What the Critics Say about Cheryl Bolen's Books

Bolen's writing has a certain elegance that lends itself to the era and creates the perfect atmosphere for her enchanting romances. – Romantic Times

One of the best authors in the Regency romance field today. –  Huntress Reviews

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Lady Sophia's Rescue...

As Lady Sophia passes through the gates of her new bridegroom’s country estate and he begins to whisper in her ear the delights that await her in his bed, Lady Sophia realizes she has made a most dreadful mistake. There’s only one thing to do. She must bolt.

The bride-on-the-run is rescued by the exceedingly handsome William Birmingham who thinks she’s a woman named Isadore, and though he’s the richest man in England, she mistakes him for a common (but well-to-do) criminal. Since she’d rather be dead than wed to her wretched bridegroom, Sophia pretends to be Isadore and take her chances with the provocative Mr. Birmingham. But how could she have known that her ruse would bring the gallant Mr. Birmingham into such peril from the wicked man she married? And how could she have known her enigmatic rescuer would ignite passions she never knew she possessed?

Ebooks available from award-winning author Cheryl Bolen

A Lady by Chance*

The Brides of Bath Series

The Bride Wore Blue*

With His Ring*

A Fallen Woman*

To Take This Lord (previously titled An Improper Proposal)*

With His Lady's Assistance

My Lord Wicked

Lady Sophia's Rescue

The Earl's Bargain

It Had to Be You (Previously titled Nisei)

A Duke Deceived*

* Previously published in paperback

Lady Sophia's Rescue

Cheryl Bolen

Copyright 2011 by Cheryl Bolen

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

PROLOGUE

At night the invisible line of demarcation between the City of London and its East End became more pronounced as the narrow streets east of Aldgate took on an eerie sinisterness. Even the sounds were different here in the East End than those emanating from the solid edifices of The City. Cackles induced by too much gin, incessant crying of unwanted babies, and coarse solicitations from flea-bitten whores were as intrinsic to this neighborhood as its rickety, bulging buildings. Here, human life held no value. Cutthroats would kill a man for two pence.

Which was one reason why William Birmingham never went east of Aldgate at night without a weapon.

On his normal nocturnal forays to the docks where the Birmingham yacht was moored he was accompanied by a virtual army of his family’s trusted guards.

Tonight he came alone.

MacIver had requested that he do so. And when thousands of pounds were at stake, William could be commanded, especially since MacIver was one of the few men he trusted.

As William neared the docklands tavern where he would meet MacIver, he patted his coat and was oddly comforted by the steely feel of his pistol. The very threat of danger accelerated the thump of his heartbeat. In a good way. While his brothers made their fortunes taking risks on the stock market or in staid banking circles, William thrived on risking his own life and limb. He courted adventure with the same fervor that guided Nick and Adam to seek ever-higher interest rates. Nothing could induce him to settle down with the family business on Threadneedle Street. Not when he could help the Birmingham coffers in capitals throughout Europe--or in seedy little taverns in London’s East End.

The Howling Hound public house -- aptly named for its raucous noises -- was located a hundred yards from the docks and had long been a favorite haunt of sailors. William circled the tavern’s exterior twice, looking for any shadowed figures lurking in doorways. Once he was satisfied he was not walking into a trap, he dismounted to wait outside the tavern for MacIver.

He did not expect danger, but a rich man must be careful in this neighborhood. William had chosen to disguise his wealth by covering his finely tailored clothing with a worn, outmoded greatcoat that did little to protect him from the January chill. He would not, however, concede to riding a nag. Had he need for a fast getaway, he wished to be assured of a fleet-footed beast.

Mellow yellow light from the tavern’s window spilled onto the dirt street outside, and the night was filled with the sound of foghorns and cockney voices alternately arguing and laughing lustily. Before two minutes had passed, MacIver came swaggering up to him. Neither man spoke until the gap between them was less than an arm’s length.

“‘Tis good to see ye’ve followed me instructions to a tee, Mr. Birmingham,” the older man said.

“Only because you’ve earned my trust.”

MacIver’s eyes narrowed as he peered into the Howling Hound, then lowered his voice. “Let us move away a wee bit.”

The two men strode into the middle of the street. William could barely see his companion’s craggy face in the night’s misty darkness. “You’ve got the bullion?”

“Aye, but we’ve got to be careful. What with the cutthroats and the authorities, a gent can’t be too careful.”

“Then you won’t be able to deliver it to my brother’s bank?” William asked.

MacIver shook his head. “Not for this transaction, guv’nah.”

William’s brows dipped. “Have you not been well paid in the past?”

“Aye, but I’m merely a go-between this time.”

This time? William could not believe that MacIver had ever been anything but a go-between, a bridge from the smugglers to the Birminghams, England’s wealthiest family. He shrugged. “It’s of no importance how we get it to my brother. As you know, my family does not lack for safe conveyances and well-armed guards.”

“Aye. That’s what will be needed now.” MacIver lowered his raspy voice. “This shipment is considerably more valuable than the others.”

“How much more valuable?”

“Eighty thousand pounds.”

Considerably more valuable, indeed. William tamped down his excitement and spoke casually in his cultured voice. “How do we take possession?”

“Ye must wait until yer contacted.”

MacIver’s methods had changed. The man had previously been too greedy to trust anyone else. Of course, previous bullion shipments had never exceeded twenty thousand pounds. “And who will be contacting me?” William asked.

“A . . . lady.”

William envisioned a French émigré. “And how will I know this . . . lady?”

“She will be lovely, and her name is Isadore.”

Chapter 1

“I’d rather be dead than wed.” Lady Sophia glanced down at the solid earth some forty feet below and was sickeningly aware of how close she was to fulfilling her statement. She prayed the ledge upon which she stood would not give way.

“But ye are wed, milady!”

Depend on her pragmatic maid to take things so utterly literally. “Wed, but not bed -- and I believe that is a vastly important distinction.”

Her maid snorted.

Flattening herself against the wall, Lady Sophia inched toward the corner of the building.

“I’m shaking so hard I fear I’ll tumble to me death,” Dottie said. “Ye know how fearful I am of heights.”

“No one held a pistol to your head and forced you to come out that window with me.” Why must she always speak so flippantly in grave situations? Seriously, Sophia wouldn’t at all like to see her trusted servant splattered on the gravel simply because she herself had made the dreadful mistake of marrying Lord Finkel that very afternoon.

“I’ve been with ye since the day ye was born, and I’ll not leave ye now. Besides, I didn’t want to be around when yer bridegroom discovers ye’ve fled. The servants say Lord Finkel has a fierce temper.”

Finkie? A fierce temper? Sophia could hardly credit it. An affable baboon was closer to the mark. Why oh why had she ever consented to wed the bore? Perhaps because he was titled, terribly handsome, paid uncommon homage to her beauty -- and had protected her sister’s reputation. In what was undoubtedly the most moronic moment of her life she had decided that being Finkie’s marchioness was preferable to being a hopeless spinster of the advanced age of seven and twenty.

That was before he kissed her. The only physical reaction his most unsatisfactory kiss elicited in her was nausea. Because of the kippers. Lord Finkel’s breath smelled -- and tasted -- distinctly of kippers.

And that bit of knowledge added to the tusk business sent her packing her bags before he had the opportunity to offend any more of her senses.

In all fairness to Lord Finkel, it wasn’t his fault about the tusk business. It only happened that once -- the day his valet was abed with fever and had been unable to shave the tufts of nasal hair that protruded from each of Finkie’s nostrils like a pair of elephant tusks. But still, whenever she thought of Lord Finkel after that she had been unable to dispel the vision of those dark brown tusks jutting from his nose.

All of this made her seem excessively shallow and unduly sensitive to sensory assaults. Which she really couldn’t deny. But there was something else about Finkie that put her off, though she could not express it any more than she understood it. She supposed it all boiled down to the fact that -- try as she might -- she could not admire the man. He was even more shallow than she!

If she and Dottie could just make it to the corner of the building, they could lower themselves onto the steep roof of the orangery and from there could shimmy down to the shrubs. “Should you like me to hold your hand?” Sophia offered.

Dottie sucked in her breath. “No, please. I beg you, don’t touch me!” Her maid’s voice quivered with terror.

Curling her toes and gripping the stone wall, Sophia ever so slightly swiveled her head to face Dottie, but the night was so inky black she could not see her. “Then allow me to take your valise--or should I say, Lord Finkel’s valise. Then I’ll be balanced with a valise in each hand.”

“I ’av a better idea.”

Her maid’s utterance was followed by the distant thump of the valise hitting the ground.

“A very good idea.” Lady Sophia let go of her own valise. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, “I do hope no one heard the noise.”

“If they did look out the window,” Dottie said in a low voice, “they’d likely not see anything to rouse suspicion.”

Of course. Dottie was always right. (A pity Sophia had not listened to her when she disparaged Lord Finkel.) Anyone who may have heard the noise would be looking for people, which they wouldn’t see because these people were still flapping against a wall three floors up.

“You don’t suppose his lordship will ’av me arrested for stealing his valise?” Dottie asked.

“I daresay he won’t even miss it. Had he need of it, it wouldn’t have been just sitting there quite empty in his library. You must own, it looks a bit tawdry for a man of Lord Finkel’s extravagant taste.”

“Aye, that it does.”

Soon Sophia reached the corner of the edifice and negotiated a turn, relieved to see the silvery looking top of the orangery. She drew a deep breath and lowered herself until she was sitting upon its roof. A moment later, a trembling Dottie joined her. “What now, milady?”

“We’re going to scoot to the lowest part, then climb down those yews.”

“Ye’ll get yer cape filthy -- if ye don’t break yer lovely neck.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic. The hardest part’s behind us,” Sophia called over her shoulder as she pushed off. Somewhere between the apex of the glass building and the yew trees which skimmed its side, she wondered how long a bridegroom would wait for his bride to prepare for bed. Would Finkie be pounding upon her door yet? Or worse still, would he be using his considerable strength to tear it down? She needed no greater impetus than the vision of her exceedingly strong bridegroom – enraged -- to send her sprawling into the yew branches. Rip. She winced at the damage to her silk dress but scurried down the tree, grateful her gloves protected her hands.

While Dottie gathered up her courage to follow her mistress, Sophia collected the two valises, but when she returned Dottie just sat atop the glass building whimpering. “I can’t.”

Sophia drew an impatient breath. “If I can do it, you can. I assure you, this is a most sturdy tree.”

“But it don’t have limbs like a proper tree. I fear I’ll topple on me head.”

“You put your feet first,” Sophia said through clenched teeth. “And I beg that you hurry. We really must be away from Upton Manor when Lord Finkel discovers me gone.”

The maid eased each dangling leg over the roofline. “I can’t.”

“Just leap onto the tree and slide down. That tree’s not going anywhere. Besides, I’ll be right here to catch you if you fail.” Sophia came to stand directly beneath her maid.

That seemed to ease Dottie’s fears.

A moment later, amid a great deal of whining and gasping, the maid’s feet touched solid ground, and the two women began to tread across the frosty grass of Upton Manor.

Sophia sighed, her breath forming a cloud in the frigid air. “A pity I didn’t get married in the summer.”

“Why do you say that, milady?” Dottie asked, breathlessly.

“Because tonight must be the coldest night of the year.”

“Aye, it’s blustery, all right, but at least it’s not snowing.”

“A good thing, too. Our tracks would be devilishly hard to erase in the snow, and I shouldn’t like for Lord Finkel to find me and bring me back.”

“He’s sure to go to the posting inn in Knotworth.”

“That is why we shall go to the posting inn north of Knotworth. He will, quite naturally, be expecting me to return to London.”

“We aren’t going to Lunnon?”

“Of course we’re going to London.”

“Yer too clever for me. Clever ye were, too, to ’av us dress in black so we’ll blend in with the night, but why did you insist on me wearing one of yer lovely gowns?”

“Because Lord Finkel is sure to send servants searching for me, and they will quite naturally be seeking a well-born lady traveling with her maid. I have therefore decided that we will travel as sisters, and I shan’t wish for anyone to suspect that I’m anything other than a genteel lady of middle class.”

“I won’t tell anyone yer a fine lady.”

“Of course you won’t. You’re to be a mute.”

“One of them people who can’t speak?” There was a smidgeon of outrage in Dottie’s voice.

“Precisely.”

* **

He had waited a very long time to make Lady Sophia his own. He could scarcely believe his good fortune. For years every eligible bachelor in the ton had begged for her hand in marriage, but it was he who had been so singularly honored. He alone possessed the three things that had endeared himself to the beautiful lady: his title, his good looks, and his ability to protect her sister’s good name.

Lady Sophia need never know she had been one of dozens he had duped or betrayed over the years, nor did she need to know his greatest source of income came from his arrangement with the publisher Smith. Because of his own exalted position, Lord Finkel possessed all manner of information that wealthy aristocrats would pay handsomely to prevent from being published. The prevention of one particular piece relating to Lady Sophia’s younger sister had won him Lady Sophia’s profound gratitude.

