Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

T obacco smoke wisped and coiled like morning fog across the loud main parlor of Golding's Gentlemen's Club, the scent of spilled brandy clinging to the acrid air. In a quieter corner, nursing a glass of port, Edmund Connolly was not having quite the welcome home he had been looking forward to.

"Why so glum?" Vincent, sitting across from Edmund with a measure of brandy, asked.

Edmund raised his head, having been lost in thought, his mind adrift in an altogether different part of London. "Glum? Not at all. Tired would be a better word. I fear I am still adjusting to the atrocious English weather."

"But it has been fair all week."

"There is a stark difference between good weather in England and good weather on the Continent," Edmund pointed out, smiling at his oldest friend.

"Ah, well, I would know nothing of that. I always imagined I would have a grand tour, but, alas, it shall have to wait a few more years—perhaps many more years if my hopes of finally adventuring abroad rest on Prudence marrying." Vincent mustered a tight laugh and took a deep sip of his brandy as if he very much needed it.

Edmund cocked his head. "How old is she now?"

"Three-and-ten. Teresa is six-and-ten and will likely be as difficult to find a husband for as Prudence when she is of age." Vincent groaned. "How is it possible that all three could be so completely opposite to one another? Prudence is wild and untamable. Teresa is mute half the time. And Isolde is…"

"A law unto herself?" Edmund interjected, chuckling stiffly.

Vincent nodded slowly, sitting back in his chair as the babble of other men's chatter rose and fell in waves around them. "I thought she was improving, I thought she had become a proper lady at last, but I was mistaken." He sat up straight once more. "Now, I must go to Bath, and I have not the faintest notion of what I am going to do with them—my sisters and my mother."

"Bath? Whatever for?" Edmund hoped that his friend could not see his disappointment. He had been hoping to reacquaint himself with London with Vincent at his side.

"We have inherited a considerable fortune," Vincent explained. "I did not know the man well—a distant second cousin of some kind—but he has left all of his worldly wealth to me. I must go to Bath to collect the inheritance, and do not know how long that shall take."

"Can you not take the ladies to Bath with you?"

Vincent hesitated, swirling his glass, transfixed by the movement of the amber liquid. "I could, but I fear it would jeopardize Isolde's prospects. She has only just debuted, and though there is society aplenty in Bath, the true elite are here. I need her to be well-stationed in marriage, and she will insist on being wherever her sisters are, so I cannot take them and leave her behind. Moreover, I cannot trust her to stay behind, not even with our mother present."

"There was no one of interest for her last night?" Edmund asked, his brow creasing as he heard a somewhat familiar voice weaving through the smoke. A reedy, pathetic voice that reminded him of a certain wretch he had encountered the previous evening.

Vincent downed the contents of his glass, summoning the waiter for another measure. "I had hoped so, but it was not to be."

"Is that why you left early?" Edmund searched the fog of the parlor, trying to find the owner of that voice.

"In part," Vincent admitted. "What of you? Did you encounter any young ladies charming enough to make you relinquish your bachelorhood?"

Edmund glanced at his friend as the waiter came by to replenish their drinks. He had encountered someone last night; a rather fierce lady who had needed his help before an opportunistic coward could force a kiss upon her. A lady he had not ceased thinking about since, wondering if she was well after her unpleasant experience.

If he thought about her too intently, he could almost feel the firm press of her palms against his chest and see the grateful gleam of her eyes through her elegant mask. He opened his mouth to tell Vincent about the woman he rescued, but halted himself before a single word could slip out.

If Vincent knew the woman, Edmund might very well ruin her by accident, by speaking of the events in the gardens of Kensington Palace. And as much as he wanted to talk about it, he realized that only silence would keep her truly safe—indeed, what was the point in rescuing her last night, if a scandal destroyed her tomorrow?

"I doubt such a lady exists," he said to Vincent instead.

Vincent nodded, tugging at his collar. "Then, you will not have any other prior engagements to attend to this coming week?"

"Nothing too pressing," Edmund replied, realizing a moment too late where his friend's question was heading.

Vincent jumped right in, a sly glint in his eyes. "So, you would not be averse to taking care of my dear, feral sisters and my mother while I am away? I am certain they would not mind aiding you in your readjustment to the ways of polite English society."

"No," Edmund said abruptly, unsettled by the request.

