Isabel and the Rogue

Chapter 2

It was becoming harder and harder to write these letters.

Isabel stared at the blank sheet of parchment, tapping the end of her pen on the desktop, wishing she were doing anything but detailing her failures for Padre Ignacio once again. She’d even consent to dance with Captain Dawson if it meant saving herself the embarrassment of admitting another defeat.

Actually, no. That wasn’t true. Surely nothing could be worse than spending several long minutes in Captain Dawson’s arms—

She jabbed at the parchment with the sharp end of her pen, puncturing a hole in the thin paper. The captain had occupied enough of her thoughts the night prior, and Isabel could not allow him to run rampant within them yet again. Despite how her ribs abruptly felt too tight for her lungs when he’d admitted his concern for her safety, Isabel knew she could not let Captain Dawson interfere with her work. To allow him to dominate her thoughts and distract her was not to be borne.

Releasing a long exhale, Isabel shook out her hands and selected a fresh sheet of parchment. Grasping her pen once more, she licked her lips and wrote:

Estimado Padre Ignacio,

The Meadows ball was uneventful. I did my best to partake in all aspects of the festivities, and sought out entertainment where it could be found, but it was not as fruitful as I hoped it would be.

Isabel had learned to keep her letters short, the contents seemingly mundane, her words not hinting at any deeper meanings. Padre Ignacio knew the purpose of her communications, so she felt no need to elaborate on the measures she took to hunt out information. The concise summaries prevented Isabel from giving in to her need to make excuses for her shortcomings. She’d learned at her father’s knee that excuses oftentimes made failure worse.

Unable to resist, she added a line about finally reading The Mill on the Floss, a novel the priest had encouraged her to read for years. After assuring him she would write about her feelings regarding it in a future letter, Isabel signed her name at the bottom of the sheet. Folding and sealing it, she tucked it into her shirtwaist to have it franked later in the day.

Pushing her chair back, Isabel dropped her head and covered her face with her hands. This was the thirty-second such letter she’d penned over the last two years, and they never became easier to write. In how many different ways, with various arrangements of words, could Isabel express that she had yet to discover information that would aid her beloved Mexico in its fight against the French? She longed for such a boon, a fact she knew Padre Ignacio was aware of. He knew her better than almost anyone—although her time in London had allowed Isabel to grow close to her sisters, a development she was thankful for. But it was the old priest who knew how desperately she wanted to be of use; to step out from the long shadows of her sisters; to finally see a spark of pride in her father’s eyes when he’d only ever looked at her with disappointment. It was why Padre Ignacio had recommended her to Se?or Fernando Ramírez for just such a task.

It was the evening before they fled Mexico City when he had found her in the library at the Luna family villa, trying to decide which books she would take on the voyage. The idea she would have to choose between them had gutted her, for her collection of books had been her friend for longer than she could remember. Oftentimes the written word had been her only friend.

“Se?orita Isabel,” Se?or Ramírez had called, coming around the shelf where she was crouched among stacks of poetry, fiction, and history. “Padre Ignacio said I would find you here.”

“As if I would be anywhere else.” She stroked her hand over the cover of The Lusiads. “This room has been more my home than anywhere else in the villa.”

Se?or Ramírez propped his shoulder against the shelf as he looked down at her. “How will you decide which ones to take?”

Isabel shrugged, although she could not stop her hands from shaking. “How do you decide which child is your favorite?”

He didn’t laugh at her comment. Didn’t try to placate her or comfort her. Se?or Ramírez had simply nodded, as if he understood.

Releasing a shuddering breath, Isabel had taken a moment to appraise her older sister’s fiancé. Se?or Ramírez was handsome and knew it, his laughs and smiles his social currency. Isabel had noted that the man used his natural charm and winning smiles as a mask to disguise his sharp, cunning mind. She had thought the young politician would make an ideal husband for Ana María, his charisma a match for her sister’s golden perfection. But then Isabel hadn’t known Ana María as well as she thought she did, for Se?or Ramírez was not the only person wearing a mask.

But he had never sought her out before, and cautious curiosity had flared within her.