Now he had what he’d always wanted. His wife was beautiful, came with a large dowry, and in a few minutes he would slake his intense hunger for her between two smooth, ivory thighs.

The very thought aroused him.

But what in the hell was taking her so bloody long to ready for bed? She had said she would come to his room through the dressing room that linked her chambers to his. During the hour he had waited, he had schooled himself to be patient. He had anticipated this night for years. A few minutes more would not matter.

He strode angrily across the broadloom carpet of his bedchamber, yanked the stopper off a decanter of Madera, poured himself a glass, and drank it in one long swig. This wasn’t how he'd planned this night. Knowing his bride was a virgin, he had intended to relax her with a glass of wine as they cozied up on the settee by his fire while he touched her in places that would have her begging to be carried to his bed.

Now the scenario would change.

He was much too hungry for her to waste time on foreplay, and he was so angry that a swift deflowering would give him great pleasure. Cursing under his breath, he began to pace the carpet.

Another half hour passed. Damn, but he could be the gentleman no longer! He rushed to his dressing room and stormed through it, throwing open the door to his wife’s bedchamber. His eye went straight to the large tester bed that was draped in emerald silk. It was empty. His gaze circled the silent room. Not a soul in sight. Was the damn wench still in her dressing room? He stalked to the door and swung it open. The gown she had worn that day puddled on the floor, but neither its owner nor her maid where anywhere in sight.

What the hell? Seized by a blinding fury, he reentered her bedchamber and scanned the sumptuous room. A piece of parchment was propped up on the gilt escritoire. His brows scrunched down, he stalked to the desk and began to read.

Dear Lord Finkel,

I’ve had a change of heart. I do not wish to be your wife. Please don’t try to bring me back. I shall consult with my brother. Perhaps he can propose an agreeable manner in which we can dissolve this marriage. I’m truly sorry.

Lady Sophia

A scalding, thundering rage bolted through him. He sure as hell was going to bring her back! She was his, by God. If he had to rape her, he’d make her his. He returned to his chamber and rang for a servant.

When his puzzled valet appeared, Lord Finkel spit out his orders. “Gather up all the footmen and have them meet me in the library.”

He swiftly dressed and went downstairs to the book-lined chamber. As soon as he took a seat behind his desk, he glanced at the floor and realized his valise was not there where he always kept it. His heart pounding, he leaped to his feet and began to search the room. But the bag was gone.

The first servant who entered the room had to bear his wrath. “Who in the hell’s taken my gray valise?”

“I couldn’t say, my lord.”

Lord Finkel pounded his desk. “Evans! Come here at once.”

A few seconds later the panting butler entered the library. “My lord?”

“My valise is gone!” Lord Finkel said. “Do you know anything about it?”

“No, my lord.”

One of a pair of youthful footmen who came striding into the chamber answered him. “I believe your wife’s maid had it, my lord.”

“My wife’s maid?” Lord Finkel thundered. “Why in the hell didn’t you take it from her?”

The footman shrugged. “’Twern’t my place. I thought — because it was shabby like — you’d given it to the lady.”

He would gladly kill the bitch. And her mistress, too. His mouth set firmly, his voice grim, he appraised the room full of servants. “The woman is a thief. She and . . . Lady Finkel have disappeared with my valise. I want all of them back. Whichever of you finds the . . . ladies will be rewarded handsomely.”

* * *

Several hours later Sophia and Dottie, so exhausted they could barely set one foot in front of the other, exclaimed at the sight of the welcome lantern glow that illuminated the exterior of the posting inn at Shelton. It had been more than two hours since they had seen a single halo of light — not even a carriage lamp. Which was really not a surprise. Only a lunatic would brave these muddy country roads at night during a wretched rain storm.

More than once during the miserable trek Sophia had asked herself if she would have gone out Lord Finkel’s window had she known that she would have to brave so savage a storm. No sooner had they cleared Upton Manor than thunder began to rumble and prodigious amounts of rain started to pound down on them. Her merino cape was of little protection against the deluge. Indeed, not even the linen shift closest to her body remained dry. Her wet boots rubbed big, raw blisters on her feet. And she had never been so cold in her entire life. Despite all the physical discomforts, though, she thought she would rather be traipsing through a blizzard than be in Lord Finkel’s bed — beneath him.

Voices filled the livery stable, and the inn yard was crammed with conveyances. It was just her luck that on the night she fled Finkie’s bed the tiny village of Shelton had become a Mecca for aborted London-bound travelers. Before she and Dottie ever proceeded through the aged timber door of the Prickly Pig she knew there would not be an available room.

She only hoped they could find a dry spot to wait for the morning post chaise -- if the innkeeper did not toss out the pair of bedraggled women. She clutched Dottie’s bony forearm. “Remember, you are not to speak.” Then she threw open the door.

The blazing fire that warmed the room was a far more welcome sight than the forty or more persons — all men and all gaping at her — who crammed into the small chamber.

She flipped off the hood of her cape and held her head high as she regally strode to an aproned man who looked as if he could be the innkeeper. “My sister and I should like chambers,” she said.

Roars of laughter greeted her words. Her first thought was that everyone knew Dottie was not her sister, then she realized they could not possibly know such a thing. Therefore, they must be laughing at the improbability of her securing a room on such a night as this.

“I’m sorry, madam. We’re full up tonight,” the man said in a kindly voice. He no doubt took pity on the deranged woman who stood before him soaked from head to toe.

She sighed. “If you could just secure a dry corner for us to wait until the morning post chaise . . .”

The innkeeper shrugged. “I’m sorry, miss, but this taproom’s the only place.”

She favored him with a radiant smile. Since she had left the school room (long ago) she had discovered that a smile from Lady Sophia Devere was as treasured by men as a gift of shiny guineas. As she stood there smiling insipidly, her gaze flicked to the jagged tears in her costly cape and to the mud-encrusted boots. She ran a hand through her dark locks. It was rather like petting a wet duck. How perfectly UNappealing she must look! Even if she was flashing her best smile. Heaven help her if he took her for a doxie.

“I’ll see if I can find two more chairs,” he said, disappearing behind a swinging door.

She drew a sigh of relief that he’d not thought her a loose woman.

A moment later he returned with a spindleless chair in each hand. “I’ll sit you ladies in the corner and bring you some ’ot tea.”

“We would be ever so grateful,” Sophia said.

During the next hour as she sat there unable to talk to Dottie because of Dottie’s orders not to reply, Lady Sophia took the opportunity to observe the drunken men who surrounded them. They must be servants of the persons of quality who no doubt were fast asleep in comfortable beds upstairs. Though she was seven and twenty years of age and considered herself a woman of the world, Sophia had never before been in a room full of low-born men.

At the very instant she came to that realization, an exceedingly well dressed man came striding into the taproom, with an older, less elegantly dressed man tagging behind him. No doubt, his valet. He tossed off his dripping great coat, handed it to the man on his heels, and scanned the room, his gaze flitting past Sophia before he made eye contact with the innkeeper and began to address him.

The room was so noisy Sophia could not hear what the man said, but she could not seem to remove her gaze from him. Without the enormous coat, he was uncommonly handsome. Though he was a gentleman from his starchy cravat to the tip of his shiny Hessians (which, unlike Sophia’s boots, were NOT muddy), there was a ruggedness about him. She could see him striding the bow of a pirate ship with broadsword in hand, his golden hair waving in the breeze, his exceedingly wide shoulders straining against a creamy linen shirt. His skin glowed with a healthy summer-like tan despite that it was the dead of winter.

She watched as the innkeeper solemnly shook his head, and the handsome newcomer nodded. A moment later, still standing at the bar, he tossed down a bumper of ale.

To keep from staring at the handsome man, she lifted the curtain to peer out the window. Her heart nearly exploded at what she saw. Two men whose Finkel livery showed beneath their gaping coats were handing their horses to an ostler. “Come, Dottie, quickly,” she commanded as she whipped out of her chair and strode to the bar to stand beside the Adonis. “I’ve been searching for you, sir,” she said boldly to the well dressed man.

He set down his drink and turned to regard her. She was careful to keep her back to the door while yanking Dottie’s arm so that she would do the same. Remembering her torn clothing, she prayed he would not mistake her for a trollop.

His very green eyes raked over her, and it was a moment before he replied. “Then you must be Isadore.”

It was several seconds before she found her voice. “Indeed I am, and this is my elder sister, Dorothea, who is a mute.”

She prayed Isadore was NOT a trollop.

Chapter 2

Though the two ladies did not resemble each other at all, William could more easily have believed the mute to be mother rather than sister to Isadore, whom he judged to be five and twenty years of age. At first he had not noticed the younger woman’s beauty behind the ragged clothing and disheveled hair. It wasn’t until she stood before him, speaking in her cultured voice, that he really looked at her and discovered the lovely face peeking out from the soggy mass of dark hair. His penetrating gaze took in her creamy skin, teeth that were as even and white as a blanket of snow, and huge chocolate eyes that were fringed with long, dark lashes. The woman was remarkably pretty.

For two weeks now he had been expecting to cross paths with the lovely Isadore but never imagined they would meet on a frigid night in a village far removed from London, a village whose name he could not even recall. Yet the moment he realized how startlingly beautiful this woman was, he was certain he had finally met Isadore.

Then he doubted himself. How could she possibly have known he’d be forced to stop in this wretched village because of a tumultuous rain storm? Of course, were it not raining, he would likely have needed to change horses here. She must have known this. She might even have been following him.

He was in a quandary as to what to expect now. Surely she did not have the bullion with her. And surely her frail looking sister was unaware of Isadore’s dealings with smugglers. He would have to wait until she brought up the delicate subject.

“Would that I could offer you ladies a private parlor, but that is impossible tonight,” he said.

“As we have already discovered, sir,” Isadore answered.

“There just might be a way . . .” he began. “If you ladies will pardon me. . .” He bent to whisper in his valet’s ear, and the man departed. A moment later, Thompson returned, smiling.

“If you ladies would be so kind as to come with us,” William said, striding toward his servant. “I believe my man has been able to persuade the inn’s proprietor to part with his private chambers for a few hours.”

“We’ll need to fetch our valises,” Isadore said, giving him a pleading look with those large, sultry eyes of hers.

William nodded at Thompson.

“Allow me to retrieve them, ladies,” the valet said.

Turning her face only slightly, Isadore directed him to the corner where two valises reposed in a wet puddle. “You are ever so kind,” she told Thompson.

A man would go to great lengths to warrant such praise. William could not tear his gaze from the lovely lady, especially since she had turned her head so stiffly. Was there something wrong with her? At least there was nothing wrong with her mind. This woman certainly had learned how and when to use her not-insignificant beauty to get exactly what she wanted from men. Is that how she had acquired the bullion?

As they strolled into the rooms located behind the kitchen, the innkeeper apologized profusely for the untidiness of his private chambers which consisted of a small, firelit parlor and an adjoining bedchamber.

“It is of no significance,” William said, eying the cluttered table tops and the rumpled bed in the next room. “I merely wished to provide a private, dry place for my . . . sisters, to change into dry attire, and perhaps get a bit of sleep. Clean linens are all that’s required.”

While a plump woman made the bed, he directed his attention to Isadore. “Do you have everything you will need?”

Her gaze flicked to the saturated valises. “I fear all our clothing is damp, but I shall be very glad to be out of these clothes and am ever so grateful to you.”

“Then I will leave you ladies now,” he said, “but I’ll return in half an hour to see if I can be of any further service.”

Those long lashes of hers dipped seductively. “You’ve been enormously helpful.”

When he and Thompson returned thirty minutes later, he momentarily thought he’d come to the wrong room. Not only had it been miraculously tidied, but all the furnishings had been rearranged. Seating surfaces that had once faced the fireplace were now turned away from it, presumably to shield their occupants’ vision away from the assortment of feminine garments that hung on racks strewn before the fire.

Isadore herself looked vastly different. Her mahogany colored hair--now completely dry--was arranged in a stylish Grecian sweep, and she had donned a sapphire gown that, while wrinkled and damp, was of very fine quality. And she freely moved her person and her head, dispelling his earlier suspicion that something was wrong with her.

MacIver’s description did not do the woman justice. She was stunning.

In half an hour she had transformed from a shadowy figure of dubious repute into something of a well-born lady. Not, of course, that Isadore could precisely be a lady. Ladies did not secure gold bullion from smugglers.

She was more of an enigma than ever. Her gown and hairstyle indicated that she moved in fashionable circles, yet she had obviously taken charge of housekeeping and hair-arranging chores that were normally executed by a maid. Beauty notwithstanding, Isadore was resourceful, tidy, not without modesty, and was somewhat well bred. So why in the devil was she brokering gold bullion?

Even if she had mastered the use of sultry glances and purring voice to get what she wanted from men, William could not dislike her. “Should you ladies care for something to eat? Or drink?” he asked.

“We’re fine,” Isadore said. “Please, sir, come in and sit upon the sofa.”