"No, you are not averse to taking care of them?" Vincent grinned. "That is a relief. I shall be forever in your debt, Edmund. Truly, I cannot thank you enough for doing this favor for me."

Edmund tried to protest, tried to get out any possible reason why he could not do such a thing for his friend, but the excuses would not come. He had never been a particularly good liar, preferring omission over outright untruths, and Vincent would see right through him either way.

And I owe him. I owe him a great deal. My life, probably. Perhaps, that was why he could not find a worthy excuse. In his younger years, cast adrift in a lonely world with no family and no idea what he was supposed to do in his new position as Duke, Vincent had been his anchor, holding him steady through every storm, guiding him safely back to calmer waters. The least Edmund could do in return was keep an eye on the Wilds girls for a short while.

"If you are gone for more than a week, I will withdraw and leave them to run amok," Edmund grumbled, while a look of genuine relief passed across Vincent's face and relaxed his posture.

"Thank you, Edmund," Vincent said. "Truly, thank you."

Raising his hand, Edmund summoned the waiter and asked him to bring over what was left of the bottle of port. He would need more than a meager measure of the stuff if he was to share a residence, and the lion's share of his time, with Isolde Wilds—otherwise known as the bane of his existence. Even after three years of absence, she had not lost that title, and he doubted she ever would.

Isolde hummed her way down the stairs of the family's Mayfair townhouse, daydreaming of tall, masked gentlemen in beautiful gardens, and contemplating what she might have for her breakfast.

As it was still rather early in the morning, the sun barely high enough to cast a glow through the townhouse windows, she had not bothered to dress for the day yet. Instead, she wore her nightgown and housecoat, determined to irritate Vincent if they happened to cross paths. If he truly believed that she had not changed in six years, then she figured she ought to remind him of who she used to be— then , he would take back his unkind words.

"I think I might have breakfast in the garden," she mumbled aloud, ceasing her humming. "Yes, that would be a fine thing."

Turning right and heading for the kitchens, resuming her jaunty tune, she did not hear the study door open nor see the lumbering figure lurch out until it was too late. A hefty weight knocked into her, and she stumbled backward, saved from a fall by bouncing off the opposite wall. Her shoulder collided with mahogany, a sharp pain shooting down her left arm.

"Have your eyes not yet opened? Are you half asleep?" she blurted out, shocked into rudeness by the impact and the smarting sting of her arm.

Indeed, considering where the figure had emerged from, she suspected it was her brother… until the morning glow illuminated the man's face. A horrified gasp slipped from Isolde's throat as she looked upon one of the most handsome, infuriating men in all of England, her irritation liquefying into molten anger.

"Had you not been humming that awful song like a common sailor, you might have had the wherewithal to step out of the way," Edmund's hoarse voice replied, eyes narrowing.

Isolde clenched her jaw, her hands balling into fists, wishing he was not so tall and imposing. Wishing he was as ugly outside as he was inside.

" Me get out of the way?" she retorted. "I see you learned no manners during your grand tour. Maybe, you ought to return to the Continent and stay there until you have learned some."

"I will not argue with someone who cannot admit they are in the wrong," he replied gruffly, attempting to move past her.

She blocked his path and though he could have easily knocked her sideways with the slightest nudge of his broad shoulder and muscular arm, he stalled with a dark look on his face. Even someone as unfeeling as him would not barge past a lady, or so it seemed.

"But you would know all about that, would you not?" she said.

"You can either stand aside or I can move you out of the way," he warned, with the strong hands and athletic physique to back up the threat. "It is your choice."

She squared her shoulders and straightened her posture, but she still barely came up to his neck, which rather made trying to look intimidating an impossibility. "What were you doing in my brother's study? Not plundering his generosity as always, I hope?"

"I was asleep," Edmund growled. "Now, I mean to have breakfast. You are standing in my way. Move aside."

"Asleep in the study?" Isolde scoffed. "I suppose I do not need to guess where you were last night. But I should warn you, Your Grace , I do not appreciate those who would lead my brother astray."

Edmund sighed, staring down at her with his eyebrow arched, a pitying expression upon his face. "Vincent said you had not changed, despite his best hopes. I see that he was right."

She recoiled at that, the sting of her brother's reprimand throbbing afresh. "Perhaps, you ought to forgo breakfast and leave. I intended to have breakfast, and your presence is rather ruining my appetite."