“Tell me, Se?orita Isabel,” he’d said, his dark eyes keen on her face, “does Se?or Luna know you slip out of every gathering he hosts?”

She dropped her gaze as she lifted a shoulder. “If he knows, he certainly doesn’t care.”

Isabel had long thought of herself as her father’s throwaway daughter, for he had never seemed to find use for or value in her.

“Well, you’ve certainly taken advantage of his disinterest, and have developed a talent for blending in. Becoming a part of your surroundings.”

“I have?” Isabel wasn’t sure if he was insulting her or merely stating the truth.

The man crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you thought of how you could use your skill of disappearing in plain sight to help Mexico?”

Isabel’s brow furrowed even as she leaned eagerly toward him. “I don’t understand.”

Fernando crouched down until his gaze was level with hers, his forearms perched on his knees. “You will be in London, but that doesn’t mean you cannot serve Presidente Juárez while you’re there.”

Anticipation tingled along her spine, and Isabel carefully set down the book in her hand. “Of course I want to help. If I can.”

“Padre Ignacio said you would. Because you’re a Luna, and your loyalty to Mexico runs in your blood,” he murmured, nodding his head approvingly.

“I am,” she’d answered, earnest and determined. “What would I need to do?”

Se?or Ramírez had seen her. Had seen what she was capable of. Had entrusted her with a great responsibility when others struggled to even recognize her existence.

But perhaps everyone had been right not to notice her, for Isabel had been unable to provide anything of use to the Juárez government. Almost two years on English shores and she’d yet to send back any useful information. Oh, she sent along gossip she’d overheard at social events, and speculation about secret scandals, but Isabel possessed no proof of them. She knew that rumors and snippets from tête-à-têtes would not truly aid her countrymen, but then Fernando had not had time to share what specific information she should gather. So Isabel had studied Debrett’s so she could learn who was who in British society, devoured the morning papers for all manner of news, eavesdropped on the servants’ gossip, and listened to chatter at the various social events she attended with her sisters. She recorded names, dates, and titles in a secret journal, and tried daily to piece together her findings, with no success.

Ana María had found love with her new husband and Gabriela charmed the ton, while Isabel had purposely cultivated her quiet, bookish persona, all the better to remain unassuming. Unsuspecting. But it felt like it had all been for naught. One failure after another had withered her confidence to dust. Isabel clenched her eyes shut to hold back the tears. Tears would do nothing to solve—

“I knew I would find you awake,” a voice proclaimed into the silence of her chamber.

Spinning about on her seat, Isabel scowled at her younger sister. “Will you ever knock?”

“Buenos días to you, as well, hermana.” Gabby plopped on the bed, relaxing back onto her arms. “What are you writing?”

Isabel flicked a hand, hoping she appeared unconcerned. “Nothing of consequence.”

“I thought perhaps you were writing out your disgust at having to dance with Captain Dawson at the ball last night.”

Gabby’s tone was a tad too light. Too innocent. Nothing Gabby did was ever light or innocent.

“I’m surprised you noticed, considering every time I looked your way, you were surrounded by a crowd of admirers,” Isabel shot back.

Her sister’s expression clouded. “It’s quite tedious, really. But then Tío Arturo can’t say I’m not doing my part to bolster Mexico’s image among the ton.”

When they had arrived in Mexico two years prior, their tío Arturo had tasked them with improving the profile of their countrymen, hoping such a thing would aid him in his lobbying effort to win the support of the British government against the French. It was only weeks later they learned how many of those in power despised Presidente Juárez and his Zapotec antecedents.

“I wouldn’t dream of wasting ink and parchment on the likes of such a rogue.”

Isabel was proud of how nonchalant she sounded.

“He is a rogue, isn’t he?” At Isabel’s answering snort, Gabby chuckled. “The talk I’ve heard about the captain would shock you.”

“I assure you it wouldn’t,” she grumbled under her breath.

“So if you’re not fond of Captain Dawson, why did you dance with him last night?” Gabby cocked her head to the side. “I know dancing is not your favorite activity.”

“I didn’t have much choice.” Isabel plucked at the sash around her waist. “One minute I was returning to the ballroom after a visit to the retiring room, and the next I was being twirled about the floor.”