“Only for a moment. You ladies need to try to get some sleep before daylight.” He and Thompson crossed the wooden floor and dropped onto sofa cushions that were flattened by many years of use. The sisters might be “fine” now, but he would wager this had been a difficult night for them. “Have you ladies been in Shelton long?” He had finally learned the name of this village whose only reason for existence had to be to provide food, drink, and fresh horses for northern-bound travelers.

“An hour or so before you,” Isadore said with a shrug. “We met with a bit of misfortune.”

Good lord! Had highwaymen stolen the bullion? His brows lowered. “What kind of misfortune?”

Her lashes whisked against her cheeks. “We were forced to walk here after . . .”

Dear god, highwaymen had taken the bullion!

“. . . after the gentleman we were riding with tried to take certain liberties.”

Dorothea’s eyes rounded, and she nodded in confirmation.

A lovely woman like Isadore had likely spent many a year fighting off men’s advances. He pitied the sister whose misfortunes were even more cruel when contrasted with her fortunate sibling. “Then you must allow me to escort you ladies to your destination,” he said.

Isadore bestowed a lovely smile upon him. “That would be exceedingly kind of you.”

“Your destination is?” he asked.

“The same place as yours, I believe.”

“London?”

She nodded.

William’s gaze circled the gathering. “I should like to present my valet to you ladies. Thompson is a devilishly handy man to have about.”

Thompson did not meet the ladies’ gazes when he answered. “You mustn’t believe everything Mr. Birmingham says.”

“You’re much too modest,” Isadore told the valet. “You were most resourceful in procuring our rooms.” Then she gave William a knowing smile.

He wished like the devil she wouldn’t smile like that at him. Made it difficult to remember what he was going to say. And there were several matters he had wished to bring up. He cleared his throat. “I feel deuced awkward calling you ladies by your Christian names.”

Isadore gave him a blank stare.

“You are possessed of a surname?” he asked.

She favored him with a fetching smile. “Of course.”

Well? It was too much to hope that her intelligence matched her considerable beauty. “Your surname is?”

“It’s a frightfully silly name, if you must know,” she finally said, flicking her gaze to her mute sister, who nodded.

He eyed them with skepticism. “I can’t believe anything about you ladies could be silly.”

“We’re Doors.”

His brows lowered over suddenly narrowed eyes. Imbeciles more likely.

“Dorothea Door and Isadore Door. You see, I told you our names are silly.”

Their parents were either mentally deficient or possessed of a wicked sense of humor, but a gentleman could hardly give voice to such suspicions. He racked his brain for something complimentary to say. “There’s a certain . . . alliteration about the names.”

“Indeed there is. Our brother is Dorian.”

Dorian Door? Poor fellow. Exceedingly wicked of the parents. Will stood. “We will leave you ladies. Hopefully, you can get a few hours of rest before we push off in the morning.”

Isadore rose. “It’s beastly unfair that we shall lie upon a cozy bed while you gentleman are forced to remain in the taproom.”

“Don’t spare another thought on us. I slept an inordinate amount at my sister’s in the north,” William said, “and am happy to engage in some camaraderie with other men.”

* * *

As exhausted as she had been the previous night/morning, Sophia awakened as the first light of dawn streamed through the window. How odd it seemed to be lying next to her maid. Though she had seen Dottie nearly every day of her life, treating her as an equal was a novel experience. Sophia shifted her weight to the elbow closest to Dottie, looked down at the still-sleeping woman, and nudged her.

Dottie bolted up. “Dear me! ’Tis daylight. We must be getting dressed for the day.” Not accustomed to lying about in the mornings, the maid tossed off the covers, strode straight to the chimney, and began to stoke the fire. After it was going she carefully dislodged their clothing from the drying racks. “A pity ye can’t wear this black silk no more. ’Twas that wretched yew tree that ruined yer gown.” She gathered up Sophia’s shift, stays, and stockings and brought them to her mistress.

“Don’t fuss over me,” Sophia said. “You need to get yourself dressed. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

Dottie snorted. “I hope the ’andsome man don’t think I’m too high in the instep.”

“I doubt Mr. Birmingham has given you a thought,” Sophia said, instantly ashamed of herself for her wicked snobbishness.

“Not that one! Mr. Thompson.”

Mr. Thompson? Oh, yes, Sophia realized. The valet. This unplanned journey of hers was giving a fresh skew to her lifetime of disinterest in servants. She not only treated her maid like a family member, but she had also shared a room with a gentleman’s valet. Were she pressed to do so, though, Sophia did not believe she could actually recognize Thompson were she to see him on a street.

How could anyone notice the elder man when his master was so exceedingly handsome?

She wiggled from beneath the covers, dangled her feet over the side of the bed, and began to don her woolen stockings. Visions of Mr. Birmingham clouded her thinking. Thank goodness she had finally learned his name. She had begun to despair that his valet would never address his master by his given name. If she--or that blasted Isadore--had some connection to the man, she really ought to know his name. And it would help to know the man’s connection to Isadore.

Who in the devil was Isadore? Were she a doxy, he would have shared the bedchamber. The very thought of lying naked beside Mr. Birmingham’s ruggedly muscled body made her throb in places that were prudently ignored during waking hours.

Finkie had certainly never been able to tap into them.

Why was it she had never met Mr. Birmingham before? He was a gentleman, and judging from the obviously hefty bribe he’d offered the innkeeper, Mr. Birmingham not only was possessed of very deep pockets, but was also used to getting whatever he wanted.

She tried to remember if she had ever known of an exceedingly wealthy Mr. Birmingham and suddenly realized she had. Nicholas Birmingham, who had won Lady Fiona Hollingsworth’s hand in marriage. It was said the Birmingham Cits were the wealthiest family in England. But this man could not belong to that family. Nicholas Birmingham, who was sinfully handsome himself, looked nothing like this Mr. Birmingham. Nicholas was quite tall, quite lean, and quite dark. This Mr. Birmingham’s height was only average. He was NOT lean. And he was not dark. Except for the tan.

“Ye can’t believe how ’ard it is not to be able to talk,” Dottie said. She had retired to a corner of the room to change into one of Sophia’s old dresses. It was really rather fortuitous that they were the same size, given the fact they shared no other resemblance besides their height, which was perfectly average. Where Sophia was generously curved, Dottie was as straight as a poker.

Sophia tossed a glance her way. “I’m very proud of you. I know it cannot be easy.”

“Can mute people laugh?”

“I don’t believe so. Why?”

“I almost burst out laughing when ye said we was the Doors.”

Sophia shook her head remorsefully. “It was the best I could come up with. I’m not especially good at thinking on my feet, so to speak.”

“Dorothea Door, indeed! The gent’s apt to think yer parents are dicked in the nobs.”

“I’m afraid I’ve gotten us into a pickle -- or several pickles, actually,” Sophia said with a sigh, leaving the bed and coming to stand before the fire as she dressed.

“Better pickled than shackled to Finkel. Never did like the fellow.”

“A pity I didn’t listen to you.”

“Now that Mr. Birmingham . . . I could see ye shackled to someone like him.”

Sophia gave a nervous little laugh. “Mr. Birmingham could be a highwayman for all we know.”

Dottie shook her head emphatically. “He’s a fine gentleman -- and wealthy, too. Mark me words.” She settled a green shawl over her shoulders and eyed Sophia. “I thought when ye first approached ’im last night that ye knew ’im. Ye spoke as if ye did.”

“I was desperate, and he was the only well bred man in the vicinity. I daresay after I saw Finkie’s servants out the window, I’d have said or done anything to endear myself to the gentleman.”

Dottie snorted. “Ye’d go from the fryin’ pan into the fire.” She contemplated Sophia from beneath lowered brows. “Who do ye suppose Isadore is?”

“Would that I knew. The only thing I know about her is that Mr. Birmingham has never met her before.”

“One thing’s for sure,” Dottie said as she began to gather up their clothes, neatly fold them, and pack them into their valises. “Ye must look like her.”

A knock sounded at the door. Her eyes wide, Sophia placed her index finger to her mouth. “It must be Mr. Birmingham.”

She crossed the room and opened the door.

He looked devastatingly handsome. Smiling. Freshly shaven with a starchy white cravat knotted beneath his tanned face.  And he held a tray with a steaming teapot and a rack of toast. “I’ve brought you ladies something to break the fast.”

She widened the door opening. “You, Mr. Birmingham, are a most welcome sight. Do come in.”

He set the tray on a table near the window and went to stand in front of the fire. “You, Miss Door, are an even more agreeable sight this morning.”

She only then glanced out the window and realized the rain had finally swept by, leaving a lingering mist and roads that looked like swamps. “You are much too kind, sir.”

“Will you ladies be ready to leave once you’ve eaten?”

She spun around to face him. “But the roads . . .”

“I’ll own, the going will be slow, but I have great confidence in my coachman. Besides, I’m anxious to be back in London.”

How fortunate that London was his destination. “Not nearly as anxious as I, Mr. Birmingham.”

Moments later Thompson came and fetched the ladies’ bags, and a moment after that, skirts gathered in her hands, she was teetering along a dry plank to Mr. Birmingham’s expensive carriage. As he assisted her into the coach, she caught a glimpse of a man in Finkel livery standing beside the mews, eying them. Her stomach dropped as she climbed into the coach.

She and Dottie sat on the front-facing seat, Mr. Birmingham and his servant opposite them. As the carriage slugged through the muddy inn yard, she lifted the maroon velvet curtain and watched in sickening dread as the Finkel servant mounted his horse and began to follow them.

He and three others.

A heavy moroseness settled over her as they reached the road and began to head south. Despite her plea, Lord Finkel meant to get her back. The disgusting thing was, in the eyes of the laws of England, she belonged to him. Like chattel. Or cattle. Or an old rug one meant to trod upon.

Once they cleared the village and were on open, lonely roads she heard an explosion followed immediately by a vile string of curses from Mr. Birmingham’s coachman as he drove faster, and the pounding of horse hooves drew alongside them. “Highwaymen!” the coachman yelled.

Not highwaymen, she thought. Lord Finkel’s men, who no doubt had been promised lucrative rewards for restoring Lady Finkel to her bridegroom.

Chapter 3

At the sound of a heavy thump upon the coachman’s box, Sophia -- and Dottie -- screamed at once. One of Finkie’s men had leaped upon the coach to do battle with Mr. Birmingham’s driver!

The vehicle lurched to a stop.

In a swift and fluid move, both Mr. Birmingham and his valet lunged toward the ladies, then quickly twisted back around to throw up the seat cushions and the hinged seat top. Sophia’s thundering heart lifted when she saw the arsenal of weapons stashed beneath the men’s seat.

Before her companions could put their hands on the pistols or sabers, the coach door flew open. Then the other door. On either side, menacing looking men in Finkel livery faced them, their muskets aimed at the passengers.

A sturdily built blonde directed his attention at Mr. Birmingham. “We won’t ’arm you. All we want is the women.”

To Sophia’s complete astonishment, Mr. Birmingham leaped onto the armed man, kneeing him in the groin. As all eyes turned on them, Thompson dove into the box for a sword.

Her heart hammering profusely, Sophia watched in horror as Mr. Birmingham and the blonde, whose weapon had dropped to the muddy ground, began to pummel each other viciously.

Then her gaze pivoted to the opposite side of the carriage as Thompson brought up a sword and plunged it into the intruder’s side. Her horrified gaze swept to the injured man, who groaned and cursed as crimson began to stain his coat. As he fell backward, his musket exploded, ripping into the top of the coach and sending great clouds of hot powder into the air.

All the while another commotion was taking place outside the carriage as the coachman was fighting off another man.

She was too terrified to move, too terrified to even scream. Her head bobbed from one side to the other as she watched her courageous companions try to wear down their enemies. As soon as Thompson’s profusely bleeding opponent collapsed, another man leaped toward the valet, a dagger in his hand and a sadistic smile on his face.

Sophia could not watch. She turned away and saw that her gallant Mr. Birmingham was rolling in the mud with the blonde, grunting and hissing, and causing her heart to pound prodigiously. She would feel ever so wretched if he sustained serious injury. Because she had foolishly married the wrong man.

Then she got an idea. Her brother had taught her to use a musket! She lunged forward and found a musket which she quickly began to load. But which man would she save? Mr. Birmingham or his valet?

Since Mr. Birmingham’s opponent was no longer armed, she decided to aid the brave valet. Aiming her weapon at the man with the dagger, she shouted, “Put down your knife, or I’ll fire!”

He turned black eyes on her, lowered his shocked gaze to the musket, then dropped his dagger.

Thompson swiftly picked it up and thanked her.

“Quick, Dottie!” she said. “Your sash! We must tie up this man.”

A trembling Dottie obliged by removing her sash and lowering herself from the carriage to aid the valet.

Then Sophia trained her musket on the blonde who was doing his best to harm the noble Mr. Birmingham, but the latter had the audacity to look up at her and laugh! “I’ll need no rescuing from a woman.”

With that comment, Mr. Birmingham shoved his opponent’s face into the mud, came to his feet, and planted a muddy boot on the blonde’s back. Though the blond man was huge, he brought to mind an infant as he lay there kicking and screaming while his limbs flailed about in the mud.

