Isabel and the Rogue

Chapter 5

The day was unseasonably warm, and for at least the tenth time since she stepped from the house, Isabel cursed the fact that she was required to wear so many layers of clothing. Sweat beaded on her brow and she fanned her face faster, as if the thick, balmy air would somehow cool her.

She had wandered away from the spectator box where Lady Yardley chatted with Tío Arturo and several members of the ton. Isabel couldn’t quite remember who had invited them, but after drinking three glasses of ice-cold lemonade, she decided she needed a break from the noise and crowds.

Escape was much harder to find than Isabel had expected. Epsom Downs was a veritable party, with rows of stands selling kites, a rainbow assortment of treats including fluffy marshmallows, various comfits, bonbons, pear drops, and peppermints. There were even milliner stalls with fine bonnets and hats, cobblers showcasing the newest footwear trends from Paris, and flower merchants selling bright blooms of every colorful shade. Isabel had spied more than one woman with a fresh rose in her bonnet or a young man with a daisy pinned to his lapel. In addition to the peddlers and merchants, there were clowns doing silly magic tricks for children, jugglers awing the crowd with their acts, and even a makeshift museum of oddities collected from all over the world. Gabby had squealed with delight over the various entertainments, but Isabel had not known where to look. Her gaze jumped from one sight to the next, the cacophony of voices a slowly building buzz until she was forced to press her palms to her ears to muffle the sound.

Without taking leave of Gabby, Lady Yardley, or her uncle, Isabel weaved and darted her way across the lawn toward the shaded canopy of a large oak tree near the edge of the paddocks. As she stepped under its boughs, Isabel ripped the bonnet from her head and swiped the back of her hand across her forehead.

“Are you all right?” Gabby asked, panting slightly as she came to a stop by her side. “Feeling a bit overwhelmed?”

Isabel nodded. She should have known her sister would ascertain what was wrong. Running away from social gatherings was something Isabel excelled at.

“Well, you look as miserable as I feel,” Gabby said.

“I thought you were enjoying the sights,” Isabel said, stripping her gloves from her hands to wipe her palms down her skirts.

Her sister sighed as she looked out across the crowd. “Oh, if I were free to wander about and enjoy the festivities without worrying about who may see me and the inferences they may make about my interests or behavior, I’m certain I’d be having a grand time.”

A swell of affection surged in Isabel’s chest. “I’m sorry that everything you do must be a performance.”

Reaching into her reticule, Gabby extracted a white handkerchief embroidered with ivy and patted her face and the hollow of her neck. “Yes, well, at least we have this short reprieve.”

With a long exhale, Isabel set her hat back on her head and worked to re-create the bow her maid had tied earlier that day. “Do I really look miserable?”

“No. You look perfectly lovely.” Gabby batted her hands away and set about tying the bow under her sister’s chin. “But I know you, so I know you’re out of sorts. I doubt anyone else can tell.”

“That’s because no one pays any attention to my presence,” Isabel said without thought. She bit down on her tongue when she noticed her sister frown.

“Is that what you believe? That you’re invisible?” Gabby questioned, her brows pulled low.

“Does it matter?” she grumbled, looking away.

“I think it matters to you.”

Isabel narrowed her eyes at her sister. “Why would you think that? Why should I care about the opinions of people who think I’m beneath them because my skin is darker than theirs? People who think our country deserves to be invaded for no other reason than we’re different from them?”

Gabby didn’t speak, although her hazel eyes were glassy as they stared back at her.

Smacking her gloves against her thigh, Isabel stepped back and spun about in a circle. “This is not my home and these are not my people. I could not care less if they bestow their fickle attentions on me.”

A weight pressed down on her shoulders then, and it felt as if she were being watched. Darting her gaze about, she swallowed a gasp when it collided with Captain Dawson’s. He stood in the company of finely dressed people in a private box lining the center of the track, far above the rabble that crowded the inner field. Much like the box she and Gabby had fled. How had he spied her among the throngs of people? And if his pursed lips were any indication, he had witnessed her pique of temper. Knowing he had been watching while she vented her frustrations made Isabel even more frustrated. Why could she not escape the man?

But do you really want to?After their last conversation, Isabel found it difficult to drum up the animosity she usually felt when she thought of the captain.

“It is a good thing we’re speaking Spanish, or else everyone in earshot would know of your fiery temper,” Gabby said quietly, a hint of laughter in her voice.

