Isabel and the Rogue

Chapter 7

After canceling his evening plans, and in no mood to don his jovial mask when he was feeling anything but, Sirius paced about his library for most of the evening. His mind replayed his conversation with Lord Westhope earlier that afternoon, and what Isabel’s taunting expression could mean. Christ, that woman seemed hell-bent on finding trouble, and he really should just let her have at it.

Thankfully, Sirius eventually found a book to hold his attention. With a boot propped on his desk, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingers, and his thoughts now occupied with the tale of a silly Frenchwoman squandering her life by always wanting more, Sirius did not note the knock on the study door for several moments.

Swallowing a sigh, he slid his finger in between the pages to mark his place. “Yes,” he called.

The door opened to reveal Stanley, his butler. “There’s a man at the back door.”

Closing the book with a thud, Sirius set it aside and rose to his feet. “Did you tell him he’s welcome to visit at the front door?”

“I did, sir.” Although Stanley’s expression and tone changed not one whit, he somehow managed to infuse his words with censure. “But the fellow insisted on meeting you in the back garden.”

Sometimes pride was all some men had. Sirius repeated this mantra as he made his way through the darkened halls and down the servants’ stairs to the kitchens. Cook had already stirred the fire in the stove and put a kettle on the grate, and he flashed her a smile of thanks as he passed. As Sirius stepped through the back door, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the scant lighting in the garden before he spied a tall figure near the gate. He made his way in that direction without a word, gravel crunching under his boots. Coming to a stop several paces away, Sirius planted his feet as he linked his arms behind his waist. He wanted to appear approachable and friendly, but nighttime visits also warranted discretion.

“I’m Captain Sirius Dawson. I was told you asked to speak with me.”

The man snatched the hat from his head and pressed it to his chest, swaying back and forth on his feet. “Wilson mentioned you help former soldiers. That true?”

Swallowing, Sirius nodded. “I try.” Whether it was helping veterans from the Crimea, or any of the other conflicts the military had participated in, he did his best to help the men find employment or lodgings or even access to medical care. A steady stream of former soldiers found their way to him, referred by other men he’d helped. It wasn’t something he advertised, but nor would Sirius turn away a man who needed assistance. Almost every person he employed at Dancourt Abbey was a former soldier or the family member of a former soldier, the old nunnery providing the idyllic place to recover and thrive. The Crown did so little to help those who had protected it, whether on English shores or abroad, and Sirius considered his efforts one small way to atone for having returned when so many others did not.

“Me name’s Jack. Jack O’Brien. Rifleman, Fifty-Sixth Regiment.”

Sirius bit back a whistle. The Fifty-Sixth’s most notable action was in the siege of Sevastopol, where they earned great honors. That a soldier of the Fifty-Sixth needed his help was a travesty because the allied forces should have rewarded him as a hero.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. O’Brien.” Sirius looked over his shoulder to spy Stanley lingering on the back steps. Cook must have refreshments prepared. “Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea? We can speak further in some comfort.”

The Irishman shuffled on his feet for a moment, glancing down before he finally nodded. “I’d be obliged.”

With a nod, Sirius led the way back up the walk, his mind now absorbed with how he could assist O’Brien. He was thankful for the distraction.

Isabel kicked off her slippers and fell face-first onto her bed, a multitude of emotions churning through her blood.

After almost two weeks of receiving no word from her parents, the sisters had been summoned to have breakfast with Tío Arturo, who had news from Mexico, at his residence on Halkin Street in Belgravia. Over a meal of fried huevos, frijoles, bacon, sausage, and fruit, her uncle read aloud the letter he had received from their mother. Isabel had linked hands with Gabby and Ana María as her mother’s missive explained that Presidente Juárez and his officials had found refuge in northern Mexico, but she did not specify where. Thankfully, they were safe if a bit exhausted. Gabby had promptly burst into tears at the news, and Isabel envied her ability to openly express her feelings. Ana María had wrapped Gabby in an embrace…and Isabel had longed to join them. She had ached to be held by the two people in the world who understood the terror they had experienced as they waited for word of their parents’ safety. To give comfort and receive it in return.

