“I promise,” she whispered.
And she meant it.
Isadora lay awake long after Penelope had drifted into an exhausted sleep.
She needed power. Influence. Someone who could stop this marriage before it became irreversible.
Her father would not be swayed. The Marquess was well-connected, wealthy despite his gambling, and had the backing of many of George’s powerful acquaintances.
To fight this battle, she needed someone with morepowerthan both of them combined.
She had heard of him, of course. He wasruthless, they said. A man who did not play by the rules, a man who had earned his wealth and status in a world that did notgiveanything without a fight.
He was a man who could make thingshappen.
The memory of Daphne’s voice echoed in her mind.
He has connections in the most dangerous of places. If he wanted something done, it would be done.
That was exactly the sort of man she needed.
Isadora slipped out of the house, her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders. The servants were long asleep, and she had ensured that Penelope would not wake before she left.
Her heart pounded as she secured her horse and rode into the night, the streets of London fading into the dark countryside.
Her destination was not far, but the ride felt endless. Each passing second brought new doubts.
Would he turn her away?
Would he demand something of her that she could not give?
Would he be worse than the Marquess himself?
But none of that mattered. If she did nothing, Penelope’s fate was sealed, and she would never forgive herself for it.
She arrived an hour before dawn, and she slid off her horse, gathering her skirts as she approached the side entrance. It would too bold of her to use the front doors—this had to be done in secrecy.
Knocking urgently against the wooden staff door, she stepped back, her pulse racing.
It took nearly a full minute before it creaked open.
A butler, dressed in his nightclothes, blinked at her in shock.
“Can I help you, My Lady?” He regarded her with hesitance.
“I need to speak with His Grace,” she whispered. “It is urgent.”
The butler’s expression tightened. “His Grace does not receive visitors at this hour. I apologize, but you must leave and return at a more suitable hour.”
Isadora pressed her lips together. She had come too far to be turned away like this.
“I know,” she said. “But this cannot wait. Please. It is urgent that I meet him.”
The butler hesitated, clearly torn between protocol and the sheer audacity of her presence. But something softened in his expression, perhaps it was because of the desperation he saw in her eyes.
Then, sighing, he stepped aside. “Wait here.”
She exhaled shakily as he disappeared into the depths of the house. Minutes passed, and then the butler returned.