"It is bewildering to me that, at eight-and-ten, you are still behaving like a child," he said coolly. "Always resorting to such juvenile remarks. If you ever hope to find your fairytale prince and live your happily ever after, I would suggest remedying that first. No man wants to deal with such pettiness."

She glared at him, cheeks flushing with furious heat. In all the years they had known one another, he had taken every opportunity to mock her for her belief in romance. And while that belief had set her on a dangerous path at her debut, she would not let him continue to tease her for it. If anything, her unpleasant encounter with Colin, and her rather marvelous encounter with the masked stranger, had made her all the more determined to find an exceptional love. The kind that made other ladies swoon, and made life feel like the most exquisite dream.

Unfortunately, Edmund had a habit of making other ladies swoon. Ladies who did not truly know him, as Isolde did.

"I might make remarks that you do not favor, but at least I am not utterly unlovable," she muttered. "Indeed, it rather smarts of envy. Duke or not, you will never find a wife. If any lady had the choice between spending ten minutes in your company or listening to the most tedious sermon in a feverishly warm church on the hottest day of the year, they would, without fail, choose the latter every time."

Edmund's dark blue eyes flashed. "Envy? You flatter yourself, Lady Isolde. Then again, you always have."

"Says the gentleman who did not bother to wear a mask to a masquerade," she shot back. "Only someone wishing to draw attention to himself would do such a thing."

He was about to respond, no doubt striking her with another cutting comment, when a different voice split the tense atmosphere in the eastern hallway.

"Stand down, soldiers!" Vincent's laughter echoed as he hurried to join his sister and his friend. "I want no warfare in my residence. Like it or not, this is neutral territory."

Edmund looked to his friend, his expression still pinched with annoyance. "I do feel like a canister has exploded in my skull. I was hoping the cook might prepare me something to ease the ache."

"Certainly, she would be happy to," Vincent assured, gaze darting between the two enemies. "And what of you, Sister? What brings you downstairs so early?"

Isolde cast her brother a withering look. "I am always awake at this hour. It is you who idles in bed, so I can understand why you are disoriented. Welcome, Brother—this is what true morning looks like." She tilted her chin up in defiance. "As for what I am doing, I was planning to have breakfast when some oaf nearly sent me flying. I shall have a bruise on my shoulder that will entirely ruin the gowns I planned to wear this week."

"Ah, speaking of which," Vincent hesitated, turning his gaze everywhere but at Isolde, "Edmund will be escorting you to the week's events and gatherings, along with Mother, of course. I must leave for Bath by noon, and considering… um… recent troubles, I must have a replacement here. A replacement that I trust to watch over you until I return, so no harm can befall you."

Isolde stared at her brother, mouth hanging open, as shocked as if he had struck her with his hand. "You cannot be serious! I refuse! If you mean to… to… inflict this beast upon this household, then I shall also be departing at noon. I shall go to Charlotte's or Louisa's—goodness, I would rather spend the Season at our country seat, in complete isolation, if him being my wretched shadow is the alternative."

"Charming as ever," Edmund muttered, sweeping a casual hand through his wavy, warm brown locks.

Tentatively, Vincent put his hand on Isolde's shoulder. "It is only for a week, dear sister. Indeed, it is my hope that it will be good for the two of you. I cannot have my dearest friend and my sweet sister at one another's throats forever."

"That is not your choice to make," Isolde retorted, shaking off Vincent's hand. "And if you do not want warfare in this house, I suggest you rethink your strategy, because this will end in tears, and they shall not be mine."

Certain that Edmund was going to jump in with a scathing rejoinder, Isolde took off before he could, marching away from that awful man as fast as she could. As she did, her brain raced, already conjuring up schemes for the days to come, for if Vincent would not change his mind—which she sensed he would not—then she would make him wish he had never left her in the ‘trustworthy' hands of Edmund Connolly.

And maybe, just maybe, her masked stranger might come to her rescue once again, saving her from an interminable week in Edmund's company. She sighed at the thought, but the thrill of it passed quickly. After all, getting her unknown champion to emerge from the shadows again might well be easier said than done; she had no name, she had no information, she did not even know what he looked like.

Still, there was no one more determined to succeed than a woman scorned… and a woman who believed in fate of the most romantic kind.