But Isabel did not ask, and although Gabby had clung to her hand as if it were a lifeline, neither she nor Ana María had made any attempts to embrace her. Her rational mind told her this was because they did not wish to make her uncomfortable. Isabel appreciated their regard…but if she had ever longed for an embrace, it was in that moment.

Their mother’s letter ended with her customary prayers for her daughters, and Isabel could almost hear her voice as Tío Arturo read the words. There was no inscription from their father. Not that Isabel had expected one. The only time Elías Luna deigned to write his daughters was when he had reprimands to impart or instructions to give. Isabel counted herself lucky that he seemed to forget about them the rest of the time.

They left their uncle’s house in lighter spirits than when they had arrived. After saying goodbye to Ana María and Gideon, Isabel and Gabby returned to Yardley House, where they were granted a short respite before they departed yet again for a picnic. Lady Vale was known to be a consummate gardener—although Lady Yardley confessed on the carriage ride to Vale House that the countess did not actually garden herself but hired others to do it for her. “As if Eleanor would ever pull a weed or touch a ladybird willingly,” Lady Yardley had scoffed, much to Gabby’s delight.

But even the viscountess and Gabby could admit that the gardens at Vale House were impressive. Terraced flower beds overflowing with blooms of every shape, size, and color snagged the eye wherever one looked, and the air buzzed with the sound of bees and the chirp of birds that flitted here and there, snatching insect morsels where they could. Isabel quickly learned to be careful when she sniffed a blossom, as an older gentleman was stung on the nose by one such startled bee.

The terraced steps eventually gave way to cobblestone pathways that led through a small grove of oak trees to a grass clearing on the river Thames. Strands of creeping thyme and the occasional wildflower sprouted in between the stones, while others were hugged close by springy moss, giving the pathway an otherworldly feel.

Isabel had lingered at the back of the group as they meandered down the trail, determined not to be rushed as she filled her senses with the beautiful environment. At one point on the walk, Isabel had lingered in a patch of sunlight stealing through the heavy boughs above, her face turned toward the heavens and her eyes closed. So much about her life in London overwhelmed her. Whether it was the busy social schedule, the feeling of constantly being under a microscope, or the always present pressure to find something—anything—to help Mexico end this cursed occupation. Her stress had only been magnified in the time since they learned of their parents’ dangerous flight, and Isabel had not been able to regain her footing.

Yet in that moment, with her face bathed in sunlight, Isabel had been at peace.

That peace did not last long, for lunch proved to be a noisy affair. Thick cotton blankets were spread out over the lawn, and footmen served mini ham sandwiches, cold egg salad, roasted chicken, and an assortment of root vegetables. Isabel choked down her meal as fast as was polite so that she might wander through the oak grove by herself again. Much to her frustration, though, she had been roped into a conversation with Lady Vale. The countess had heard talk that Viscount Westhope was paying her court, and the older woman had plied Isabel with questions that left her prickly with embarrassment. Isabel had done her best to deflect, stating that she and Lord Westhope were merely friends.

“I heard he’s come to call several times.” The Countess of Vale had looked at Lady Yardley with a twinkle in her eye. “Have you ever heard of a man calling so frequently on a young woman he considered a friend?”

Isabel had sent the viscountess a dirty look when she stated she had not. And Gabby proved no help, for she regaled the elderly countess with stories of Lord Westhope’s attentions toward Isabel, and her head had been filled with daydreams about pushing Gabby into the Thames.

Thus, the conversation about Lord Westhope and the time they had spent together over the last fortnight was on Isabel’s mind as she weaved her way through the oak grove at Vale House, and later as she dressed for the Westhope ball. She had never had a man pay her any particular regard. With a charming older sister and a vivacious younger sister, Isabel was used to being overlooked.

As she considered her reflection in her dressing table mirror now, Isabel thought of her abuela Sesasi. Isabel’s earliest memory was of her. She couldn’t be certain of the setting, for in her memories it was an obscure, colorless space. But she would have recognized her abuelita anywhere. Perhaps because Isabel saw so much of her whenever she looked in the mirror.

