined by Giselle.
“I knew I could bring a smile to your face,” Pebbles said, passing her a missive. “A courier delivered this from London.”
“Thank you.” Isabelle watched the majordomo leave and then tore the missive open saying, “It's from Miles, but I can't imagine why he would hire a private courier.”
Isabelle scanned the letter and then frowned, saying, “God mend his ways.”
“Bad news, child?”
“Miles has left England on a business trip to American and—”
“He's gone to the colonies?” Giselle exclaimed.
“America is a colony no longer,” Isabelle told her.
The door burst open. Delphinia, Lobelia, and Rue charged like marauding soldiers into the study.
“What's the news from London?” Delphinia asked, unable to contain her excitement.
Isabelle hesitated. She didn't want to tell them the truth, because they would immediately begin to harass her for money. But what else could she do? They'd find out soon enough.
“Miles has gone to America,” Isabelle informed her stepmother.
“How can we have our London season without him?” Rue whined.
“Has he left you in charge of the money?” Delphinia asked.
Isabelle stared hard at her stepmother and wondered why she would ask a question when she already knew the answer.
“It would be decidedly unfeminine for you to conduct business, even in an emergency,” Delphinia said, then continued without waiting for a reply. “In society's eyes you are still in the schoolroom. We'd be ruined.” She turned away, adding, “I must ask Nicholas to take charge of the Montgomery finances.”
So that was it, Isabelle decided. Her greedy stepmother wanted to control her brother's fortune. Well, that would never happen. She would never allow Delphinia's spendthrift nephew near the Montgomery fortune.
“That will be unnecessary,” Isabelle said, stopping her stepmother in her tracks.
Delphinia turned around, a shocked expression on her face. “You cannot mean to—”
“Apparently, Miles has enlisted the Duke of Avon's assistance,” Isabelle told her. “I am to call upon His Grace in the unlikely event of an emergency.”
Lobelia and Rue shrieked with excitement and clapped their hands together. “The Duke of Avon is so sophisticated and handsome,” Rue gushed.
“Have you met him?” Isabelle asked, cocking a blond brow at her stepsister.
“No, but rumor told me so,”
“You mean gossip,”
“Whatever.”
“Oh, we must definitely have an emergency,” Lobelia spoke up. “Then His Grace will visit us at Arden Hall and fall madly in love with me.”
“What about me?” Rue asked.
“I am the eldest, so I get the duke,” Lobelia informed her sister. “He does have two brothers though.”
“Imagine that,” Rue said, turning to Isabelle. “There is one Saint-Germain for each of us. We'll be sisters forever.”
“That thought is oh-so-tempting,” Isabelle said sourly, making Giselle chuckle. She turned to the old woman. “Do not laugh at—” Isabelle clamped her lips together and tried to pretend she hadn't spoken out loud.
“There she goes again,” Lobelia sneered. “No Saint-Germain will wish to marry a woman who talks to herself.”
“I was merely thinking our loud,” Isabelle insisted. She looked at her stepmother and said, “I can manage the Montgomery affairs without need of the duke's assistance.”
“Nevertheless, I shall write to His Grace and thank him for being of service to us if we need it,” Delphinia announced.
“What a wonderful idea,” Isabelle said. “Take Lobelia and Rue with you to help draft the letter.”
When her stepfamily had gone, Isabelle sat back in her chair and sighed at her ill luck. Now her stepfamily would harass her for money, gowns, a season in London, and an emergency to bring the Duke of Avon to their door. The last thing she wanted was the Duke of Avon meddling in Montgomery affairs.
“Give them the money, gowns, and London season,” Giselle advised. “They'll forget about the duke.”
Isabelle cast the old woman an exasperated look.
“Or perhaps they won't forget,” Giselle amended herself. “Consider this, child. Adversity is merely the opportunity to prove your worth.”
Isabelle rose from her chair and crossed the chamber to sit on the floor in front of the hearth. She rested her head against the old woman's leg.
“I suspect Delphinia will try to force me into marriage with Nicholas,” Isabelle said. “Where is that prince you promised would rescue me?”
“Nearer than you think,” Giselle answered, stroking her hair lovingly. “Give him time.”
“Time is a luxury I don't have now that Miles is across the Atlantic Ocean,” Isabelle replied.
“Child, you must work harder to develop patience,” the old woman said. “Fate can throw myriad roadblocks down in the blinking of an eye. Perhaps the duke will be your rescuer.”
“The Duke of Avon is no prince.”
“Angles don't always wear wings or a halo,” Giselle said, casting her an ambiguous smile. “And princes don't always wear crowns.”
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