Pointedly turning away from Captain Dawson, Isabel tucked an errant lock of hair back into her coiffure before sliding her hands down her skirts again. “I would be not at all surprised if the gossip rags recruited Spanish speakers to follow us around and report on our private conversations. Mark my words, it will eventually come to that.”

Gabby groaned. “You’re probably right. The papers here are positively ruthless.”

“You’re being too generous.”

“A lowering thought.” Her sister approached until she was close enough to whisper in Isabel’s ear. “There’s nothing wrong with caring about the opinions of others, especially if they’re people who care about you.”

Isabel met Gabby’s eyes and swallowed. “That would make for a very small number of people.”

“Could that group possibly contain five people and a dog?” At Isabel’s smothered laugh, Gabby pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. “I think your group has more members than that.”

Isabel scowled. “Why would you think that?”

Gabby lifted a shoulder. “Just a feeling I have.”

“A feeling, huh?” Isabel shook her head. “Well, whatever prompted that feeling, I suspect it’s wrong.”

“Always so pessimistic.”

“Ouch.” Isabel pulled back to spear her sister with a look. “And coming from one of the most critical people I know.”

“I assure you, Isa dear,” Gabby said, patting her hand, “that however critical you may think I am of others, I am doubly critical of myself.”

Looping her arm around Gabby’s shoulders, Isabel pulled her close to her side. “That’s merely because you have high standards, for yourself and others.”

“That is a gracious way of considering it, querida.” Her sister’s shoulders sank with her sigh. “Do you suppose Lady Yardley and Tío Arturo will allow us to hide here in the shade for the rest of the race?”

“I doubt it. Tío mentioned several important members of Parliament would be in attendance today, and he wanted us to greet them with, as he said, our most charming smiles.” Isabel grunted. “As if there’s anything charming about me. I think he may have confused me with Ana, who possesses more charisma in her little finger than I do in my whole body.”

“Stop it, Isa.”

Isabel jerked her head back. “?Perdóname?”

“I hate when you do that. Talk bad about yourself as if you aren’t intelligent and interesting. As if you don’t casually toss out in conversation the most obscure and fascinating bits of information,” Gabby said with a sweep of her hand.

“But surely you see how I put people to sleep when they converse with me?” Isabel scoffed. “I never know what to say or how to act when I am with them, and it always feels as if they’re staring at me like I’m some exhibit in the British Museum because my nerves make me ramble. It’s so disconcerting.”

“That’s because the ton is full of half-wits.” Gabby grasped her arm and shook it. “Their idea of interesting is someone choosing to wear an ascot instead of a cravat. They care for nothing that doesn’t affect their carefully cultivated and manicured social circle.”

Isabel didn’t know what to say, because her sister was right.

“I thought you didn’t care about their opinions.” Gabby winged up a brow. “They’re not our people, I seem to recall you saying.”

A sound resembling a groan—or maybe even a growl—left Isabel’s lips, and she covered her face with her hands. “I don’t make any sense. Even to myself. Especially to myself.”

“Isa,” Gabby sighed, her muffled steps on the grass making it clear she was moving closer, “you make sense to me. I know that while you might not want the good opinions of those people, we can’t escape the truth that their opinion can be a benefit. Or a curse. Especially now that the precarious situation at home feels so much more real.”

That was it exactly. Knowing that their parents’ safety, the very future of Mexico’s independence, was on the line made Isabel doubly aware of her shortcomings. Not only had she failed to supply any information to Fernando, but she’d also fallen short of winning the approval of the very people who could aid her countrymen. Disgust with herself festered in her gut.

And that disgust made her defensive.

“How much easier would life here be if I were like you, as a darling of the ton?” Isabel slashed her hand through the air. “Your admirers overfill the drawing room during visiting hours, and your dance card is always full. Their favor is readily given to you.”

Gabby shook her head as she glanced down at her feet. “And yet I don’t want their attentions. I wouldn’t be courting their good opinions now if I didn’t feel I had to. The only person whose approval I have ever tried to win ignored me as if I were no better than a piece of furniture or a painting on the wall.”

Flinching, Isabel exhaled forcibly. “Aren’t we an unfortunate pair? Desiring Father’s approval as if he could ever be bothered to bestow it.”