Indeed, she had no cause to come to Mr. Birmingham’s assistance. Her mouth gaping open, she eyed the man to whom she owed so much. His sturdy hand wiped over his face to reveal two emerald eyes flashing in cakes of mud. His disheveled golden hair was streaked with mud, and she would vow that the impeccably clothed man had never been more filthy in his privileged life.

And in her very privileged life, she had never seen a more magnificent creature!

Removing her own sash, she came to him and held it out. “Should you like to tie up the man?”

“A very good idea.” He took the blue satin. “You stand on his back while I do the honors.”

Without a care to the mud that ringed the hem of her dress, she complied. As she watched Mr. Birmingham outmaneuver the squeaming man, her admiration for him grew.

When he finished, he hurried to assist the coachman, though it looked to Sophia as if the burly driver had matters well in hand.

A few minutes later, she surveyed the damage. Three men in Finkel livery were tied with women’s sashes, and a fourth lay in the mud clutching his bleeding side while speaking in a most incoherent (though occasionally vile) manner. The top of Mr. Birmingham’s costly carriage had been all but blown off, and his wonderfully brave servants were hobbling about in a wretched mire of silt.

She felt dreadfully guilty. She was the cause of all this. Innocent people had been put in jeopardy because she had made a horrible mistake. Had her valiant Mr. Birmingham been wounded or -- heaven help her -- killed, she would have perished on the spot. Or entered a convent to spend the rest of her life trying to atone for her wickedness.

Thank goodness she would be spared that.

His eyes sparkling with mischief, Mr. Birmingham met her gaze. “Since I’ll have to get a new carriage anyway, I don’t think a bit of mud will hurt.” He assisted her in one door while Thompson gave his hand to Dottie, who climbed in the other side.

After the coach started moving, Mr. Birmingham lowered his brows and spoke. “Did I or did I not hear Miss Dorothea Door scream? Earlier?”

Sophia and Dottie exchanged worried glances. “I can explain,” Sophia said, her heart racing as tried to come up with a plausible explanation. But just as it had done the night before when he inquired about their surname, her mind was not cooperating.

“And?” he asked.

She heaved a big sigh. Then she thought of something. “My dear sister could once speak, you see. Before the terrible accident that happened before I was born. Ever since poor Dorothea has been mute. She does possess the ability to cry and to scream, but she positively cannot seem to make herself say words.” Sophia slid back against the velvet squabs and prayed he would pry no more.

Her prayers went unheeded. “What,” he asked, “was the nature of the unfortunate accident?”

She shook her head, biding for time. “It was perfectly dreadful.” But how, you idiot? she asked herself. Then a most agreeable explanation came to mind. “You see, Dorothea was once a twin. She and her twin sister spoke to each other with ease in a language that was peculiar unto them. Then one day, the sister was struck by lightning. She died on the spot.” Sophia turned to Dottie and took her hand. “Poor Dottie was right there. And since that day has been unable to utter another word.”

“How dreadful,” Thompson said, shooting a most sympathetic look at the poor mute. Or the woman he thought was a mute.

Mr. Birmingham looked exceedingly contrite. “Forgive me for bringing up such a sad recollection,” he said.

They rode on in silence for a considerable length of time when he asked, “What was the twin’s name?”

What a peculiar request! Then Sophia remembered her parents’ alleged propensity for alliteration. “Dorcus.”

A smile curved his lip.

Once her nerves had settled, she turned her thoughts to the bruisingly handsome man who sat across from her. He definitely was NOT what he seemed. A fine gentleman did not travel about with an arsenal beneath his carriage seat or with a valet who was as adept with a saber as he was with a hot iron. Just who was this Mr. Birmingham, and what was the source of his wealth? Not many men would display such a lack of concern when an expensive carriage had to be replaced.

Whatever he did, she was sure it was something unlawful.

Isadore would know. Her insides lurched. Isadore was up to no good.

* * *

Given that he often traveled with large amounts of money, William’s unwritten credo was to always be prepared to thwart attacks, even on a harmless trip to Yorkshire to visit his sister. But this latest attack was altogether different. He was not transporting money or gold. He was not protected by loyal Birmingham guards. And he was not the target.

The single-minded abductors were willing to dismiss one of the wealthiest men in England in order to get their hands on Miss Isadore Door and her eighty thousand pounds worth of bullion.

Though he and Thompson had faced down far more ferocious assaults than today’s, William had never before fought with such intensity. He had never before wished to protect anything as fiercely as he wished to protect Miss Door.

If that was her name. He was almost certain it could not be.

Even though she had brought such peril upon herself, he was seized with a need to protect her. He would never forget the terror that spiked through him when the men said they wanted only the women. It would have been easier to hand over a hundred thousand pounds worth of bullion than to allow those men to accost the lovely Isadore.

His gaze whisked over her as she sat across from him, staring intently out the carriage window. How could such an elegant creature be involved with gold smugglers?

The woman was hiding something from him. Was she also shielding her sister from knowledge of her dangerous connections?

Though last night he had determined not to bring up the bullion until he was alone with Isadore, he wavered now. Could he not discuss it in general terms that her mute sister might not understand?

He cleared his throat.

Isadore turned those large, near black, eyes on him.

“I don’t like that a lady is taking such grave risks with her safety,” he said.

Their gazes locked, and she did not answer for a moment.  “Perhaps the lady has a propensity to act impetuously.”

His eyes narrowed. “And regret her impetuous actions afterward?”

She nodded, and he noticed the auburn glints that highlighted her dark hair in daylight.

In that instant his conviction that she was well borne was confirmed. For reasons unknown to him, she had decided to embroil herself in this unsavory business in order to lay her hands on a great deal of money.

“I would like to think that once this transaction is closed,” he said, “the lady will take her ‘rewards’ and retire from risky propositions.” Then it occurred to him that he did not wish for her to close this transaction. He did not like to think of her doing anything further that might jeopardize that lovely neck of hers.

“Then you and I are in perfect agreement, Mr. Birmingham.”

“If it’s the money, I’m a very wealthy man . . .”

She stiffened. “I won’t accept your money.”

She was entirely too proud. Rather than accept a gift from him, she would risk her life. His hands fisted. “Then I’m not letting you out of my sight until the ‘transaction’ is completed. You’re in grave danger.”

“Just what are you suggesting, sir?”

“You -- and your sister -- will stay at my home until I’m assured that you’re out of danger.”

She shook her head. “I’m . . . an unmarried woman.”

The very suggestion of impropriety stirred his lust for her. She was an unmarried woman, a very beautiful unmarried woman, and he was an unmarried man. He had never been more aware of a woman. A sizzling heat flared between them as he drank in her sensuous loveliness, as his heated gaze poured over her exquisite face, down the creamy flesh of her neck and the tops of her breasts swelling against the blue gown.

Bringing a well borne lady to his house was not a good idea. How would he be able to stay away from her bed?

He drew a deep breath. “I give you my word to behave as a gentleman. And my servants are very discreet. Your reputation will not suffer.”

Her eyes sparkled with mirth. “How can I know you’re a gentleman? I know of no gentlemen whose valets are skilled swordsmen.” Her gaze darted to Thompson, whose face was inscrutable.

William shrugged. “The manner in which I conduct my business and the manner in which I live in polite society are two completely different things.”

“I may regret it, Mr. Birmingham,” she said, “but I’m willing to put myself in your hands. Until this business is completed.”

* * *

“Four of you couldn’t overtake two men?” Lord Finkel thundered.

“Three, counting the coachman,” the blond footman said.

“’Twernt just any two men, either,” his companion said. “These men was exceedingly well armed.”

“And skilled pugilists,” a third servant added.

“And mighty handy with a sword, too,” a fourth servant said.

Lord Finkel’s glare scorched. His bloody wife had gone traipsing off with another man. On his wedding night! How could that be? He had learned that she had met the wealthy bloke at the posting inn at Shelton. Were she running off with another man, would he not have picked her up outside the gates of Upton Manor? “What was the man’s name?”

The three men shrugged. “We don’t know, my lord,” the blonde said.

“But he was very rich,” the other said.

“His carriage was even finer than yer lordship’s.”

Lord Finkel’s bushy brows lowered. “There was a crest?”

His servants shook their heads.

“What did the man look like?” Lord Finkel asked.

“He was a very large man,” the blond said. “I fought ’im with all me strength, but I was no match for ’im. A giant he was.”

The smaller servant nodded. “And his clothes were of very fine quality. Every bit as expensive as yer lordship’s.”

Lord Finkel pounded upon his desk. “You’re to return to Shelton and make inquiries. I need the man’s name. Don’t come back without it.”

“Yes, your lordship.”

* * *

Sophia had thought physical discomfort could get no worse than it had been the night before when she and Dottie had stumbled through a violent rainstorm for six long miles.

She had been wrong.

The seven-hour journey to London in Mr. Birmingham’s now-topless coach was worse — chiefly because the skies had once again erupted, rendering the interior of his carriage as wet as a pond, a freezing pond that no amount of togetherness made tolerable. She longed to wash the mud from her body. She longed for dry clothing and the warmth of a fire. But most of all, she longed to be on solid ground and rid of the horrid motion sickness that threatened with every turn of the wheels to dislodge the churning contents of her stomach.

When she began to recognize familiar streets in London’s West End, an odd sense of comfort stole over her. Comfort mingled with fear. Mr. Birmingham would do his best to disengage her from Dottie in order to demand information that only the mysterious Isadore possessed.

She must not allow herself to be alone with him.

As the carriage turned onto Grosvenor Square, Mr. Birmingham announced that they had arrived at his home. An impressive address. Her great aunt, Lady Gresham, lived there at Number 12.

“Perhaps, sir,” Sophia said, “you might wish to enter through the back.”

A devilish smile broke over his face. “A very good suggestion, Miss Door,” he said. “Were my neighbors to see so bedraggled a man from so bedraggled carriage enter my house, they would be certain to send for the Watch. And we couldn’t have that, could we, Miss Door?”

He instructed the coachman to drive to the back.

A moment later they were disembarking from the carriage, kindly Mr. Birmingham offering Sophia a wet hand. As soon as they stepped into the gracious house, he began to bark orders to his servants to put the sisters into the Blue Room and Yellow Room respectively and to hasten with baths for the ladies.

“What about yourself, Mister Birmingham?” the housekeeper asked, her shocked gaze lingering on her employer’s torn, muddy clothes.

“I shall avail myself of one once the ladies are finished.”

As London houses went, especially those on Grosvenor Square, Mr. Birmingham’s was small. As befitted a bachelor. Sophia’s chest tightened. He was a bachelor, was he not? A lump the size of a walnut lodged in her throat as she climbed the stairs behind him. “Is there. . . a Mrs. Birmingham?” she asked. Please say no.

“You will be staying in her room.”

The queasiness returned to Sophia’s stomach.

“My mother visits once or twice a year. My sister used to occasionally stay in the Yellow Room, but she is married now and has her own house in town.”

“Is that the sister you were just visiting in the north?” Sophia asked, her step lightening.

“Yes.” He opened the door to the blue chamber, a high ceilinged room carpeted in pale blue, its walls covered in silk of the same shade. The room bespoke impeccable taste from its high, velvet-draped tester bed to its marble chimney piece that was centered with a gold clock and flanked by turquoise Sevres vases. Whatever illegal activities Mr. Birmingham engaged in certainly paid handsomely.

“Your sister will have the next room,” he said, still standing in the doorway as a pair footman carried the slipper tub into the room and placed it in front of chimney, where a maid was kneeling down to start the fire. “I beg that you ladies join me in the dining room at six,” he added.

That would give them three hours to clean, rest, then dress for dinner. “It will be our pleasure,” Sophia said.

* * *

Before Sophia and Dottie made their way to the dining room, Sophia demanded two things of her maid. “First,” she said to Dottie, who had sneaked to her room to help her dress, “you are NOT to wait upon me.”

“Not even to help with yer ’air?”

“Not even to help with my hair. You’re to pretend to be a gentlewoman yourself.”

Dottie nodded. “A deaf gentlewoman.”

“Not deaf. Mute.”

“I always get them two mixed up.”

All the more reason for Sophia to congratulate herself for demanding that Dottie play the mute. “There is another thing I must ask of you.”

Dottie arched her brows.

“You’re not to allow me to be alone with Mr. Birmingham.”

“You’re that attracted to him, eh? If ye ask me, it would be a very good plan if ye let ’im ruin ye so ye wouldn’t have to go back to that odious Lord Finkel.”

There was merit in what her maid said. If Sophia had a mind to ruin herself with a man she could not think of a more worthy candidate than the sublime Mr. Birmingham. A pity he was a criminal. “That’s not what I mean! I cannot be alone with Mr. Birmingham because then he will expect me to be Isadore.”

“But he already thinks ye are Isadore!”

“What I mean is that he will endeavor to extract information from me that I cannot possibly produce.”

