Deceived

“His name is Marcus Stockhaven, my dear, and he is a lieutenant in the navy.” Jane had frowned a little as she’d watched Isabella’s expressive face. “Do not develop a tendre for him, Bella, for your mama would never allow the match. He is a nobody.”

She had spoken too late, of course. The tendre had blossomed instantly as Isabella had sat there, her gaze locked with the direct dark one of the man in the doorway. She had felt excited and faint and deliciously helpless to fight against her fate.

“He has no money and no expectations and your mama wishes you to marry well,” Jane had reminded her crisply, but her words of warning had been like an echo fading in the dark. Isabella had paid them no heed and had rushed headlong into first love. It had been a love that was going to end, quite properly, in a wedding. But then she had been obliged to marry Prince Ernest and everything had gone wrong….

Now, as her gaze met and held that of Marcus Stockhaven in much the same way as it had done in that faded drawing room twelve years before, Isabella felt a stunning sense of awareness and loss. A longing seared through her that made both the love and the heartbreak feel sharp and alive, as though all the feelings she had thought were dead had merely been sleeping and were awoken to instant life.

Then Stockhaven spoke, and the shackles of the past were broken.

“A lady,” he said thoughtfully, his gaze still resting on her. “I think you mistake. What possible reason could a lady have for coming here?”

One of the gamesters looked up and made a remark so coarse that Isabella winced. She raised a hand to stop the swelling indignation of the turnkey.

“Thank you,” she said crisply. “I will deal with this. Please show…Mr. Ellis…and myself to a room where we may speak alone.”

Her request caused some consternation. Evidently the jailer had not anticipated that she would require a private conversation and there were few facilities to deal with such an eventuality.

Marcus Stockhaven got to his feet. “You wish to speak privately with me, madam?”

“I do,” Isabella said.

Stockhaven’s voice was smooth and cold and its tone was mocking. “Surely you are aware that the price of privacy is higher than rubies in a place like this, madam?”

“It is fortunate then that I have brought my emeralds with me,” Isabella said, with composure. “Their price is higher than that of rubies.”

She put her hand in her reticule and withdrew the emerald bracelet that Ernest had given her when their daughter was born. He had told her that had the child been a boy then the bracelet would have been of diamonds. The emeralds were second best, like her marriage. She had never quite measured up to Ernest’s expectations, but at least his gift would come in useful at last.

In the dark light of the cell, the jewels glimmered with a deep radiance. The gamblers paused; one swore with awe and avarice.

“A private room,” Isabella repeated to the jailer. “At once.”

“At once, madam,” the jailer repeated, adjusting his assessment of her from countess to duchess. He had not considered the possibility of a foreign princess because she sounded so English.

An empty cell was found in short order. It was bare but for a moldy mattress, one hard chair, a table and a slop bucket. It was also cold. The jailer grabbed the bracelet from Isabella’s outstretched hand and it disappeared into his pocket quicker than a mouse down the throat of a snake. Marcus Stockhaven tucked his book beneath his arm and followed her from the one prison cell into the next with as little concern as though he were taking a walk in the park. Isabella admired his nerve at a time when her own feelings were in tatters. Her nerves were trembling; the conflict inside her echoed by a telltale quiver through her body.

The door scraped closed. There was a long silence, which Stockhaven did not break. He did not offer her the chair but took it himself, sitting watching her, his head at a slight slant, a quizzical look in his dark eyes. Isabella found it deeply unsettling. But then, he had always been able to disturb her with a mere glance.

“Well?”

Isabella jumped at the authoritative tone. Already it felt as though the balance of power in the interview was tilting away from her and that was all wrong. She needed to keep control of this. It was imperative that she dictate the terms. She struggled to regain the initiative.

“I—” Suddenly the words stuck in her throat. It was inconvenient to be troubled by scruples now. After she met with Churchward, she had gone straight out to the Doctors Commons to procure the special license. From there she had gone to the Fleet to purchase a husband. Desperation had kept her going and prevented her from questioning her actions too deeply. Whenever doubts had surfaced, she had fixed on the grim prospect of prison, and that had blotted out all else. But now, under the pitiless dark stare of Marcus Stockhaven, she was lost for words.