“Quite rude of him not to ask before he claimed your dance.” Gabby’s brows rose to her hairline. “Although I suppose some would say it’s a bit romantic. Captain Dawson cuts quite a swath.”

Rolling her eyes, Isabel bit back the bitter words that perched on the tip of her tongue. “It’s only because he’s handsome. If he were not so attractive, the ladies of the ton would not look twice at him.”

“Perhaps not.” Gabby snorted. “But thankfully for the captain, his golden hair and sapphire eyes easily snare hearts.” Her sister was deceptively quiet for a moment. “Do you think him handsome, Isa?”

Isabel wished the earth would crack open and swallow her whole. Gabby had always been observant…her sister had just never used those skills on her. Now, in an unfortunate turn of events, Gabby seemed to have sensed that something lurked under the cutting animosity between her and Captain Dawson.

Clearing her throat, Isabel infused as much apathy into her voice as she could when she said, “Whether I think Captain Dawson is handsome matters not. What matters is his character, and his is quite deficient.”

“He is a rake with a capital R. But you know what they say about rakes…” Gabby raised a palm. “They make the best husbands.”

“Reformed rakes do.” Isabel curled her lip. “And nothing about Captain Dawson’s conduct hints that he’s been reformed.”

“Goodness, Isa, you truly do not like the man.” Gabby held up both hands in surrender. “I don’t know what Captain Dawson has done to earn your ire, but I pity him. You are a jaguar when you’re threatened.”

“Do you think so?” Isabel’s chest swelled at the comparison, for she would never have thought to compare herself to the fierce jaguar.

Gabby nodded, a fond look softening her expression. “One day I hope you learn to see yourself the way I see you.”

Before Isabel could press and ask what she meant, Gabby jumped from the bed and walked to the door. “?Vamos! Let’s eat breakfast and learn what her ladyship has planned for us today.”

Isabel remained seated for a long moment after her sister departed, contemplating her sister’s comment. Gabby wished Isabel could see herself the way she did. Years prior she would have assumed her younger sister thought her dull, but hadn’t Gabby just compared her to a jaguar? Her sister did not offer empty compliments.

Although it had crushed her at the time, Isabel was almost happy their autocratic father had sent them away from Mexico City as the French forces approached. The long ocean voyage, and the many long months since then, had allowed Isabel not only to get to know her sisters better, but to actually like them.

Rising to her feet, Isabel smoothed her hand over her shirtwaist, ensuring her letter to Padre Ignacio was still safely tucked inside. With a small smile, she followed Gabby, her mood vastly improved.

He hated his weekly trips to the Home Office.

His boots clicked on the cobblestone street as Sirius dodged riders, wagons ladened with crates, and swiftly darting street urchins running errands for merchants. Despite Sirius’s repeated offers to meet at his gentlemen’s club in lieu of a formal meeting at headquarters, his superior had always refused. So despite his distaste for the stuffy, cramped interior of the Home Office with its legion of self-important employees, Sirius squared his shoulders and set off for the building on King Charles Street in Whitehall every Friday, rain or shine.

Holding the door open for a clerk balancing a stack of papers in his hand, Sirius removed his hat as he stepped into the dim interior. His blinking eyes were barely adjusting to the light when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Dawson, let’s get this over with, shall we?”

With a crisp nod, Sirius followed the severely dressed man down a crowded corridor until they came to a door at the end of the hall. Throwing it open without ceremony, the older man slid onto a chair tucked under a narrow table. Sirius took the chair on the opposite side without a word.

“What did you learn at the Meadows ball?”

Lieutenant Colonel Walter Green was not one for small talk. He wanted Sirius’s report, and preferred it in as few words as possible. It was a quality Sirius always admired about the man. The son of a decorated Waterloo hero, Green had served in the Crimea before an unfortunate injury had him sent from the front lines back to England. But not one to slip into an easy retirement, Green had turned his attention from serving the Crown on the battlefield to serving it through covert assignments within Britain’s borders.