Dottie rubbed her pointy chin. “I can see where that might pose a problem, but what do you care what Mr. Birmingham thinks? Now that he’s brought us to Lunnon, why don’t ye just return to Lord Devere’s house?”

Sophia had to admit that Dottie was possessed of a great deal of common sense. “I had originally planned to return to my brother’s, but now that I know Finkie will do the most vile things in order to keep me shackled to him, I cannot go back to Devere’s. Lord Finkel will expect me to go there, and I’m almost certain he will demand that I return to Upton Manor with him.” Her shoulders sagged. “And the pity of it is that the law is on his side.”

“I fear yer right, my lady.”

“Another very good reason for you to be mute. You’d be certain to slip and call me my lady.”

“What if that ’andsome Mr. Birmingham comes to yer chamber when yer sleeping?”

The idea of any of her seven and forty previous suitors coming to her bedchamber would have been repugnant, but strangely, the idea of His Sublimeness coming to her bedchamber sent searing quivers over her body. It was difficult for her to even remember the topic Dottie had initiated when thoughts of Mr. Birmingham awakening her with sultry kisses competed. She had to catch her breath before she could answer. “I shall be sick. I will take to my bed with a feigned fever immediately after dinner, and you must pretend to nurse me through the night.” Once more Sophia would experience the oddity of sleeping with her servant.

“How I wish I could be taking dinner with the upper servants,” Dottie lamented as they moved toward the door. “Yer Mr. Birmingham is sure to find me out when he sees me table manners. I ’aven’t the foggiest which forks to use when.”

“Oh, my dearest Dottie,” Sophia said with true remorse, “forgive me for all I’ve put you through. You’ve managed very well, and I’m excessively proud of you. Don’t worry at the table. Just watch me and do as I do.”

She started for the door, then stopped and turned back to address her maid, her eyes flashing with mischief. “Could there be another reason you wish to eat with the upper servants? Could you be smitten with Mr. Birmingham’s valet?”

“Mr. Thompson can leave his shoes under my bed any night.”

Sophia giggled, then her heart began to flutter at the notion of Mr. Thompson’s employer leaving his shoes beneath her bed.

“Oh, me lady! The back of yer ’air do look like a rat’s nest. Are ye sure ye don’t want to sit down at the dressing table and let me arrange it for ye?”

Oh course she wanted to, especially to render herself more attractive to her dazzling host, but she could not chance one of his servants wandering into the chamber and discovering Dottie’s true identity. “Though my hair may not be up to your exacting standards, I seriously doubt it resembles a rodent’s nest. You, my dearest Dottie, are possessed of a propensity to exaggerate.”

But as Sophia reached the bottom of the stairs and caught a sideways glimpse of her hair in the gilded Adam mirror, she realized with horror that Dottie had not exaggerated.

Chapter 4

Sophia actually availed herself of two feasts that night at dinner. Since she had not eaten since the morning’s toast, the food was most welcome. But even more welcome was the vision of Mr. Birmingham seated at the head of the table impeccably dressed in black with crisp white shirt and cravat. Though his manner was courteous, there was a seriousness about him that had not been in his demeanor earlier. And that seriousness was directed at her. Every time she looked up, he was staring at her. As she sipped her soup, she felt his eyes upon her.

Later, she caught herself watching him bring the wine glass to his lips and wondering what it would be like to feel those lips upon hers. Nothing like Finkie and his kippers, she was certain.

This Supreme Creature had the most maddening effect upon her. Usually a lively conversationalist, she could do nothing but answer his queries in monosyllables. He was sure to think her an idiot.

As the footmen removed the cloth and brought out the sweetmeats, she decided she really must convince him that she was not going to turn mute like her sister. Unsteady hands folded in her lap, she turned to him and bestowed one of her alluring (so she had often been told) smiles upon him.

The green in his eyes sparkled like shimmering seas.

Then she completely embarrassed herself over the stupidity of her question. “Tell me, Mr. Birmingham, is your father a wealthy man, or did he earn his money?”

“Both, actually. He was born quite poor but was clever about earning money. He is dead.”

“Was he a . . . gentleman?”

His expression went cold. “No, he was not. It was his fondest wish that his children be groomed to take places in society that were denied him.”

Until this moment she had never seen a more confident man than Mr. Birmingham. Her memory flashed back to that morning’s dangerous confrontation, to the way Mr. Birmingham had easily bested the armed man who had several advantages over him, not the least of which was his loaded weapon. With deep admiration, she remembered the cocky way Mr. Birmingham had refused her assistance. Even his home bespoke a man of easy elegance and fine breeding. Yet she had discovered the one area where he lacked confidence. Handsome, wealthy, gentlemanly Mr. Birmingham was embarrassed over his origins.

In all aspects save one — his mysterious illegal activities — Mr. Birmingham had certainly fulfilled his father’s hopes.

As she had done at every dinner since she’d left the school room, Sophia unconsciously slipped into French. “Were your father alive, I believe he would be proud of the man you’ve become.”

Mr. Birmingham laughed. “And I believe you confuse gratitude with admiration.”

“I cannot deny that I’m profoundly grateful that you risked your life to save mine this morning, but I assure you my admiration is based on a solid foundation of noble — and gentlemanly — actions on your part.”

It only then occurred to her that her host had spoken to her in flawless French. He had most definitely been brought up as a gentleman. “Tell me, Mr. Birmingham, did your father speak French?”

He went serious again. “He spoke nothing except English. And not the king’s English.”

“And you, Mr. Birmingham? What other languages do you speak?”

“German. Italian. Greek. Spanish.”

Six languages, counting the English and French he spoke so very well. A most educated man. “And I would guess that you also read and write Latin.”

“I had no choice. I began studying with the best tutors my father could buy when I was but four years of age. I was the baby of the family, and by the time I arrived, my father was a very wealthy man.”

Desserts finished, he stood. “Will you ladies join me in the drawing room? Perhaps we could play loo.”

Which was the only game Sophia could think of that three could play. “My sister would prefer to embroider, but I would be most happy to engage in a game of whist with you.”

Just one game, then she must become sick. Though she had planned to begin feigning illness at the dining table, she was not yet ready to absent herself from Mr. Birmingham’s charming presence.

* * *

He had not intended to spend the night at home. Diane expected him at the theatre after her performance. He always came to her when he returned to London. To her and the exceedingly expensive house he’d set her up in on Park Lane. But Diane was not the woman he wanted to spend this evening with.

Only the ravishing Isadore claimed his attention. His earlier efforts to pen some letters had been fruitless. He could do nothing but think about Isadore. It was not just her formidable beauty that captured his interest — though gazing at her ranked right up on there on the pleasure scale with breaking the bank at faro. He could think of only one activity that could give more pleasure. And he had given her his word he would not do that.

William wondered why a woman of such exceptional breeding would be associating herself with smugglers. For he had no doubts this woman was born to the Quality. She spoke court French. She wore expensive clothing of the latest fashion. And — judging from the disarray of her hair — she obviously was used to having her own maid. What could have compelled her to leave her privileged home and court such danger? Money, certainly. But a woman as lovely as Isadore could no doubt snare a royal duke and never have to worry about debts again.

He wished like the devil that sister of hers was not sitting three feet away, an embroidery hoop in her lap. Made it deuced difficult to bring up the topic of gold bullion.

Directly across the game table from him, Isadore was even more beautiful than she’d been at dinner. From the front, her lustrous dark hair swept elegantly from her alabaster face, hiding the unmanageable clumps in the back. She wore a stunning scarlet gown which draped off her bare, white shoulders and barely covered her delectable breasts. A square-cut ruby centered a double strand of pearls clasped at her graceful neck, a neck that begged to be kissed.

He cursed himself for offering that blasted promise.

Since he felt certain he could beat her at whist blindfolded, he quickly arranged the pasteboards in his hands, then lazily perused her. Her slender fingers arranged the cards. Her long, dark lashes lowered. Her snowy white teeth nibbled at her luscious lips. Did the woman have any idea how seductive was her every move?

“Your accommodations are satisfactory?” he asked. Not an especially clever opening, but at least it was better than resorting to the wretched weather.

Those luxurious lashes of hers lifted, and she bestowed upon him a brilliant smile. “Yes, very. The person you employed to decorate the room has taste identical to my own.”

“Actually I designed it.”

She gave him an incredulous look.

“I travel a good deal—”

“Because of your facility with languages?”

“Yes. That is most helpful in my business dealings.”

“And when you travel, you purchase paintings, porcelains, and fine silks for your home?”

He nodded. “In fact, I have an entire warehouse filled with Grecian and Roman statuary for a country house should I ever settle down long enough to build one.”

Her gaze returned to the pasteboards. Was she afraid he would ask questions about her, questions she did not wish to answer?

They played in silence for a few moments before she turned to her sister. “Are you cold, dearest? If you are, we could ask Thompson to bring your shawl.”

The much-older sister had to be cold, he thought. No meat at all on those bones of hers.

Miss Dorothea Door’s face brightened and she nodded.

He rang for a servant, and when a footman appeared, he requested that Thompson procure the lady’s shawl. William’s gaze skimmed to Isadore. “What color is your sister’s shawl?”

“Black.”

Though Miss Dorothea Door was considerably older than her sibling, it was the younger sister who took the role of a protective older sister. Which William found admirable. Her concern for her afflicted sister must explain her reluctance to leave her sister behind even when Isadore participated in illegal activities.

Thompson soon entered the room and came to present the elder Miss Door her shawl. The sharp features of her face softened when she looked up at his man. It was the most animated he had ever seen the poor creature.

William barely managed to win the hand, but his satisfaction was short lived. Isadore tossed aside her cards and sank her head into her hands. He leaped to his feet, moving to her. “What’s wrong?” He gripped two smooth shoulders and drew in the rose scent of her.

“I don’t know what’s come over me,” she said in a suddenly thin voice. “I’m ever so dizzy, and I’ve a beast of a headache.”

“I’ll send for a physician.”

She shook her head. “I daresay it’s nothing more than exhaustion from the tedious journey.”

“I pray you haven’t taken a chill from the nasty weather.”

“I am decidedly susceptible to chills,” she said in a hoarse whisper, shooting a glance at her sister, whose nod confirmed.

He should not have insisted they come to London today in the near-freezing chill in wet clothing. It would serve him right if she took her death of cold. Anyone could see how delicate she was. He bent to put an arm around her. “Allow me to help you to your chamber.”

When they reached the center hall, he instructed the footman to have warm milk sent up to Miss Door’s room. “My mother swears that warm milk wards off the worst chills,” he told Isadore.

A wane smile on her lips, she went limp against him, her head pillowing on his shoulder. As his arm came around her he realized how truly small she was. By the constant comparison to her skinny sister he had thought Isadore voluptuous — perhaps because of her nicely rounded breasts. But now he realized she was every bit as thin as her sister. Only with curves in the appropriate places — places he would not allow himself to contemplate. Not while the poor woman was so sick.

Miss Dorothea Door ran ahead to light a candle and throw back the covers of her sister’s bed while William assisted Isadore. Fearing she was too weak to climb upon the bed, William lifted her in his arms then set her down on the smooth white linen. His brows lowered with concern. “I’d feel much more at ease if you would allow me to summon a physician.”

She settled a graceful hand on his. “You’re very kind, but I daresay a good night’s sleep will do me wonders.” She turned to her sister. “Will it not, Dorothea?”

The mute nodded.

“Give me your word you will send for me if your condition worsens during the night,” he said.

She fell back into the pillows and nodded. “If the need should arise, I’ll send my sister to pound upon your door.”

“My chambers are directly across the corridor from you.”

He fought the urge to bend down and kiss her brow as his mother had done to him when he was sick as a youngster.

Across the corridor to his bedchamber, he settled at his desk to pen those letters left unfinished that afternoon. The room seemed permeated with the scent of roses. Isadore’s scent.

Even though it was not yet nine o’clock, William knew he would not see Diane later that night.

Isadore might need him.

* * *

She listened as his footsteps disappeared into his bedchamber, then she undressed and, with assistance from Dottie, put on her night shift. She stood before the fire, hugging her bare arms and thinking about Mr. Sublime. Soon, a tear meandered along her cheek.

Dottie rushed to her. “Oh, milady! Whatever is wrong?”

“I’m cursed, Dottie. Completely cursed. Why could I not have met the Paragon before I made the disastrous decision to wed Lord Finkel?”

“I don’t know what a paragon is, me lady, but I perceive yer speaking of Mr. Birmingham.”

Sophia sniffed. “Indeed I am. He’s everything I looked for in the seven and forty men I rejected. He’s so. . . magnificent.”

Dottie put hands to hips. “Ye said yerself he could be a highwayman.”

Sophia glared at her. “And you countered by saying you were convinced he was a gentleman. A very wealthy, fine gentleman. And, you must own, you’re always right about people.”

Though reason told her Mr. Birmingham made vast amounts of money on the wrong side of the law, her heart told her he was a good man. A gentleman. She collapsed into her bed, initiating a fresh torrent of tears. “Why did I not listen to you when you warned me about Finkie?”