Rarely had Isabel and her sisters visited Abuela Sesasi at her home in that small mountain village in Michoacán, for their father was loath to be away from the capital city. Yet some of her happiest memories had been in her abuela’s casita nestled in the terraced steppes her tíos farmed. In the mornings, Isabel would awaken to the scent of flor de mayo in the thick, moist air, and she knew it would be a good day. Abuelita Sesasi had taught her how to prepare tortilla dough and the delicious champurrado that she always craved, as well as how to mix the dyes for the rugs she weaved expertly on her handloom. And every night before bed, she would brush out Isabel’s hair. She could close her eyes and still hear her abuela whisper to her in Purépecha, “You have my hair, mi hijita, but it’s so much more beautiful on you.”

The words, uttered with so much affection and love, came back to Isabel now as she stared into the mirror as her maid, Lupe, arranged her hair. And it wasn’t just Abuelita’s hair that Isabel inherited from her, she noted. It was her warm olive-toned skin. Her broad nose. Her high cheekbones. Her deep, dark eyes. Isabel knew she’d inherited her bow-shaped lips, as well as her height, from her mother, for Abuelita had been a tiny thing, but it was readily apparent to anyone who looked which side of the family Isabel favored.

Considering the long glances she received when she entered a room, and the arched brows and pinched lips that followed, it was easy to see how some people found fault with her features.

After Lupe had quit the room, Isabel studied her reflection in the mirror again. Gabby had suggested she wear her new gold ball gown, explaining that it flattered her dark skin. Isabel had not thought much of her comment…until she considered herself in the gown now. The dress sat off the shoulders, highlighting the sweep of her collarbone and making the line of her neck seem delicate. The bodice narrowed to a belted waist, a detail she adored. The skirt’s tulle overlay was stitched with gold ivy that crawled up and down the material and almost appeared to stretch and grow as she twirled about. With her pinned updo displaying her array of corkscrew curls, adorned with a single white feather, even Isabel could admit she appeared graceful. Perhaps even pretty. Tilting her head to the side, she admired the small gold hoops Lupe had fastened in her ears, the understated elegance exactly to her taste.

For the first time in her life, Isabel fancied she looked like a woman who could hold the attention of a viscount. A woman who deserved compliments and praise for her beauty. Oh, Isabel knew her looks could never be compared to those of Gabby, who turned heads with her rich mahogany tresses and large hazel eyes that were framed by thick, inky lashes. But in this gold gown, Isabel felt bewitching and mysterious, like Xaratanga, the Purépecha goddess of the moon. Isabel knew she was being a bit dramatic, but for once she didn’t care.

An errant thought brought her up short: What would Captain Dawson think of her in this gown? Would he ask to dance with her again? Would he agree that the gold color seemed to illuminate her skin?

Sucking in a breath, Isabel slashed her hand through the air. Why was she concerned about Dawson when Lord Westhope had already made his interest clear? The viscount was a man of discernible tastes; he was well read and intelligent, and most importantly, Lord Westhope made her feel intelligent and interesting. Plus, he was handsome…even if his gilded looks could not compare with Captain Dawson’s fiery beauty. But why then did her heart not race like a runaway carriage when she saw the viscount? Why did the mere thought of Captain Dawson seeing her in this gown make her skin tingly and hot?

Turning from the mirror in a swish of gold skirts, Isabel reached for her reticule and ivory gloves, determined to put all thoughts of handsome men from her mind. Tonight would be a key opportunity for her, for she would be granted access to Lord Westhope’s home. To the rooms in which he kept his correspondence. His records. His deepest secrets. While the viscount had been forthcoming about his French relatives, there was a possibility one of them had passed along information to him, no matter how innocent. And if they had, Isabel was determined to find it.