“Not unfortunate. Perhaps misguided.” The light in Gabby’s eyes dimmed as she looked at her. “Whatever the truth is, please know that I admire you, Isa, and it breaks my heart that you think so cheaply of yourself.”

Swallowing proved impossible around the knot in her throat. Instead, Isabel bit her lip and closed her eyes, completely overwhelmed by Gabby’s confession.

“How clever you were, ladies, to locate this gloriously shaded patch of heaven.”

The Duke of Whitfield stood several paces away, leaning leisurely on his cane. Always an imposing figure, he was no exception today under the sun’s bright beams. A navy-blue, double-breasted frock coat stretched across his broad shoulders, an exact match to the fine blue vest that highlighted the breadth of his chest. It would be easy to believe Whitfield a dandy for all that he cut a stylish figure, but Isabel suspected his right hook was as powerful as his cutting wit.

It took Isabel a moment to notice the duke was darting his gaze between her and Gabby with his brows arched high, and she realized belatedly he was waiting for a response. Thankfully her sister saved her from her inadvertent rudeness.

“Your Grace.” Although polite on the surface, Gabby managed to infuse the honorific with disdain. “It is Isabel who spied this little spot of heaven. She’s always so clever and observant.”

Isabel would pinch Gabby now if she could, but the duke had returned the weight of his attention to her, so she tried to smile instead. Although Whitfield had always been gracious and polite to her, she could admit, if only to herself, that she found him intimidating.

It bolstered her confidence to know Gabby certainly did not.

“Of course I’m not surprised,” he intoned, offering her a crisp bow. “It’s long been my opinion that Miss Isabel is the intelligent Luna sister.”

Ignoring the heat that crept along her cheeks, Isabel asked, “And what of Ana María?”

Whitfield spread his black-glove-covered hands. “Mrs. Fox is the charismatic and diplomatic sister.”

She chuckled, for that described her older sister to the letter. Ana María was perfectly fit for her role as the wife of an ambitious member of Parliament.

“And me, Your Grace?” Gabby said, tilting her head in a coquettish fashion. She appeared to all the world as a young lady whose curiosity had been piqued, but Isabel knew better.

So, too, did the duke, for he arched a severe brow. “You are your sisters’ defender, Miss Gabriela. Truly, I suspect you belong to the mythical Gorgons, and men cross you at their own peril.”

Isabel sucked in a breath, darting her gaze to Gabby to take in her reaction. Her sister could be offended or pleased, and seeing as how Whitfield and Gabby had been at each other’s throats since they’d first met, Isabel could envision either being true.

Perhaps it was that long acquaintance that buffered the duke’s words now, for Gabby grinned, her hazel eyes sparking with glee. “My, Whitfield, I’m touched by the comparison. Can you imagine how incredible it would be to have the power to turn men into stone?”

Whitfield smirked. “I suspect half the ton would be statues by now.”

Gabby flicked her fingers. “Oh, more than a half. And you, Your Grace, would have been my first victim.”

Isabel knotted her hands together as she watched Gabby and the duke stare at each other, their bodies canting in such a way that it was almost possible to believe they were on a dueling field. Isabel decided to end this stalemate.

Stepping forward, Isabel placed a hand on Gabby’s arm. “I’m forced to agree with His Grace’s assessment. You’ve defended me more than once, querida.”

“Para siempre y por siempre. The duke has summed me up perfectly.” Gabby turned to bat her long lashes at Whitfield. “A Gorgon? Only to those deserving of such treatment.”

Instead of sneering at Gabby or continuing the trade of barbs, Whitfield chuckled. “I’m grateful I can count on you to keep my ducal ego in check.”

“Someone needs to,” she grumbled, brushing a sable lock from her cheek and looking away.

Whitfield stepped toward Gabby, a taunting grin spreading across his mouth, and Isabel knew she needed to interrupt.

“Who have you come to cheer for at the races today, Your Grace?”

Swiveling his head to her, Whitfield halted, his expression sliding into his usual indifference.

“Dawson asked me to accompany him. He was invited by Viscount Westhope to sit in his box.” Whitfield gestured behind him with his head. “The viscount has a colt racing in the derby.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the viscount,” Isabel said, darting her gaze to Gabby, who twirled her parasol in apparent boredom. But Isabel knew her sister was following the conversation.

“He’s…a…” The duke paused, tapping his cane on the lush lawn. “Amiable.”