When Sirius had returned from the peninsula himself, physically hale but mentally and emotionally broken, Green visited him. Sirius had been touched that the taciturn former officer had gone out of his way to inquire after him, and when Green offered him a position at the Home Office, he’d accepted. Perhaps the lieutenant colonel knew Sirius would benefit from staying busy. Perhaps he sensed Sirius ached for some way to actually earn the honors that had been heaped upon him. Whatever the case, his work for the Home Office had saved his life in many ways.

“Not much. It was a bore”—Sirius studied the trim on his hat—“but well attended.”

Lieutenant Colonel Green’s expression remained as neutral as ever. “Was Westhope in attendance?”

Viscount Westhope was Sirius’s most recent mark. The young lord had a positive reputation about town for being witty and amiable…but whispers of his French familial connections had drawn suspicion among Home Office officials.

Sirius nodded. “I said hello. Exchanged some small talk about the pair of high-steppers he recently acquired.”

The other man continued to hold his silence, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. Stifling a sigh, Sirius continued.

“And that was it. He had secured dances from several young ladies, and no other opportunity to speak with him presented itself.”

If he had not been so distracted by Miss Luna and her continued subterfuge, he might have found another opportunity to engage with the viscount, who seemed a friendly enough fellow.

A slight pucker appeared in the center of the lieutenant colonel’s forehead. “That is unfortunate.”

Sirius managed to contain his wince. The show of disappointment from the normally unflappable Green cut Sirius to the quick. Licking his lips, he plowed on, words tumbling from his mouth with no forethought.

“But I planned on cornering the viscount at the club. I learned he visits in the early afternoon for billiards and drinks. I figured I could continue our association over a few games.”

“Very well,” Green murmured, and Sirius released a breath. “It’s imperative we learn what the viscount knows. It may be nothing, but it could be everything.”

Moving forward to perch on the edge of his chair, Sirius tentatively asked, “Is there a specific reason we should be suspicious of the French now? And why would we assume Westhope’s cousin would tell him anything?”

“There’s always reason to be suspicious of the French.” Green scowled before quickly easing his expression back into placidity. “Britain will always keep close watch on any ruler named Napoleon, and for good reason. With much of the world’s attention fixed on the States, the French are pushing their advantage wherever they can. Now it’s Mexico, but who is to say they’ll stop there? It behooves us to be vigilant, and if that means we surveil our own, so be it.”

Sirius straightened his spine, allowing a bit of the man’s resolve to soak into his own blood.

Green pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He met Sirius’s gaze with his own. “Our fallen brothers deserve for us to expend every ounce of our energy to ensure we protect Queen and country.”

“Of course they do, sir,” Sirius said, raising his chin.

The older man’s parting words played in Sirius’s mind as he made the short trek from Whitehall to St. James’s Street. He tried to save the memories of his men—his comrades—for when he was alone, in his study, with a glass of brandy in hand.

Yet soon Sirius found himself at a table in the corner of the dining room at his club, an empty tumbler in front of him. He thought he’d only had one glass, but he couldn’t be sure. His gaze swept over the other members seated at tables nearby, their loud laughter crashing through his skull like the peals of a church bell. Several men had stopped at his table to say hello, and while Sirius had been polite, he had not been particularly welcoming, and his acquaintances eventually left him at peace.

But he wasn’t at peace. His mind was roaring with an influx of memories he did not want to entertain but was helpless to fight. Guilt had brought him here, when he should have brought it home to indulge.

“You’re not usually here at this time.”

Glancing up, Sirius met the cool blue eyes of his oldest friend, Sebastian, the Duke of Whitfield. Without waiting for Sirius to respond, the duke pulled out the chair on the other side of the table and took a seat, ordering a glass of whisky from the footman who appeared promptly at his side.

“How kind of you to join me,” Sirius said tartly.

“It is.” Whitfield reclined back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, the perfect picture of a haughty duke. “I don’t even know why I’m here now. Only the obnoxious second sons and doddering elders are here at this ungodly time.”

“I’m a second son, as you well know,” Sirius pointed out.

“Thank you for proving my point.” The duke inclined his head. “How is Harcourt anyway? Busy filling his nursery?”

“Last I heard, a spare had joined the heir.” Sirius shrugged. “I’m sure Samuel is delighted.”

Whitfield narrowed his eyes. “Have you seen him since your return to London?”