A knock sounded at the door, and Dottie opened it to take the warm milk. “I’m sure Mr. Birmingham’s right about warm milk,” Dottie said as she brought the glass to her mistress. “Drink it up, milady, and ye will feel better.”

“But I’m not taking a chill.”

“It’ll still make ye feel better.”

“Nothing will ever make me feel better. Lord Finkel will never let me go. I feel it in my bones. And I most decidedly do not like the man. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as Lady Finkel.”

Dottie, dear soul, refrained from saying "I told you so." A few minutes later, after she herself had dressed for bed, the maid announced she had a plan to rid her mistress of the unwanted husband.

Sophia swung around to face the maid, her dark eyes glittering.

“Ye must allow Mr. Birmingham to ruin ye. Surely then Lord Finkel wouldn’t want ye back.”

“That is the most devilish scheme I’ve ever heard of!” Even if it was terribly alluring. “I doubt Mr. Birmingham would be remotely interested in seducing Isadore. I don’t know what he wants from the odious woman, but it certainly isn’t sex. You heard him vow to be a gentleman, and I know he’s a noble man incapable of breaking a vow.”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at ye.”

Sophia bolted up. “What way?”

“With desire. Sexual desire.”

She dared not ask how Dottie knew about things like sexual desire. A tingling infused her body as she contemplated what her maid had just told her. “While I’ll admit you’re always right about men, this once you must be mistaken.”

Dottie shook her head. “I know what I see.”

“You’re a pea goose. Blow out the candle and come to bed.”

As Sophia lay in the darkness, soft rain falling on the casements, she wondered what it would be like to lie with Mr. Birmingham. The very notion did strange things to her body.

And robbed her of sleep.

* * *

Mr. Birmingham delivered her breakfast tray himself the following morning. Freshly shaven and cheerful, he at least must have had a good night’s sleep. Unlike her. “How are you feeling this morning?” he asked.

“Better, but my head feels as if a regiment of grenadiers danced upon it throughout the night.”

His gaze raked over her, sifting down to the white lace robe she had just donned. “I’ve brought something to help with that. Thompson has a wonderful concoction that works wonders for a bad head.”

She had to remember to speak as if it were a great effort. “Then I pray that it helps,” she said in a barely audible whisper.

He situated the tray to span her lap, then he stood back and directed his comments to Dottie. “I’ll stay with your sister for a spell if you have other matters to see to. You cannot have rested well last night.”

Sophia could not be left alone with him. He would be sure to ask “Isadore” something that Sophia could not possibly answer. She stiffened. “No!”

A quizzing look on his face, he spun around to face Sophia.

She lowered her voice. “It’s just that my sister worries excessively whenever I am ill. She positively won’t let me out of her sight.” She lowered her voice even more. “Residual effects from Dorcus’s tragic death, no doubt.”

He shot Dottie a kindly glance.

“Besides,” Sophia added, “as a maiden, I cannot possibly entertain you in my bedchamber.”

His eyes went hard. “Then you don’t trust me?”

She shrugged. “Actually, I do. I believe you are a gentleman.”

“Then since your sister is unable to read to you, allow me. It will help pass the time, take your mind off your discomfort.”

How flattered she was that he would devote himself to her when so many other matters must have a claim upon him after his absence from the city. And how incapable she was of allowing him to walk away when she wanted nothing but to spend every minute with him. “Poetry answers very well for my blue devils.”

He offered her a lazy smile. “Have you a request?”

“Cowper or Blake. I like them both very much.”

He raised his brow. “What, no deathbed stanzas? I thought all ladies were enamored of poems that can only be read with handkerchief in hand.”

She shot him an amused gaze. “Oh, I adore that kind of poem,” she lied, “but I assumed a gentleman such as yourself would not have such in his library.”

“I don’t.” He excused himself to go to his library.

He was more convinced than ever that Isadore was a well-borne lady. Instead of the insipid, flowery love poems of third-rate poets embraced by women of society’s lower rungs, Miss Isadore Door had superb taste in poetry. As in everything else.

Save her penchant for embroiling herself in danger.

It occurred to him when he was perusing the volumes of Blake and Cowper and Pope that he and Isadore had a great deal in common. If she had added Pope’s name to her list of favored poets, it would surely have been a sign from the Almighty that this woman was his fate. Even if she was a shady lady.

The moment he reentered her bedchamber and beheld her considerable beauty he grew angry that she was endangering that lovely, lovely neck of hers. By God, he would not have it! He would make her turn straight, even if he had to give her, gulp, eighty thousands pounds from his own pocket.

“I brought Cowper,” he informed her.

Her only response was a flutter of her lashes and a faint smile.

He brought a chair to her bedside. “Do you have a favorite?” he asked, opening the book.

“You select.”

He began to read from The Winter Evening. She smiled at his selection, and though it was a long poem, she mouthed along with him several lines.

And when he finished, she said, “This Sylvan Maid thanks you deeply.”

Good lord! Sylvan Maid was from an obscure line in Pope’s Windsor Forest.

She must be The One.

Even if she was a shady lady.

Chapter 5

As thoroughly as she had enjoyed sharing her morning with Mr. Birmingham, whom she kept thinking of as Mr. Perfect (except for the problem with him likely being a criminal), she'd been impatient for him to leave. She simply had to speak to her brother about the difficulty with Finkie. Devere would know how to go about dissolving the silly marriage. And, of course, she had to see that her . . . ahem, husband did not get his hands on her dowry.

As she and Dottie walked the several blocks from Grosvenor Square to Half Moon Street, she kept thinking about Mr. Birmingham and cursing the fact she had not met him before that single act of lunacy which joined her to Lord Finkel.

The sooner that absurd marriage was dissolved, the sooner she could hurl herself at the feet of the Divine Mr. Birmingham. Even if he was earning his substantial riches on the wrong side of the law. Perhaps her dowry could entice him to give up his wicked ways.

For in the past four and twenty hours she had found what she had failed to discover in seven and forty proposals of marriage and seven and twenty years: her perfect mate.

She wasn't at all sure he would even want her.

"A sweeter man there never was," Dottie gushed as they continued along Piccadilly, impervious to the clopping of hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels along the busy street. "Can you imagine a manly man like that sittin' and reading poems to the woman he loves!"

Sophia's eyes narrowed. "I am not the woman he loves!" Then, with lowered voice, she added, "Though, I must own I have discovered that I wish I was the woman he loves."

They had reached the corner of Piccadilly and Half Moon Street as Dottie stopped dead in her stride and faced her mistress, a huge smile on her narrow face. "Milady! I never thought to ever hear you utter them words. You're really and truly in love for the first time in your seven and twenty years. I knew when I laid me eyes on him night before last he was the very one for---" Dottie screamed.

Sophia had been so intent watching Dottie's lips, she had failed to see the liveried Finkel servant come up behind her abigail and accost her. Poor Dottie was screaming and kicking the man, who was well over six feet tall, as he attempted to make off with Dottie as if she were a poached quail.

"Where's the valise?" the horrid man asked Dottie.

"Unhand my servant!" Sophia shrieked as she aimed a kick in the vicinity of the wretched man's unmentionable anatomy (as her brother had once instructed her).

Then, like ants converging on a blob of honey, three more Finkel servants collapsed around the two women.

How stupid of me! Finkie had obviously ordered his servants to watch her brother's house. She had thought to be safe from Finkel's long arm in broad daylight. In the midst of her blood-curdling yell, a huge hand cupped around her mouth with great force. She felt as if she were suffocating. As her breath waned, her panic set in. These . . .these animals were treating a well-born lady with the utmost discourtesy. In fact, their behavior was that of the worst sort of guttersnipe.

She would certainly see to it that Lord Finkel was informed of their great barbarianism. Why, he would turn out the whole lot of them for daring to treat Lady Finkel in such a manner!

If the men did not kill Dottie and her first.

A horrid man pinned her arms behind her, but her legs were still free. She managed — with one well-placed swift kick — to cause one of her assailants to double over in pain.

Why wasn't a passer-by attempting to rescue her? Could they not tell she was Quality? This was, after all, Mayfair. Ladies of good birth were never accosted upon the streets of Mayfair in broad daylight.

No sooner had those thoughts flitted through her panicked brain when she heard His voice. Her Savior. Mr. Birmingham. "Get your filthy hands off that woman, or I'll kill you!"

Almost simultaneously, she heard . . .well, she couldn't precisely remember his name, but she did know it was the voice of Mr. Birmingham's valet (who was nothing like any valet she had ever seen) warning the beastly men away from Dottie.

Suddenly those thick fingers were removed from her mouth, and she gulped in mouthfuls of air while those hands which had so recently covered her lips were now fisted and directed at Mr. Birmingham's exceedingly nice face.

She needn't have worried about her Savior. He could well handle himself against twice as many burly footmen.

As did his valet.

Almost as easily as boots crushing broken glass, Mr. Birmingham and his man disabled the Finkel servants, and once again she and Dottie were obliged to remove sashes from their dresses so the evil men's hands could be tied behind them.

Mr. Birmingham bent over Dottie's captor and spoke in an almost sinister voice. "Who do you work for?"

Sophia's gaze clapped upon the horrid man. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth, and great rivulets of perspiration criss-crossed his ruddy forehead. But he refused to answer Mr. Birmingham.

She could see fear in his eyes. Were he afraid of Mr. Birmingham, he would have answered. Which meant he must be terrified of Lord Finkel.

"If you value your teeth, you'll answer me," Mr. Birmingham warned through gritted teeth.

Still, the man remained silent.

Despite her anger at the odious man, she took pity on him. "These men are in the employ of Lord Finkel," she said.

At the mention of Finkie, Mr. Birmingham's eyes flashed, and an expression of decided distaste swept over his very agreeable features. "I will see your master ruined if it's the last thing I ever do. Now I can add the abduction of fine ladies to my list of grievances against the man."

She'd as lief not let Mr. Birmingham know she even knew the despicable Lord Finkel. It was obvious Mr. Birmingham disliked Finkie excessively. As she was beginning to. Had Finkie authorized these ruffians to abduct Dottie and her? Twice?

The man's gaze swept from Mr. Birmingham to rest upon her. "Lord Finkel will be wantin' to know the name of the man you've run off with, Lady Finkel."

Mr. Birmingham stiffened, then ever so slowly turned around to face her, searing anger in his eyes.

Uh oh. She could not allow Mr. Birmingham to send her back to her lawful husband. "Pray," Sophia rasped, remembering that she was supposed to be ill, "I beg that you . . ." she clutched his forearm and grasped at her chest, "take us away from these beasts, especially the odious Lord Finkel." Then she went into a mock swoon, knowing full well she would find herself in His arms before she met the pavement.

* * *

Damn the cursed woman! Would that he'd never heard the name Isadore. How could he have been such a fool to even consider that she might be The One? He could have looked high and low over the three kingdoms and not found a more disreputable woman.

Just this morning, the no-good, smuggling, lying, married charlatan had feigned her damned illness. Not twenty minutes after he'd reluctantly left the infirm beauty, he'd come across the able-bodied wench and – foolishly thinking she was a helpless maiden – once more had been obliged to extricate her from cutthroats. For he was convinced a man as dastardly as Finkel would not have men in his employ unless they were those lowest sort of criminal.

But if Isadore was Finkel's accomplice in his sordid dealings, why would he be trying to force her back to him? And why would she display unmistakable signs of repugnance at the mention of her husband's name?

William hadn't heard of Finkel marrying. Just two weeks ago he was heiress hunting.

Good lord, had the fiend Finkel forced Isadore into marriage in order to get his hands on the gold bullion? Isadore might be a lying cheat, but he could tell when someone was terrified. Both the Door sisters – if that was their real name – were so frightened, he'd had to force two glasses of brandy down them in order to quell the trembling in their limbs and quiver in their voices once he got them to the safety of his house.

He faced Isadore as she sat on the silken sofa in his library, a glass of brandy in her elegant hand. He made no effort to hide the signs of his blistering rage. "So the terribly ill Miss Isadore Door rather easily roused herself from her sickbed?" His narrowed eyes took in her cowering form. "You, Lady Finkel, bloody well will not leave this house until I get the eighty-thousand guineas worth of gold bullion."

Her great eyes widened, but she said nothing.

"Tell me, my lady, did Finkel force you into marrying him? Did he have. . .documents he was going to suppress from being published—"

"How did you know?" she asked.

"I've been aware of the man's underhanded methods of amassing riches since he caused the death of my friend five years ago."

"How did he cause the death of your friend?"

"My friend had conducted an affair with his own brother's wife. The only person who knew of it, beside me, was Finkel. The publisher Josiah Smith threatened to publish the details of the affair in his Evening Chronicle if my friend did not pay an exorbitant sum to suppress publication. When my friend failed to raise the sum, he committed suicide rather than face his brother.

"Finkel had to have supplied the information to Smith. I believe that brokering such information is the method by which Finkel's managed to rescue his estates from the auction block."

"Dear God," she said, her brows lowered. "You must be right!"

"I take it, in your situation, he possessed information about the bullion."

