Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
M r. Trent was Isabella’s worst nightmare. She’d long since learned the benefit of knowing everything happening, about to happen, or even in consideration of happening about her. Knowing granted a measure of control over the chaos of life.
She knew nothing of the man sitting across from her in the heated confines of the coach. He might as well be shaped like a giant question mark or cliff that dropped off into sheer, dark nothingness below.
What he would do next—who knew.
What he was thinking—not a clue.
His joys and fears and irritations—great mysteries of the universe.
Usually, the rocking of any coach trip sent her right to sleep. Not now. Now she needed to know more. But she possessed one certainty—a direct attack would lead nowhere. She must be cunning.
Besides, she needed distraction. She’d been away for much longer than usual, and while her sisters knew she was attempting to solve the problem of Miss Haws, she’d given them nothing else to alleviate their worry should they begin to wonder where she was. They should worry. So should Isabella. Traveling in a coach, alone, with a strange man… Sh e courted what her brother attempted to prevent—complete ruination.
All worth it, though, if she could gain entrance to the Hestia, to the Haws’s suite of apartments, and to her mother’s damning letter.
At least she could trust the man across from her would not take advantage of the situation. If she knew one thing about him, she knew that. And if he was the type to take advantage of a woman, he would not take advantage of her. He rather despised her. But those two pebbles of information were not nearly enough.
She needed more. But the firm set of his mouth, the hard, unforgiving angle of his jaw—he would give nothing. Yes, she’d have to be cunning to dig up any information on this man.
“Shall we play a game?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well, that was quick. You didn’t even take the time to consider—”
“No.”
Two no’s in quick success. That told her something. He was the sort of fellow who would rather watch grass grow than have a bit of fun. Likely, he possessed no siblings. “It will make the time pass more quickly.”
Silence.
Waiting for an answer from him was like watching grass grow. “An easy game, I think. The alphabet game.”
A quick flick of his eyes in her direction before he set it back out the window. He’d opened the curtain a bit as the sun sank lazily toward the horizon. Clearly a creature of the night, preferring shadows to sun and the confines of windowless rooms to wide, open spaces.
“I’ll start,” she said. She tapped her chin. “Hm. An easy one. Apple. Your turn.”
Silence.
“Do you not know how to play? It’s quite simple. I give a word that starts with A, then you give one that starts with B, then me with C, and you with D, and so on and so forth. Now. You have B. Go ahead.”
His gaze settled fully on her, the lightest of green and glowing even in the coach’s dim light. “You’re serious? You wish to play a child’s game? ”
She squirmed but held course. “Here, I’ll help you this one time. Bumblebee.”
He scowled. “Childish.”
“Odd choice, but you understand the basic concept, I see. My word is Dog.”
“I’m not doing this.”
She leaned forward. “Do you find it… exasperating ?”
“I find it foolish .”
“ Good work, Mr. Trent.” She grinned. The exchange, so far, shed little light on the man. She knew only what she already knew—he was stubborn and serious, not given to good humor or cheer. “But I think I’m winning.”
“How in hell do you know who’s winning?”
“Oooh. Excellent, that. Let me see.” She tapped her chin again. “Instrument.”
With a sigh, he slumped the tiniest bit in his seat. “Jack.” White teeth flashed between his lips, which relaxed out of the thin line they’d been compressed into. Suddenly full, particularly the bottom lip… generous . Not a word to describe this man, but that lip… oh yes. That lip was the giving sort.
“Kiss.” A word like a whisper, a hushed sort of thing that sweeps across silence, barely reshaping it. Where had it come from, this thing that made the air thicker, difficult to breathe? She should not have kissed him at the inn. But she’d seen her sisters do it countless times, little pecks on their husbands’ cheeks, tiny shows of affection that spoke without words of the love they shared. And one word exchanged with Mr. Barlow had shown her what that man wanted from Mr. Trent. Not simply a marriage. A love match.
Love . An L word, but not one Mr. Trent was likely to use. Still, she held her breath in case her kiss led to some unexpected revelation.
“League.” What had she expected him to say? Love , truly? No. But also not league . Interesting. What word to follow that up with? “Mast, nautical, overboard—”
“Mr. Trent! You’re stealing my turns!”