“Amiable?” Isabel repeated.

Whitfield nodded. “Friendly. Very…loquacious.”

Isabel wasn’t sure if the duke was complimenting Lord Westhope or not. One never could tell with His Grace.

“Westhope is nice enough, but he smiles too much,” Whitfield elaborated.

Now Isabel frowned. “And that’s…a bad thing?”

Gabby wrinkled her nose. “You can’t trust someone who smiles too much.”

“Precisely,” the duke echoed. He nodded his head in approval at Gabby, who lifted her chin and turned away in response.

While Isabel wasn’t sure she understood the issue, it was obvious that Gabby and Whitfield did, and she had no interest in disrupting their newfound accord.

“Regardless of how I feel about Westhope, Dawson has struck up a friendship with the man.” The duke leaned on his cane and shook his head. “They’re over there now talking about his colt and Westhope’s childhood in France.”

Her muscles seized as they always did when someone made reference to France.

“Why would they be talking about his childhood in France?” Gabby asked.

Whitfield shrugged. “The late viscountess, his mother, was French, and Westhope maintains a close relationship with her family. Dawson seemed to find the topic interesting.”

“That’s nice,” Isabel managed, her heart pounding in her ears.

“I suppose.” Whitfield glanced back to the box, a disgruntled look on his face. “Apparently his colt—I believe the beast is named Delano—was purchased from a breeder in Normandy.”

“Delano?” Gabby snorted. “It’s a fine name, but surely they could have come up with something more fanciful.”

“I suppose that to French ears, Delano is fanciful,” Whitfield drawled.

A diverted smile lit Gabby’s face for the shortest of moments before she angled about, her bonnet hiding her expression.

Isabel chanced a glance at the duke, who was staring intently at Gabby, a deep V cut into the groove between his brows.

Licking her lips, Isabel considered this new information. She knew very little of the viscount but seemed to recall that he was active in Parliament. Perhaps Gideon had mentioned him. Whatever the case, with Westhope’s close ties to France and the government, it wouldn’t hurt for Isabel to learn more about the man. She felt as if she were running out of options, and she was determined to investigate any possible lead, no matter how scarce the suspicions.

Simply put, she needed to meet Viscount Westhope. And while the duke had not offered to introduce them, Isabel was not above manipulating him to do so.

“I would love to learn more about Delano. I haven’t selected a horse for the race yet,” she said, choosing her words with care to not arouse his suspicion.

It was not the duke who appeared interested in her words, but rather Gabby, who looked over her shoulder at Isabel with narrowed eyes.

“Indeed, Your Grace. Would you be so kind as to introduce us?” Gabby asked sweetly.

Whitfield’s shoulders sank, and after a short hesitation, he extended an arm in the direction of the race box. “Of course. Let us hope, ladies, that the footmen are serving lunch, for I fear I will require sustenance to survive the rest of this event.”

“Would you care for another dram of whisky? I’m certainly going to have one.”

Sirius chuckled, but nodded readily. “With the heat and the noise and the crowds, I would be very thankful to partake of your excellent selection again.”

With a slight jerk of his head, Viscount Westhope gestured to a footman, and the man approached instantly, extracting a small decanter from behind his back. As Sirius watched the amber liquid splash in his tumbler, his mouth watered.

Raising his full glass in salute to his host, he said, “To victory on the racetrack.”

“And not succumbing to sunstroke,” the viscount added with a jaunty laugh.

The liquor hit the back of his throat like a sharp jab, and Sirius ran his tongue over his lips to not let any drop go to waste.

“As fond as I am of my horseflesh, and Delano in particular, I despise race-day festivities.” Lord Westhope studied the liquid in his glass before turning his gaze to survey their surroundings. “I often feel as if I’m at a carnival instead of one of the premier races in England.”

“Are you telling me you have no interest in watching the clowns perform or the strongmen wrestle?” Sirius asked, flourishing a hand.

“None at all.” The viscount feigned a shudder. “If I could sit quietly off to the side in the shade with a glass of cold lemonade, no one aware of my presence, I would be content.”

A frown twisted Sirius’s mouth. “Then why invite a whole box full of guests to watch Delano race? It seems as if you could have spared yourself this…torture.”