Thirty minutes later, Isabel worried the inside of her cheek as she waited with Lady Yardley and Gabby in the receiving line to meet their host. Westhope House was teeming with guests, the din of their chatter paired with the music emanating from the ballroom making her tense and a tad off-balance. Still, Isabel tried to push aside her discomfort and focus on Lord Westhope instead. The viscount had no female relative to serve as hostess for him, so he stood at the end of the queue by himself and Isabel studied him, her heart heavy that he would be alone. For much of her childhood she had felt alone. The odd duck sister struggling to be seen between two lovely swans. But now, her sisters owned her heart, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do to ensure their happiness. Their safety. Even if it meant sneaking in and out of strangers’ personal spaces.

And if she were to find incriminating information in Lord Westhope’s belongings, was she brave enough to use it? Isabel liked to think she would be, but she truly admired the viscount. He had been nothing but generous to her, and his attentions had boosted her confidence. If he were to ask to court her in earnest, would she consent? She fidgeted with her reticule as she scrutinized him. Lord Westhope’s comely face was brightened by a smile as he greeted an elderly couple, and it reminded her that while the viscount was handsome, wealthy, and titled, he was also kind. Isabel had been judged by her own looks her entire life, and she would never dream of doing the same to someone else.

And yet despite all the positive things stacked in Lord Westhope’s favor, Isabel could not ignore the lack of excitement she felt when she was with him. She enjoyed his company and counted herself lucky to have won his regard and respect. But could she love him? Would she be as keen to spend time with him if he didn’t have information she wanted? Isabel frowned as she wondered if her concerns even mattered when her heart urged her to return to Mexico.

Before Isabel had much time to ponder that question, they reached the front of the queue. The viscount greeted Lady Yardley warmly, complimenting her on her beauty and inquiring after Dove. It was the perfect question to ask the older woman because the viscountess did so love to talk about her little dog. Next he greeted Gabby, and exchanged some lighthearted banter with her.

Isabel forced herself not to bite her lip when it was her turn to greet him, but he made it difficult. His green-eyed gaze fixed on her as a large grin spread over his face. Was he truly so delighted to see her?

“Miss Luna, you are a vision,” he declared, his eyes bright. “You look like an angel in that gown.”

Unable to help herself, Isabel grasped the folds of her skirts and showcased the lace carefully stitched to the hem of her gown. “Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Westhope continued to stare at her, until a throat discreetly cleared nearby. The viscount jolted a bit, and hastily reached out to grab Isabel’s hand. “Has your supper waltz been claimed yet?”

She almost laughed aloud. No one had ever secured her supper waltz. Instead, Isabel shook her head.

“Will you save it for me?” the viscount asked.

Isabel nodded again.

“Excellent,” he exclaimed. Raising her hand, he kissed the air over her knuckles. “I look forward to it, Miss Luna.”

In a bit of a daze, Isabel walked away to rejoin her sister and Lady Yardley.

“I swear, that man’s whole face lights up when he sees you,” the viscountess said as she led them toward the ballroom.

“If you marry Lord Westhope, Isa, you’ll be a viscountess just like her ladyship.” Gabby smirked as Lady Yardley looked back at her. “If both of you were in attendance at a dinner, who would enter first? Please say it would be Isa.”

“Gabby, stop antagonizing her ladyship,” Isabel murmured as they stepped into the ballroom. Her shoulders stiffened for a heartbeat, but she willfully turned her gaze about the space, identifying all the exits of the room. She would investigate where each corridor led soon.

Lady Yardley was greeted almost immediately by a group of matrons, and she walked away with them, chattering happily. Gabby wrapped her arm around Isabel’s and led her around the edge of the ballroom, smiling benignly at the people who called out greetings to her.

“Goodness, I hope he doesn’t ask for a dance,” Gabby murmured into her ear about the Marquess of Clare as he passed. “I’m convinced that man doesn’t know what tooth powder is.”

“A waltz is a long time to spend with a foul-smelling man breathing down on you.”

“Indeed.” Gabby shifted her hazel eyes to the other side of the room. “Do you know if Ana and Gideon will be here tonight?”

“They won’t be.” Isabel dipped her head at an elderly countess as they passed. “They’re dining with Lord and Lady Montrose.”

“Oh, that’s right. Something to do with Gideon’s work, yes?”