Silence penetrated the chamber like a resounding echo. Finally, she said, "That. . .and more. He told me if I would marry him he would keep the printer Smith from disclosing something which would ruin my younger sister."

"When did this marriage of yours take place?"

"The night I met you was my. . .thwarted wedding night."

Something deep inside him uncoiled, and his anger began to dissipate. "You had the good sense to leave him?"

She nodded solemnly. "I panicked as soon as I was alone with him. I couldn't. . ."

He held up his palm. "Say no more. I understand. You will not return to the vile creature."

"I did not know until this very morning of Finkie's wickedness – not until I realized he meant to force me back. Those men were so brutal."

His hands fisted. Leaving those animals tied up on Half Moon Street was too good for them! "Which is no accident. Be assured Finkel's servants have to be unscrupulous in order to work for him. He's been threatened many times. A pity no one's ever been able to prove his misdeeds."

"We must stop him."

"My thoughts exactly. And, of course, if the man's misdeeds can be proven, it should be a simple matter for you to annul the marriage. A woman cannot be forced to wed."

"Or to bed," she said, her eyes flashing.

The very thought of bedding her aroused him.

"But I shouldn't want the reference to my sister to ever come out." She tossed her head back and smiled. "I suppose I could say I was the one who'd be ruined by the printer's revelation. I daresay my reputation's already ruined by my association with the wretched Lord Finkel."

Why would a woman who smuggled gold bullion ever have been concerned about protecting her reputation?

Suddenly a loud commotion came from his entry hall. Panicked voices. He catapulted toward the door.

Just as it slammed open, barely missing him. He froze. A band of six men – sinister looking, all of them – stood there, and the one in front directed a musket at him. When the man's glance moved from Dorothea to settle on Isadore, he smiled. His teeth were rotten. "I'll jest relieve ye of these women, Mr. Birmingham."

Isadore immediately stood and turned to William. "It's all right. Please don't try to be a hero. I shouldn't like to see you killed."

She moved toward the man wielding the rifle. Then her silent sister joined her.

"One more thing, Lady Finkel," the gang's leader said. "We'll be needin' that valise you stole from his lordship."

Isadore froze for a moment, then she said, "You'll find it upstairs in the second room on the left, the Blue Room."

Her room.

A minute later one of the men returned with a dark green valise.

"Before you take me away, sir," Isadore said to the man with the gun, "I beg that you allow me to kiss my lover good-bye. I promise to go quietly after that."

The swarthy man peered from her to William, then he nodded.

What the hell?

She moved to William, her back to the men, and he drew her into his arms and lowered his head. Just before his lips brushed across hers, she whispered. "You must get the other valise from my sister's room." Then her arms came around him, and she settled her lips upon his for a long, extremely satisfying kiss that left him stunned when she walked away.

Chapter 6

Was this the case Finkel wanted to get his hands on? Obviously, Isadore was substituting her bag for the one Finkel really wanted. Valises far better than this could be found at any second-hand shop in London. William bent over and opened it. It was empty, and it was still damp from the rainstorm which deluged all of them the night before last. Good God, had he only known Isadore that short a time? He felt so intimately connected to her. Even more so since the scorching kiss.

Why in the hell was the vile Lord Finkel so mad to get his hands on this? Had it been the means by which the bullion was transported? But if it were, there was no way Isadore could have had the strength to lift it, much less carry it. William was almost ready to clamp it shut when he noticed a slight bulge along the seam of its lining. "Pray, give me your penknife," he said to  Thompson, who stood over him.

His servant proffered the instrument, and William used it to pry open the seam. He felt the heat of Thompson's body as he stood directly behind him, peering over his shoulder. The opened seam revealed a flattened pouch made of thin oilcloth that had been folded over in much the same way as foolscap. "What have we here?"

He unfolded the oilcloth, found three handwritten pages, and quickly scanned just a small portion of the first sheet. He felt disgustingly like a voyeur. Half a page was enough to tell him he was reading a torrid love letter, and the crest on the paper indicated the author was Lord Wakefield, a peer who held a high office in government. No doubt, the letter had been written to a woman who was not his highly respected wife. "It appears the oilcloth protected these pages from the effects of the other night's rain."

"I take it the papers are important?"

"They're worth a great deal of money to Finkel. He obviously needs these to blackmail Lord Wakefield."

Thompson nodded. "When do we rescue the ladies?"

"Very, very soon, my good man." He had to get Isadore before Finkel forced himself on her. Which William was convinced the man would do. "I've got to get to Finkel's before they discover they've got the wrong valise. You're to go to Nick and tell him everything. And have him put this somewhere safe." He handed Thompson the Wakefield letter. "I'll go out the front; you go out the back."

At least no one was watching his house from the square, he thought as he rounded the corner to the mews to get his horse, his senses alert. A knife was safely tucked into the specially made sheath inside his boot, and his hand cradled the hilt of the sword at his waist.

As he neared the livery stable, he slowed. Something was wrong. His mount should have been saddled by now and partially out of the darkened mews.

His step slowed. "Jonah?" he called out to his groom.

There was no response.

He stopped and drew his sword.

Just as three members of Finkel's "gang" stepped out, Rotten Teeth holding a dagger to Thompson's throat.

"If ye value yer man's life, ye'll drop that sword," the man with rotting teeth said.

* * *

The very same servants who had been tied with her dress sash watched her through narrowed eyes as she entered Finkel's house on Curzon Street, now with her own hands bound behind her.

"Some very disreputable men you employ, my lord," she said to their employer, her voice full of malice.

"That is exactly why I do employ them." He stood in his drawing room, arms folded in front of him and a satisfied look on his face. "How good it is to see you again, Lady Finkel."

"Don't call me by that odious name. I have no intentions of staying married to you."

"You'll not be getting away from me." His voice was guttural. "I will have my way with you, and I will have your fortune, too."

"But you cannot want me now that I've been another man's lover."

He slammed his knuckles into his palm. "You will pay for that. Who is this skilled pugilist who's you lover?"

She thought of William Birmingham, and her heart softened. "It is not necessary that you know his name."

"Of course it is. I will crush him."

"You're not nearly as powerful as you think you are, just because you manipulate people's lives. You have no authority over me. I'll leave you the minute my hands are unbound."

"Then, my dear, it appears I shall have to see that your hands stayed tied." His gaze flicked to one of the servants whose livery still bore the tatters from this morning's scrimmage. "Take Lady Finkel to my bedchamber, and have Frockmorton bring me the valise."

The brute came up from behind, closed burly arms around her so tightly it hurt, then began to lug her – kicking like a windmill – across the room, then up the stairs.

Chapter 7

All William could think of was Isadore. He had to get to her, had to save her from being debauched by that worm Finkel. Yet he was powerless. He dropped the sword, and one of Rotten Teeth's underlings scurried to pick it up.

"I've held up my part," William said. "Now remove that dagger from my man's throat."

His gaze not leaving William's, Rotten Teeth moved the knife but did not sheath it. "Get in here," he said to William, a swing of his head pointing back into the mews.

It was so dark within, it was a moment before William saw that his groom had been bound and gagged.

Their captors set about roping his and Thompson's hands. A sense of hopelessness engulfed him. He could not bear to think of Finkel laying a finger on the beautiful Isadore, could not bear   to think he might never see her again.

Damn but it was hard to believe he'd only known her two days. He could not deny that she had gripped his heart so thoroughly he did not care if she was wed to another, he did not care if she smuggled gold bullion. All he cared about was making her his own.

And making an honest woman of her.

"What are your plans for us?" he asked Rotten Teeth.

"We've merely been instructed to keep ye out of his lordship's way until he can get out of Lunnon."

William felt a rush of relief. "Well, then," he said, plopping down on a mat of fresh hay, "I believe my man and I will relax and wait."

Thompson knew what to do. They had been together so long they could almost read each other's thoughts. Thompson dropped into the hay beside him.

His idea must have sounded good to his captors because the three sat right down on the dirt floor just where the sunlight's line of demarcation fronted the stable.

The darkness of the stable was in William's favor. He waited a moment, waited for the men at the front to get caught up in a conversation, then he reached into the top of his left boot. Given that his hands were tied at the wrists, it was a very tight squeeze, but his patience paid off a moment later when he unfastened his sheath and pulled out his knife. He cut Thompson's ropes, and Thompson cut his.

Halfway between him and the captors, his sword gleamed on the stable floor. He knew if he dove for it, they'd hear him and possibly kill him, but it was risk he had to take.

For Isadore.

He whispered instructions to Thompson, who kept the knife.

Then he dove for the sword.

All three men leapt up at the sound, knives drawn.

But as they watched William, Thompson disabled the man closest to him, which caused the others to flinch, giving William the split second he needed to lunge into Rotten Teeth – just as the man's knife came sailing toward William's chest. William dove for the man's feet, his own body slamming into the dirt floor with bruising force – and Rotten Teeth's knife grazing his back.

That his sword had embedded into the other man's side rendered the man powerless to stop William from pummeling the last man until he begged him to stop.

With the three men writhing in the dirt, William instructed Thompson to tie them up, untie the groom, then head to Nick's.

* * *

The Finkel carriage was being packed for a journey. It was good that William had not been detained a minute longer.

When the well-built butler answered the door, William forced his way in. "Lady Finkel's lover, to see his lordship."

The man's eyes rounded.

Standing in Finkel's entry hall, William quickly saw Finkel looking down at him from the third floor landing.

"I believe I have in my possession something you want, Finkel." William held up the battered gray valise. He began to mount the stairs.

"And you are?" Finkel asked.

"William Birmingham."

"You are related to Nicholas Birmingham?"

William had covered a dozen steps. "He is my brother."

When he reached the first landing, he lost view of Finkel, who was directly above him. "If you wish the return of this valise, you must release her ladyship."

"I believe I'd be within my rights killing a man who tried to abduct my wife from her own house," Finkel shouted, much too gleefully for William's comfort.

"There's a very big problem for you if something happens to me."

"And what might that be?"

"My brother knows I was coming here." He started up to the next floor. "And he has in his possession something which - - -"

Now he could peer into Finkel's eyes, "will prove by what illegal methods you've been restoring the Finkel fortunes."

Finkel's gaze darted to the valise. "You found it. Wakefield's letter."

William nodded gravely. "I know everything, including by which means you trapped your. . .wife into marrying a reprobate like you, and I plan to expose you."

"Of all the families in England," Finkel said, shaking his head, his shoulders slumped, "it's my bloody misfortune to run up against the unimpeachable Birminghams, probably the only men in the kingdom who can't be bought."

"In that, you are correct." He came abreast of Finkel. "Where is she?"

Finkel tossed a defeated glance over his right shoulder.

William had to assure himself she was all right. Just as he started toward the room where she was being held, from far below the eerie sound of men's screaming voices echoed.

And then he heard the sickening thud. The thud of a body hurled from above striking a marble floor.

Chapter 8

Considering that rough ropes scraped against her wrists where he had bound her to a chair, Sophia felt very little remorse when she realized Lord Finkel had splattered himself over his home's entry hall. She only prayed she would be spared the sight.

Quite a bit of time passed before Mr. Perfect came to her.

"You know what's happened?" he asked, effecting a remorseful expression.

She gave him a solemn look and nodded.

"My brother and I have dealt with the magistrate. Thankfully, my brother's far better known and better respected in London than I." He moved to the wooden chair she'd been tied to, squatted down, and began to untie the rope.

From down the hall, a woman screamed. "Get me out of here."

"Who in the blazes is that?" he asked.

"My maid. I fear she's been tied up, too."

"Thompson!" he shouted toward the corridor. "Pray, go untie the lady's maid."

"Yes, Mr. Birmingham."

"I have a good mind to keep you tied up," he said lightly.

She peered down at him as he managed to undo one of the knots. "You're too much the gentleman to force yourself on a lady."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"I just do."

His hands stilled. He rested his full weight on his knees. Their faces were level, his eyes beginning to smolder. His proximity, his musky scent, his ruggedly handsome face were doing strange things to her.

She leaned into him, and he kissed her hungrily. Sweet Heavens! Kissing Mr. Birmingham was the very most pleasant experience ever. How could she have missed out on something this wondrous her first seven and twenty years?

When the kiss ended, he settled his hands on either side of her face and looked at her. . .well, there was no other word for it – lovingly. "I don't like to think of you risking that lovely neck of yours. In fact, I have a proposal to make an honest woman of you."

Before she could find out just what his proposal was, though, sounds of jubilation came from the corridor, and if she was not mistaken, the sounds were being made by Dottie and . . .What's His Name, Mr. Birmingham's valet?

Mr. Birmingham quickly untied her. "What the blazes?"

"My maid is actually the woman who- - -"

Mr. Birmingham glanced into the corridor. There stood Dottie, with What's His Name's arm around her!

"I take it your maid masqueraded as your mute sister," Mr. Birmingham quickly surmised, getting to his feet, as did she.

Sophia gave a sheepish nod.

"Give us a minute," Mr. Birmingham said to his man.