Sirius scoffed. “After his initial visit to me in the hospital? No. According to his letters, it’s either the business of the earldom, or his pregnant countess, or some other plethora of excuses that have kept him away.”

“Of course. Being the head of an old, storied earldom comes with many responsibilities.” The duke cocked his head. “Have you been invited to Harcourt Estate?” He snorted a laugh when Sirius raised a brow. “A silly question.”

Dropping his gaze to the glass in his hand, Sirius pondered his long friendship with the Duke of Whitfield. For all that Whitfield could be acerbic, sardonic, and biting, he was loyal as the day was long. When Sirius had returned from the Continent a broken shell of the man he’d once been, the duke had never shamed him. He had never asked about his time at war, and yet Sirius knew his friend would listen if he ever wanted to talk about the whole terrible business. Once, when Sirius had been unable to get out of bed for a fortnight, Whitfield had forced himself past his butler and valet, marched into his chamber, and yanked open the drapes, revealing his emaciated form to the blinding sunlight. After dragging him out of bed and into a bathtub, the duke had sat by his side as Sirius ate a small meal. Afterward, Whitfield had escorted him to his study, and sat silently next to him for hours, quietly reading a book. Sirius wasn’t sure why the duke had stayed, but he suspected that Whitfield simply wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.

“So if you’re not usually here at this time, why are you here now?” Sirius asked.

“I had a meeting with my solicitor. The man claimed he could only meet in the early afternoon instead of a more appropriate time after four o’clock.” Whitfield’s expression was all that was disgruntled. “And since I was awake and out, it seemed a waste to return to Whitfield Place and let my thoughts entertain me.”

“An abhorrent idea.”

“Indeed.” Whitfield sighed, all feigned resignation. “So here I sit with the elders, fortune hunters, and you.”

“You’ve fallen so low,” Sirius drawled.

“But at least I’ve fallen with you.” Whitfield raised his glass in a toast.

At just that moment, a group of men walked into the dining room, their voices carrying to their far corner. Sirius glanced over, his gaze landing on Viscount Westhope as he picked up a pool cue, a smile on his face as he spoke with a footman. When he clapped the man on the shoulder, Sirius found he was not surprised by the gesture.

Rising to his feet, Sirius tossed his napkin down on the table. “Fox and I are meeting for lunch tomorrow. Join us?”

The duke pulled his chin back. “Of course. But where are you going?”

“I’m off to play billiards.”

“You are?” Whitfield frowned. “I never knew you to like billiards.”

“I like all manner of things and don’t always feel the need to discuss them with you.” Sirius jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of where Westhope was racking balls on a plush red table. “Will you join me?”

“Do I have to?”

Sirius sighed. “Do you object to billiards or Westhope?”

The duke pondered this for a second. “The viscount.”

“Truly?” At Whitfield’s decisive nod, Sirius snorted. “He seems swell. His reputation for being a genuine fellow appears accurate enough.”

“And that’s precisely why I don’t like him. You can’t trust a fellow that nice.”

“We’re friends and I’m a nice fellow,” Sirius pointed out.

“Yes, you are.” Whitfield flourished a palm. “But then you also lead a double life, so…”

Sirius cut the duke a look. He wasn’t sure that Whitfield knew of his work with the Home Office, and he knew better than to ask.

“And what of Fox?” Sirius asked, easing the conversation back on track. “He’s one of the most honorable men I know.”

“Oh, he is. A paragon of virtue.” The duke lifted his glass to the lamp. “But he also tells me to my face when I’m being an arse, so you know he has a bit of the devil in him.”

“Or a bit of backbone.”

“My father always considered both to be synonymous,” Whitfield drawled.

Sirius knew better than to ask any questions about the late duke, so he instead took one last swig from his glass and then tugged on his waistcoat. “In that case, I bid you good day.”

“Goodbye, Dawson.” Whitfield tilted his head in the direction of the billiards table. “And mind your bets. Westhope is known to be quite the player…for all that he’s a swell fellow.”

“I appreciate the warning,” Sirius said, a tad more warmly than the duke truly deserved.

But then old, loyal friends were always deserving of a bit more regard.