Isabel snorted. “Have you forgotten that Gideon and Montrose continue their work to sniff out all remnants of the slave trade?”

“Give me some credit, Isa.” Gabby bumped her shoulder into hers. “I remembered, but Gideon’s abolitionist work is not his only work. He champions a variety of causes. It’s something I’ve always admired about him.”

“Me, too,” Isabel echoed. She was immensely fond of her brother by marriage, not just because he always treated her with respect, but because he practically worshipped the ground Ana María walked on.

“Do you suppose if we’re to stay in England for several more years that you would be open to marrying an Englishman?”

Isabel frowned down at her sister. “Honestly, I never thought I would marry.”

“Why not?” Gabby asked with a matching frown.

She nibbled the inside of her cheek, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “I suppose I’ve never had romantic notions. Father certainly made it clear he didn’t intend to dangle me as bait to his political friends, and when did we have an opportunity to meet gentlemen outside of the events he allowed us to attend?”

“We didn’t. We weren’t allowed to go anywhere unless he deemed it so.” Gabby exhaled noisily through her nose. “And once again I’m jealous of you. Father most definitely had a gentleman in mind for my husband. Probably a viejito with more white hairs than not.”

Isabel didn’t dare argue that assertion. Their father had made it abundantly clear that he possessed little care for his youngest daughter. While Elías Luna complained about Isabel’s behavior on occasion but mostly left her to her own devices, he outright ignored Gabby.

Isabel pulled Gabby to face her. “Mi amor, you know you’re worth far more than he ever gave you credit for.”

A flush of pink spread across the crest of her cheeks, but rather than dropping her gaze, Gabby laughed. “I know. I’ve always known. Which is why it always made me so angry when—”

“Good evening, ladies.”

Grimacing for a moment, Gabby eventually spun around in a cloud of silk. “Lord Belfry, how do you do?”

“Much better now that you’ve arrived.” Sliding his gaze to Isabel, the teasing smile melted from the baron’s face. “Miss Luna.”

Isabel barely managed not to roll her eyes.

As if she were simply a part of the wallpaper, Baron Belfry conversed and flirted with Gabby for several long minutes. While her sister repeatedly tried to include Isabel in the conversation, the baron was soon joined by a trio of gentlemen friends, and Isabel was all but pushed aside as the men flanked Gabby in a semicircle. The casual disregard would have stung if she didn’t see the outrage coloring every line of her sister’s face.

Still, Isabel chose to recognize it as the opportunity it was, for she certainly had no desire to participate in Baron Belfry’s inane conversation. As it was, Gabby appeared bored to tears. Thankful for the reprieve, Isabel waved a hand at her sister and melted into the crowd.

Isabel made her way to the refreshment table, where she poured herself a glass of lemonade. Pivoting about, she pretended to drink while she studied the room. Several grand archways ran the length of the space, serving as a barrier between the dance floor and the sitting area, where groups sat at tables chattering and eating a grand assortment of food laid out and meticulously maintained by the Westhope staff. A trio of double doors opened to a large veranda, and Isabel spied several couples in conversation in the cool early summer air.

Turning, Isabel pondered her next moves. The ballroom was designed in an oblong shape, and she noted four different corridors leading from the ballroom, including the foyer guests had taken to enter the room. Isabel nibbled her lip as she decided where to start first. Considering Westhope actively voted his seat in Lords and served on various committees, she imagined that the viscount’s study would probably be located near the front of the house. Much easier to welcome guests, she thought. Taking a sip of lemonade, Isabel studied the first corridor, making note of who came and went from it. It appeared to be less used by guests than the two exits located at the other end of the ballroom. Surely that meant those led to the retiring rooms, so Isabel would start her search with the first corridor.

Finishing her drink, Isabel set her glass aside and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. Abruptly, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Was she being watched? Isabel sucked in a breath as she casually swept her gaze over the guests. No one appeared to be paying her any attention, and Isabel exhaled her agitation. She was always nervous before she embarked on a “scouting mission,” a term Fernando used in his letters, and she was doubly so on this night because she would be searching the personal belongings of a man she considered her friend.