After they left, he turned to her and drew her into his arms for another searing kiss.

"About that proposal?" she finally managed, a hopeful lilt to her voice.

"I don't know why in the blazes I should care one fig about you. You've done nothing but lie to me from the moment me met."

"My kiss was not a lie."

He stood back and peered at her through narrowed eyes. "What about what you called me?"

"When I told that awful man you were my lover?"

He nodded.

"That was not a lie, either."

"That settles it, then."

Her heart fluttered most agreeably. "Settles what?"

"I propose to make an honest woman out of you. No more smuggling."

"Actually, my dearest Mr. Birmingham, I'm not nearly as dishonest as you believe me to be."

"Enlighten me, please."

"I was so desperate to get away from Finkie that first night, I would have answered to any name."

"Then your name's not Isadore?"

She shook her head.

"You are well born, are you not?"

She nodded. "Until two days ago I had answered to the name Lady Sophia Devere for seven and twenty years. And, I must tell you, I am also the sole heiress to my grandmother's fortune."

He nuzzled soft kisses along the column of her neck. "I should prefer an entirely different name for you."

Dare she hope? "Pray, what name would that be?" She circled her arms around him, her heartbeat galloping.

"Mrs. Birmingham?"

"I suppose I need to accept. I must reform your wicked ways. I'm prepared to help you financially, only I beg that you never involve yourself with smugglers ever again."

He held her tightly and laughed, a deep raucous laugh.

"Pray, what is so funny?"

"You don't know who I am?"

"Of course I know who you are. You're Mr. William Birmingham, smuggler of gold bullion."

He stood back and drew her hands into his. She felt unaccountably secure.

"You've heard of Nicholas and Adam Birmingham?" he asked.

"Who hasn't? They're the wealth- - -" She stopped, suddenly realizing her great stupidity. "They're your brothers?"

His eyes laughing, he nodded.

"You're from that Birmingham family?"

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Why in the world do you resort to smuggling gold if you're that ridiculously wealthy?"

He shrugged. "A single man can take risks. I liked the excitement."

"Then I daresay you must marry." She moved into his arms. Nowhere on earth could ever feel better.

* * *

Downstairs, where, thankfully the Finkie mess had been cleaned, they met up with their servants.

Dottie's eyes glittered with excitement. "Oh, milady, you won't believe it, but Mr. Thompson said he's been fiercely attracted to me since that first night, but he dared not aim at such a high-born lady! He was talkin' about me!" Dottie launched into a sniveling giggle.

Sophia faced the valet. "I must felicitate you, Mr. Thompson. You have excellent taste in women."

"And, my good man," William added, "you will be happy to learn that my house will be merging with this lady's house very shortly." He looked down at Sophia most lovingly.

"Very good, sir," Thompson said.

Once more, she found herself in his embrace. "Do not be surprised, my lady, when you're a shrunken little white-haired woman and you husband is still calling you Isadore."

THE END

Other Cheryl Bolen eBooks:

With His Lady's Assistance

(Book 1, The Regent Mysteries)

(Humorous Regency Romance Mystery)

With His Lady’s Assistance is a delightful blend of humor, romance, and mystery, a romp through Regency society, sprinkled with appealing characters and colorful figures from British history. Protecting the eccentric Prince Regent from an unknown assassin has never been so entertaining. – In Print

This is a highly enjoyable read. There is mystery, humour and romance – a winning combination. I eagerly await the next installment. – Amazon Reviewer

* * *

To help him mingle in the highest echelons of English society to investigate threats on the Prince Regent's life, super spy Captain Jack Dryden must feign an engagement to the exceedingly plain spinster, Lady Daphne Chalmers. Together they embark on an investigation which brings them into grave peril – and makes the captain reevaluate the skinny maiden who has a most amorous effect upon him.

Buy at Amazon.com.

A Lady by Chance

Cheryl Bolen has done it again with another sparkling Regency romance. . .I highly recommend it. – Happily Ever After

Anna de Mouchet has the stuff of which Regency heroines are made – the right stuff, that is! – In Print

* * *

The Marquess of Haverstock is incensed when he learns the money he needed to buy crucial war information for the Foreign Office has been lost at cards to the illegitimate daughter of an English duke and French noblewoman. When the bewitchingly beautiful woman informs him the only way to reclaim the funds is to wed her, he has little choice but to agree.

Shunned by the ton, Anna de Mouchet agrees to a bizarre proposal that has her using her skill at cards to force the marquess – whom she’s been told is a traitor – to marry her. As his wife, she will be free to spy on him and prove her patriotism to England. But once she marries the handsome lord, she’s less sure of her loyalties. Especially when she feels her husband’s silken touch.

Buy at Amazon.com.

The Bride Wore Blue (The Brides of Bath Series #1)

Cheryl Bolen's writing draws you into her fast-paced story. 4 Stars – Romantic Times

Cheryl Bolen returns to the Regency England she knows so well. . .If you love a steamy Regency with a fast pace, be sure to pick up The Bride Wore Blue. – Happily Ever After

* * *

For six long years Thomas Moreland has dreamed of the beautiful young noblewoman who rescued him from death. While amassing his fortune in India, not a day passed he did not recall Felicity's fair loveliness, did not recall the silken tones of her sweet voice, did not desire to possess her.

Now a widow, Felicity Harrison does not recognize the handsome nabob as the young man left for dead by highwayman years earlier. Though she wants nothing more than to snub the arrogant man who promises to rescue her family from financial ruin in exchange for presenting his sister to Society, she cannot snub him. She must force herself to bear his company. But the longer she is with him, the more she has to force herself to remain true to her dead husband's memory. Why is it the humbly born Thomas Moreland possesses more nobility that any man of her class? And why is it she finds it harder and harder to mourn a dead man when Thomas's virility awakens her deepest desires?

Buy at Amazon.com.

With His Ring (The Brides of Bath Series #2)

Texas Gold's Runner-up for Best Historical Romance 2002

Highly recommended. – Under the Covers

Cheryl Bolen does it again! There is laughter, and the interaction of the characters pulls you right into the book. I look forward to the next in this series. 4 Stars – Romantic Times

With His Ring is a good book. Once you start reading you will not want to put it down. . .The secondary characters are a blast. They will have you laughing right along with Glee's stunts. – The Romance Readers Connection

If you liked Cheryl Bolen's first installment in her Brides of Bath series set in Regency England, you'll like this one. With His Ring has plenty of sensuality. – Happily Ever After

* * *

Glee Pembroke has turned down countless offers of marriage because she has secretly been in love with her brother's best friend, Gregory Blankenship, all her life. When she learns Gregory will lose his considerable fortune if he's not wed by his twenty-fifth birthday, she persuades him to enter into a sham marriage with her. What he doesn't know is that she plans to win his heart. She will do everything in her power to make him happy – including mimicking the ways of a "fast" woman since he's noted for alliances with women of that sort.

Why did he ever allow himself to marry the maddening Glee? He'd thought they would have great fun, but at every turn, she exasperates him. Why does she persist in wearing the bodice of her dresses so blasted low? Why do other men persist in flirting with her, his wife? And why in the blazes has his heretofore complacent life been turned upside down by this sham marriage? He finds himself longing for a real marriage, but for reasons he cannot divulge, that can never happen.

Buy at Amazon.com.

A Fallen Woman (The Brides of Bath Series #3)

You'll fall for A Fallen Woman, the latest Regency romance by Cheryl Bolen. .this emotional story of a woman's journey from despair to triumph has what we all want from a love story. – In Print

A story of healing, forgiveness and change that will make readers cheer. – Romantic Times

I would recommend A Fallen Woman to anyone." – Escape to Romance

* * *

Since his commanding officer in the Peninsula took a bullet meant for him, James Moore, now the Earl of Rutledge, feels responsible for the dead man's young son and the boy's exquisite mother, Carlotta Ennis – so responsible that he offers to marry the lavender-eyed beauty. Though their marriage was not to be a love match, Carlotta's torturing presence has James yearning to make her his true wife.

Though she did not love his lordship, her desperate situation forced her to accept his proposal. Little did she know she would come to crave being with him, would hunger for his every touch. If only she could be worthy of the fine man she's married, if only she can keep him from learning her dark secret . . .

Buy at Amazon.com.

To Take This Lord (The Brides of Bath Series #4)

(previously titled An Improper Proposal)

"Wonderfully Crafted... Highly recommended... 5 stars." – Huntress Book Reviews

"Bolen's writing... creates the perfect atmosphere for her enchanting romances." –

Romantic Times

"Bolen does a wonderful job building simmering sexual tension." – Booklist

* * *

Even though it's been two years since his cherished wife died on childbed, George Pembroke, the Viscount Sedgewick, continues to rely on liquor to blunt his grief.

Worried about him and his children, George's sisters urge him to ask spinster Sally Spenser--a longtime family friend--to help care for his daughter and son. Sally's the perfect person. She's of high birth (but has no money) and she adores Lord Sedgewick's children. It's her deep love of the motherless children and fear that their father might marry an unfeeling stepmother that prompt Sally to consider George's proposal. Even though it will be unbearable living under the roof of the man she loves and knowing she can never have him.

Buy at Amazon.com.

The Earl's Bargain

Bolen writes with both poetic ease and a good sense of historical correctness. Another great book by Bolen with enchanting characters you actually fall in love with. – Amazon Reviewer

The Earl and lady "bluestocking" provide fun, adventure, and romance, and I loved the Cornwall locations. I've been to Cornwall and Ms. Bolen's descriptions were right on. – Amazon Reviewer

* * *

The impossibly young, stunningly beautiful widow Louisa Phillips finds herself penniless upon the death of her no-good husband. What's a man-hating bluestocking to do?

Enter the Earl of Wycliff, who offers her financial security for life. All she has to do is travel across England posing as his wife. They're both hiding secrets – not the least of which is their budding love for each other.

Buy at Amazon.com.

My Lord Wicked

This terrific regency novel has Gothic elements: the eerie abbey; the gloomy weather; the portrait of his wife seeming to watch over everyone; and his dark, twisted memories of her. Ms. Bolen's novel has it all. A great romance with spooky elements and the mystery surrounding the wife, the author could not have done a better job. I loved this book, and I hope you will love it also. Very highly recommended! – Amazon Reviewer

* * *

What woman would dare make her home at eerie Marshbanks Abbey, perched on a stony hill in remote Northumbria? It is said its owner, the brilliant botanist, Lord Stacks, killed his beautiful bride there ten years earlier.

Unaware of the tales of Lord Stacks' wickedness, Freddie Lambeth comes to live with her guardian, and through his caring blossoms from a plain, shabbily dressed girl to a lovely young woman. Freddie and Lord Stacks come to need each other as his flowers need sunshine, but Stacks cannot allow himself to love her. His own wickedness has destroyed any chance for happiness.

Buy at Amazon.com.

It Had To Be You (A World War II Romance)

The kind of book that you think about afterward. . .They [hero/heroine] grip your heart and make you weep.—In Print

It is definitely one for the keeper shelf.—Margaret Lawrence

I highly recommend It Had to Be You for an all-consuming and powerful love story.—Romance Communications Reviews*

Best Mainstream Novel – Golden Triangle*

Runner-up Best Mainstream Novel – Book of Your Heart*

Runner-up Best Historical – Now and Then*

Runner-up Best Historical – Show Me More*

*under various previous titles

* * *

The time is 1937. Journalist Dianne Castle mixes with Hollywood's elite post-Prohibition hedonists at the popular Club Borneo, owned by handsome Japanese American, Johnny Honda. Amidst the threat of war and chants of Yellow Peril, Dianne and Johnny fall in love, but it's a love not to be.

How can Johnny let his beloved Dianne throw her life away on the likes of him?

Dianne stubbornly vows to follow him to the ends of the earth-even if it means entering an internment camp.

Buy at Amazon.com.

A Duke Deceived (Harlequin Historical)

Notable New Author Award Winner

Holt Medallion Honorable Mention, Best First Book

Reissued by Harlequin Historical as ebook

Full of intrigue and excitement, A Duke Deceived is a tender love story that will capture the reader's heart from page one. Cheryl Bolen is sure to please those who enjoy historical romances set in Regency England." -- Barbara Dawson Smith, bestselling author of ONCE UPON A SCANDAL

"The charm and grace of the regency period is present in this sweetly told debut novel. Regency fans will find the conflict traditional but enjoyable." -- Romantic Times

" A Duke Deceived  is a gem. If you like a genuinely sensuous love story, pick up this first novel by Cheryl Bolen." -- Happily Ever After

* * *

At her mother's deathbed, Bonny Barbara Allan weds the Duke of Radcliff in what Bonny perceives as a totally unequal match. Though she adores Radcliff, Bonny is embarrassed over her dowryless state and inadequate pedigree to be his duchess. To make matters even worse, she believes her enigmatic husband has married her out of compassion toward her dying mother. Nothing could be further from the truth. Radcliff fell in love with the incomparable Bonny the first time he saw her, but how can he reveal his love when his bride is secretly meeting another man?

Buy at Amazon.com.

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8