“Torture indeed.” Westhope sipped his whisky, wincing slightly at the bite. “But I invite guests”—he waved at the expensively dressed people laughing, chatting, and eating behind them—“because a working horse farm needs investors. And if I want investors to go into business with me, I not only need a winning horse, which Delano is, but I need to treat them well.”

“Thus this circus show.”

“Precisely.” The viscount raised his glass to him.

Sirius leaned forward in his chair. “Does this mean you’re hoping I will invest in Delano?”

“Actually, no. Although I certainly would not turn you away if you’re interested.” Westhope barked a laugh. “You just seemed like a fellow who wouldn’t try my nerves or patience if we spent an afternoon together.”

Sirius chuckled in return. He may have been tasked with befriending Viscount Westhope, but it was not hard to like the man. Truthfully, Sirius felt a bit guilty that he hadn’t known how genuinely agreeable Westhope was until now. Until he had been compelled to socialize with him to determine what exactly his French connections were and whether they would be a problem. Britain certainly could not afford to have another traitorous peer working with the French.

Although to compare Westhope with Lord Tyrell, the earl who had abducted Ana María Fox with the intention of turning her over to his French coconspirators, was laughable. But Sirius knew better than to take people at face value. Hadn’t he learned that recently when his annoyance and mistrust of Isabel Luna had changed to admiration? The reserved Luna sister had turned out to be much more than the shy and irascible young woman he thought her to be.

Relishing his next sip of whisky, Sirius propped his elbow on the armrest. “I confess that this most excellent libation is one of the only things helping me to remain pleasant right now.”

“No clowns or puppet shows or trapeze performance for you, either?” Westhope cocked his head.

“Lord no.” Sirius frowned. “I would much rather be in my library, reading a good book.” He raised his glass to study it. “Preferably with a draft of this quality.”

“That sounds like a superior way to spend the day.” The viscount crossed one leg over the other as if settling in. “What book are you reading right now?”

For the next fifteen or so minutes, the men discussed the books they had read recently, before moving on to politics and the political upheaval in the United States following President Lincoln’s assassination. Sirius was not surprised that Westhope was well read and well informed, speaking knowledgeably about various topics, but the viscount also had no qualms about admitting when he did not know something. More than once Sirius cursed in his mind to find Westhope had given him yet another reason to like him.

But with a skill he’d honed over years of covert work, Sirius managed to direct the conversation to France.

“My mother always spoke fondly of the library at her parents’ estate in Lorraine. My great-grandfather had the presence of mind to hide the family’s extensive library collection before the Revolution, and all those books are enjoyed by my cousins even now,” Westhope shared, absentmindedly looking out over the crowd.

Sirius went as still as a fox at its first scent of a hare. This was just the sort of opening he had been hoping for.

He swirled the last remnants of his whisky around his glass. “Do you keep in touch with your family in France?”

“I do. I spent many summers there, running across the hills with my cousins.” Westhope slid his gaze to him. “And what of you? Are you close with your family?”

“No.” Taking in the viscount’s surprised look, Sirius smiled. “My apologies. I’ve just never been particularly close with anyone in my family. My mother died when I was quite young, and my father was more interested in playing the part of the sympathetic widower, winning the hearts of ladies and tarts alike, than spending time with his spare.”

“Ah yes, Harcourt is your brother.” Westhope took a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his chin and brow. “I’m terrible at remembering the familial connections within the ton.”

“Yes, the Earl of Harcourt is my older brother, although our relationship is more so that of distant relatives than siblings.”

“Families are an interesting bunch, are they not?” The viscount exhaled. “For instance, I exchange frequent letters with my cousin Jean-Charles even though he lives in the West Indies, and yet I haven’t spoken with my older sister Melody in nigh on two years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sirius murmured, and waited a beat before he said, “although I think it’s swell that you have a relationship with your cousin.”

“Yes, Jean-Charles and I have been quite close the majority of our lives, despite him growing up in France and me in England. But now, he tells me about—”

“I return to your gracious patronage, Westhope, along with two new guests.”

Sirius fought back the urge to shove Whitfield out of the box and into the dirt. He had finally embarked upon the line of conversation he’d been slowly, methodically leading the viscount toward, and his ass of a friend returned to the box at the most inopportune moment.

Rising to his feet, Sirius managed to relax his scowl into a mundane expression before he pivoted to his friend…only to come up short. Isabel Luna and her sister stood on either side of the duke, wearing matching looks of amiability. She met his eyes for a moment, and some of his ire seeped from his muscles. Sirius had glimpsed her earlier in the afternoon, but before he could greet Isabel and Gabriela, Lord Westhope had invited him to have a dram together.