And yet, it must be done. Squaring her shoulders, Isabel walked toward the first corridor, a barely there smile on her lips. She returned the greetings of several people she passed, but successfully reached the darkened hall without attracting undue notice. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure no one was watching, Isabel stepped into the darkness, allowing her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. As the path ahead came into focus, Isabel knew she had chosen correctly. Surely if this corridor was meant for guests, the viscount would have provided adequate lighting to brighten their way.

Grasping her skirts, Isabel moved swiftly down the hall, peeking into the various rooms as she passed them. When she pushed open the last door on the right, her gaze landed on a broad mahogany desk, and a smile crossed her face.

Stealing into the room, Isabel shut the door as quietly as possible, locked it, and leaned back against the wood. A single lamp burned on a side table in the corner, providing enough illumination for Isabel to take in the space. Bookshelves lined every wall, from the marble-tiled floor to the paneled ceiling. There were even bookshelves underneath the two beveled windows that looked down on the street below. Isabel’s hands twitched to investigate Lord Westhope’s collection. Although he had claimed to have spent a good deal of time and money building up his library, Isabel had not appreciated the endeavor until looking at it now. She’d like nothing more than to peruse the shelves, find a book to her liking, and curl up in one of the armchairs situated near the fireplace. But she did not have time for personal pursuits, for there was no guarantee that Lord Westhope would not come looking for her. Isabel figured she had about twenty minutes to search before her absence would be noted, and she refused to waste any more time.

With a silent exhale, she made her way to the desk. It was a cheerful space, with framed photographs, playful knickknacks, and a stack of books that included a folio of Shakespeare’s sonnets. A quick glance at the stack confirmed the rest were all rather bland books about architecture or art history, genres Lord Westhope had indicated a taste for.

Inconveniently, Isabel thought of Captain Dawson. Of the night he found her in his study at Dancourt Abbey and sent her back to bed with East Lynne. He had said it was scandalous, and it proved to be just that.

But she couldn’t think of the captain now. Definitely not now.

Crouching, Isabel made quick work of the lock on the center drawer, and slid it open with curious eyes. At first glance, nothing stood out as noteworthy, and Isabel pushed aside a quill and pen, a stack of blank letterhead with the Westhope crest displayed prominently at the top, as well as a letter opener with the crest imprinted into the brass. Isabel couldn’t help but roll her eyes at such a thing. It was definitely something her father would do with the Luna family seal.

Angling her head to peer in the back of the drawer, her breath stuttered when she spied a stack of letters neatly tucked into the corner. Ignoring how her hands shook, Isabel grasped them and pulled them out. The return address was in Martinique, and the seal on the back indicated it was from the governor’s office. Was this correspondence from the cousin Westhope had mentioned in passing? Isabel’s heart threatened to lurch from her chest.

With trembling fingers, she unfolded one sheet of parchment and quickly read its contents. It was an innocuous piece of correspondence that communicated everyday events and observations. Isabel refolded it and grasped another letter, her eyes quickly scanning the contents. Soon she had read through the entire stack, learning nothing of importance, but her confidence was bolstered. Lord Westhope and Jean-Charles, his cousin, communicated frequently, so surely Jean-Charles was bound to share tidbits about French movements in the region. Right?

Battling conflicting emotions, Isabel carefully returned the letters to their spot in the corner of the drawer…but before she could slide it closed again, the door to the study opened in a whoosh, revealing Captain Dawson standing in the entry.

Isabel jumped back, colliding with the desk chair and almost tumbling to the floor. At the last moment, her hand caught the corner of the desk and she was able to right herself. With panic swelling in her throat, she watched as the captain quietly closed the door behind him, turning the latch. The sound of the tumbler locking into place seemed to echo through her chest.

Captain Dawson advanced several lazy steps toward where she trembled behind Lord Westhope’s desk, his face devoid of expression. However, as he came closer, Isabel realized that anger flashed like blue fire in his eyes.

“Miss Luna, this is your one chance to tell me what you’re doing in here, or so help me, I will tell Westhope where I found you.”