"What the hell do you think you're-" Dermott's words died away.
"It's my uncle," Isabella blurted out, relief pouring over her. "They're right behind me."
"Get in the carriage," Dermott ordered, and raced away.
The dust had begun to settle enough for Isabella to distinguish the outlines of the phaeton. When she reached the side of the vehicle, she found a woman and young boy gazing down at her.
"I'm so pleased you're not hurt," the woman said with feeling.
"Dermott… that is-he said I should… join you." Embarrassed at the situation, nonetheless, Isabella needed Dermott's protection.
"Of course. Tommy, come sit on my lap." The woman helped her son onto her lap as she moved over. And once Isabella was seated, she introduced herself. "I'm Helene Kristos, and this is my son, Tommy. Say hello to the lady, dear."
"We almost wun wight over you!" the young boy exclaimed, his dark eyes bright with excitement.
"I know. Thank heaven the horses stopped in time."
The dark-haired young boy who bore a disturbing likeness to Dermott grinned. "Dermott holler loud."
"I shouldn't have been in the middle of the road, but-" Isabella didn't care to elaborate on the complicated story. "By the way, I'm Isabella Leslie," she added, smiling at the mother and child, thinking how beautiful Dermott's lover was, small, exquisite with enormous dark eyes, Gypsy eyes. A rush of sadness overwhelmed her.
"You're Dermott's friend," Helene noted, smiling back. "He's talked of you."
"He has?" Even while she understood how unrealistic her expectations, her heart leaped with hope.
"Incessantly. Tell her, Tommy. Who has Dermott been talking about?"
"Hith horthes."
"And what lady?"
"Bad wady."
Helene laughed. "No, no, not her. The one who has hair of gold and a smile like-"
"A pwinthess?"
"That's the one."
"Is-bella." He stumbled over the pronunciation.
"Really?" Suddenly Lonsdale and her uncle, her recent terror, pragmatic considerations, dropped away before the joyful onslaught.
"They're gone. Lonsdale's phaeton's gone." Dermott's voice was gruff as he strode toward the carriage. "Not a sign of the bastards anywhere." Swinging up into the driver's seat, he glared at Isabella. "What the hell did you think you were doing, coming this far with bloody Lonsdale."
"Dermott," Helene chided.
"Forgive me, Helene," he said with a strained courtesy. "But this isn't any of your business. Answer me, dammit." He gazed at Isabella with fury in his eyes.
"I thought we were going for a ride in the country. I thought we were stopping for a lemonade. And while I thank you profusely for saving me, I don't think that gives you any right to become a tyrant."
"Lonsdale's a blackguard."
"He's accepted everywhere in society."
"I'm not arguing about this. You shouldn't have gone out with him."
"I appreciate your advice," Isabella tersely replied.
"Damn right you'd better."
Even little Tommy recognized the anger in Dermott's tone, and he stared at him wide-eyed; he'd never heard Dermott speak in such a voice.
"I'll drive you back to the City." It wasn't a statement; it was an order, curt and chill, uncompromising.
"Thank you very much," Isabella tautly said. She had no choice, and they both knew it.
The drive to Helene's cottage passed in silence, even Tommy's normal loquaciousness curtailed by the look on Dermott's face. After he helped Helene and Tommy down and spoke briefly to them, Dermott returned to the carriage and without comment snapped the reins. The horses jumped off.
Grim-faced on their journey back to London, he didn't speak.
After several tense miles, Isabella finally said, "I do thank you, Dermott. Very much. You must know how grateful I am."
"When I think of what Lonsdale might have done," he murmured, his jaw clenching in anger, the tick evident as she gazed up at him.
"Helene is very lovely. And Tommy is darling." They both had their jealousies.
"Don't change the subject."
"You're old friends, I understand."
He turned to her, a modicum of shock in his gaze. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means I understand how you feel about Lonsdale."
"How can you possibly know how I feel about Lonsdale?"
"Because you've been berating me since you first saw me."
"You did a stupid thing."
"I don't see how it concerns you."
"You don't?"
"No. Tell me."
He chewed on his lip for a moment and then turned his attention to the road.
She wanted him to say he cared; she wanted him to admit to jealousy. She wanted what she couldn't have, she quickly realized, for when he looked back at her, his gaze was shuttered. "I wouldn't suggest you take long drives with anyone. Lonsdale is one of the less scrupulous, but any of your admirers might be interested in compromising you. For your money. Just a word of advice."
"Thank you. I'll keep it in mind. Now tell me about Helene."
"There's nothing to tell. When her husband died, she needed help and I helped her. I like Tommy, so I spend some time with them occasionally."
"You're not lovers?"
"I don't see that it's any of your business."
"You are lovers."
"Does it matter?"
"Not on any practical level."
"Good."
He was silent for the rest of the journey, and she didn't have the heart to talk. Not after such a deliberate indication of his feelings on independence. It was clear he wasn't interested in a relationship other than on his terms. Which meant a casual sexual liaison without strings or attachment.
And she'd die of sadness, sharing him with a host of other women.
He escorted her into the house and spoke to Molly as though she weren't present, as though she were a young child who needed a strong hand and stronger discipline. And when he left, he barely took leave of Isabella. He only nodded.
"I'm so sorry you had to be terrorized by Lonsdale " Molly commiserated, helping Isabella off with her jacket. "I blame myself for letting you go."
"No one's to blame but Lonsdale and my relatives. Damn them all." Isabella paced to the windows of the small back parlor where Molly had been eating an early supper. "They won't give up."
"Could you have them arrested?"
"Not likely." Isabella gazed out on the pristine green of the small lawn. "It's my word against theirs, and I'm considerably outnumbered."
"Then, I'm going to insist you have a bodyguard. If you had taken one with you today, none of this would have happened."
Isabella turned back to her friend. "I didn't think I'd ever say this, but you're right. Regardless of the lack of privacy, I don't dare be out alone."
"I know the perfect man. Joe Thurlow has given up the fight game. His best friend was killed in a match last year, and he lost all interest in the sport. He works for me from time to time. I know he's available."
Isabella came to sit down at the table with Molly. "Another thing." A small frown creased her brow. "Would you mind terribly," she slowly said, conscious she might be causing hurt, "that is-would it matter to you if I decided to retreat from society?"
Molly scrutinized her. "Because of Lonsdale?"
"No." Isabella traced a pattern on the tablecloth with her finger. "Because I don't wish to see Dermott." She looked up. "It's cowardly, I know, but seeing him today with that pretty actress and her child was awful." She slowly inhaled, as though a calming breath would help ease the pain. "And he told me in no uncertain terms on the ride back to the City that he had no wish to change the pattern of his life."
"I'm sorry," Molly murmured. "I don't know how to offer you comfort. If it's any excuse, the death of his wife and son was so deep a blow, I'm not sure he'll ever recover from it. He feels a terrible guilt for taking them along on campaign. I never told you the whole story, but his family was massacred when their camp was overrun by enemies while he and a troop were out on a scouting mission. He found his wife and son on his return; they were dreadfully mutilated."