In truth, Sirius had felt terrible when he’d penned a note to Fox to pass along the news that he’d yet to learn anything of note about the conflict in Mexico. His inquiries with several contacts had been unsuccessful, and when he’d called upon Lieutenant Colonel Green at the Home Office, the older man had been unable to meet with him. Numerous times, Sirius had replayed the memory of the frightened, lost look on Isabel’s face when she’d learned of her parents’ circumstances, and he hated how powerless he was to help.

But seeing her now was like drawing in a lungful of fresh, crisp air, and Sirius wondered at how quickly he was able to regain his composure.

“Your Grace, how clever of you to return with two lovely ladies,” Westhope said, raising his brows as if waiting for an introduction.

A hint of annoyance passed over the duke’s face so quickly, Sirius wasn’t sure if he’d truly seen it. “Lord Westhope, allow me to introduce to you Miss Isabel Luna and Miss Gabriela Luna. Ladies, this is Viscount Westhope,” Whitfield said, immediately gesturing with his chin to a footman for a drink.

The sisters sank into graceful curtsies, and after greeting Sirius in a friendly manner, their attention returned to the viscount. While Isabel smiled benignly but politely, Gabriela fluttered her lashes and said, “You’d do well to know, Lord Westhope, that I made a wager on your beautiful colt before I even knew he was yours.”

“Is that so?” A grin brightened the viscount’s face. “Well, I hope he runs a race worthy of your confidence, Miss Gabriela.”

“Am I to understand that he was bred and originally trained in France?” Isabel’s silvery voice was inquisitive, but her onyx eyes were intense. “I confess that I’m not much of a horsewoman, but I didn’t know the French were of horse racing acclaim.”

Westhope took a step toward her, his mien lighting with curiosity. “And I would not fault you for not knowing, Miss Luna. The French do many things very well. They make exquisite cheese, wine, and pastries, but you are correct that they have experienced little success on the racetrack. However”—he leaned forward, his hand cupped to his mouth as if he were about to impart a great secret—“I believe that will change with Delano.”

Isabel winged up a brow. “I admire your confidence, my lord. Tell me, what is it about Delano that has you convinced he’s the colt to change France’s track record?”

Sirius watched with his teeth clenched as Isabel and the viscount launched into a lengthy discussion of Delano’s many qualities, and how they boded well for his success. Eventually, Gabriela and Whitfield wandered away to eat and converse with others, but Sirius could not bring himself to leave with them. Instead, he stood like a silent sentry as Isabel and Westhope bantered, oblivious to his presence. When her pretty red lips stretched around a dazzling smile, Sirius barely managed to bite back a growl.

Pretty lips?Whatever was the matter with him? While Sirius may have just come to recognize Isabel’s striking and unconventional beauty, he had no reason to explain the spots that danced in his vision watching how Westhope leaned toward her. And why was it that this reserved wallflower seemed not at all awkward or uncertain of herself with the viscount as she had with any other man Sirius had watched her interact with?

Another truth waylaid Sirius in that moment: Isabel had not glanced in his direction once since their initial greeting. She’d given the viscount the entirety of her attention, and unease crawled under his skin. Was their tentative accord at an end? Was Lord Westhope deserving of all her interest?

Why did Sirius care? Surely he should be more concerned with the fact that his own discussion with Westhope had been interrupted, rather than the uncomfortable realization that Isabel and Westhope’s conversation bordered on flirtation. Surely the fact that the viscount showed an interest in her should be no concern of his.

Right?

“I’ve never seen quite that look on your face before.”

Jerking to awareness, his gaze collided with that of Whitfield, who now stood at his side. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The duke stared at him as he pushed his spectacles up his nose. “You look like you want to punch something.”

“Well, this whole event is quite trying.” Sirius tugged his hat further down upon his head, shielding his eyes from his altogether-too-insightful friend.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it.”

Sirius chanced a look at the duke, who had turned to observe Isabel and Westhope in conversation. When the viscount cupped her on the elbow to escort her toward two chairs situated nearby, Sirius curled his hands into fists.

“Oh yes,” Whitfield said again, glancing at Sirius, a single dark brow arched, “quite trying, indeed.”