Stockhaven raised one black brow sardonically. “I have all the time in the world,” he said, “but I would prefer you to state your business as soon as possible, madam. It is a surprise to see you after all this time, and not a particularly welcome one. So…” He shrugged, and said, “Say your piece and let me get back to my book.”

Isabella swallowed hard. So he was not going to greet her with open arms. Of course not. How foolish of her to expect it when she had jilted him in the most painful and humiliating way imaginable. The shreds of their past passion mocked her.

“I thought that it was you,” she said slowly. “I recognized your voice.”

“How very flattering, after all these years,” Stockhaven said dryly. He leaned his chin on his hand. “What are you doing here?”

Isabella glanced toward the door, where she imagined that the turnkey’s ear was welded to the grille. There could be no names exchanged now if she wanted to preserve her anonymity, as presumably he wished to preserve his.

“I was looking for someone,” she said.

“But not me, I assume.” Stockhaven came to his feet with a compact grace. He was tall and broad-shouldered and his presence seemed to dominate the shabby cell. There was latent power in every line of his body—power that the stuffy confines of the room could not stifle. Isabella found that she was instinctively backing away, though he made no move toward her. She took a deep breath and forced herself to hold her ground.

“No, I was not looking for you specifically,” she said, “but now that I have found you—” She paused. Could she come out with the proposal now? No, that was a little too blunt, even for her. Besides, there were things that she wished to know.

“More to the point,” she said, “what are you doing here, sir, under the name of John Ellis?”

She saw his dark gaze narrow on her acutely, and although his expression was blank a few seconds later, she read his feelings clearly enough. This mattered to him. He did not want her to give his true identity away and he would certainly have preferred that she had not stumbled across him in the Fleet of all places.

“Forgive me, but that is none of your business.” His tone was clipped.

“I think it might be.” Isabella took a step farther into the cell. There were a hundred and one doubts and reasons hammering in her mind, telling her that it was the worst possible idea in the world to petition Marcus Stockhaven to marry her. She ignored them. She had been offered a chance, the possibility of a bargain, and she was going to take it.

“I have a proposition for you, sir,” she said, once again careful not to address Stockhaven by name. “Help me and I will…help you. At the least, I will hold my tongue and tell no one that I have seen you.”

Marcus Stockhaven did not speak. There was a quality in his silence that intimidated her. She hurried on. “I do not suppose that anyone knows that you are here?”

Still he did not reply.

“I do not suppose that you wish anyone to know that you are here?” Isabella pursued.

This time she saw that her words had penetrated his silence. He gave an involuntary movement. Again that hard, dark gaze raked her. “Perhaps not.”

“The disgrace of the debtor’s prison—”

“Quite so,” he interrupted her. “Are you seeking to blackmail me, madam?” His mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “I regret I cannot pay.”

“I do not want your money,” Isabella said. “I need a favor.”

“A favor from me?” Stockhaven’s smile deepened. “You must be desperate indeed to even think of asking.”

“Perhaps so. As you must be to be here in the first place.”

Stockhaven acknowledged the hit with an inclination of the head. “So? In what way may we be…mutually…helpful?”

There was an element in his tone that brought color to Isabella’s cheeks. There had always been something about this man that cut straight through her defenses and made them as thin as parchment. She felt astonishingly vulnerable, deeply disturbed by his presence and the memories he stirred. She sought to disguise her nervousness.

She looked around the filthy cell, from the water seeping through the walls to the bare mattress boasting a single dirty blanket.

“In return for a favor from you, I will not only hold my tongue but I am prepared to make your stay here more comfortable,” she said. “A room of your own, clean linen, good food and wine—” she looked at the book he had placed on the table “—more books to read…”

Isabella saw his gaze narrow on her thoughtfully. She took a step closer to him in silent appeal. For a moment Marcus Stockhaven was silent. She could feel herself trembling as she waited for his response.

“How generous,” he said. “So what is it that you want?” His tone was even but his dark eyes were very cold.