“I’m moving the game along at a quicker pace so we can be done with it. ”
“If you don’t wish to play, you should have said so.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you”—she wiggled on the plush seat because Mr. Stoic had given himself away—“have been on a ship. Or you’re obsessed with ships. Either way… sailing, you—do tell.” He wouldn’t, of course.
“I grew up on and around boats. My father was a sailor. I joined him on The Paragon when I was twelve. As a cabin boy. Too young by most standards, but I had nowhere else to go, and the captain allowed it.”
Oh, here it was. Information. The man’s stern exterior unfolded just a bit, giving her a peek inside at the gears that made him tick. “Your father must be very proud of you. Or perhaps he disapproves of leaving the family business to strike out on your own.”
“He’s dead.”
Oh. Oh no. She’d prodded too much, and now she’d bruised. Herself as well as him. His voice sounded hollow, and she felt hollowed out. Nothing for it but to offer up a salve, hopefully. A connection between them that showed she understood his grief.
“Mine, too. And my mother. A carriage accident.”
The carriage wheels crunched over dirt and rock and chomped up the churning silence between them, and when he next spoke, he wasn’t looking at her, though he stared in her direction. His eyes had gone dark and blank and distant.
“Not entirely certain what took my mother. I was out playing one day when Pa was at sea. She’d been fine when I left. Singing. And when I returned…”
Isabella pushed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. She would not cry. Otherwise, she could not give him what he’d given. Information worked that way—a fair exchange.
“My older sisters and brother knew about my parents for three whole days before I found out. And not through them, but through two others. Two maids in the hallway, whispering but not quietly enough to avoid my hearing.”
He returned from whatever distant place he’d retreated to. “Your family should have told you.”
She shrugged. “They were young, too, unsure what to do. Overwhelmed, likely. Grieving, of course. They wished only to protect us younger ones. Unfair for you, too.”
“Not unfair. Simply life.”
Why was the air so thick around them? His lips had thinned once more, no longer kissable. More like steel bars set tight to keep everyone out. To keep her out. But there’d been a moment when he’d softened. How could she bring it back?
“Do not worry I feel pity for you,” she said. “You are too successful and likely too rich for my pity. The Hestia is proof of that. Your expansion plan is proof. Tell me, will you stop at procuring The Blue Sheep? Or will you send your tentacles out all over the country and beyond?” He seemed the ambitious sort.
“I will expand in every direction, to own an inn along every major road from London to Edinburgh, from London to Bath, from London to Dover.”
“My, you are ambitious. Do you not trust others to provide good service to the weary traveler?”
“No. Have you visited London's other hotels?”
The Hestia was not the only source of gossip. “Grenier’s is quite a nice hotel. As is The Clarendon and Grillon’s and—”
He grunted. “They deal in opulence and luxury and do not understand what makes a traveler comfortable. And for certain travelers, luxury is comfort. Hestia provides that well enough. But along with silks and velvets, fine woods and high ceilings, you also must have perfect cleanliness. And though it may seem a contradiction, a certain amount of clutter. Homes accumulate meaningful old things, new things, objects that mean something to the owners, mementos of their lives. I am keen to have the Barlows’ inn because they understand this, and that much of the work is already done. As you pointed out—the doilies.”
His description certainly fit the Hestia. Its trappings were luxurious, the materials used to make them fine and of high quality. But the mantels in each sitting room, in each parlor, in the coffee room and dining room—they were all scattered with little statues, tiny fancy clocks wound by the maids, small, framed watercolors, and ink drawings. Embroidered pillows made homes of chairs and sofas, and the rugs, though thick and new, appeared well-worn in places, as if friends often stopped by.
“Hestia. The goddess of the hearth,” Isabella said. “I should have guessed you to have a fixation with domestic trappings.”
“Have you noticed the hearth of every fireplace in Hestia possesses a small, decorative carving of that goddess?”
She frowned, trying to remember. It did not take long for image after image to click into place. “My goodness! So it is!”
“I chose Hestia because of its name, but I added the carvings, the tiny comforts. Those little details, they are why Hestia is better than the other hotels you named. And when I procure Barlows’ inn, its hearths will bear the same markings.”
“It’s very pagan of you. Offerings to a Greek goddess.”
“You clearly do not understand.”
“I do! I meant no insult. I find it rather… charming.”
“I’m glad it pleases you.” He looked surprised as he said it and looked away from her as red crept out of his cravat and across his jaw. When he spoke of the hotel, of his plans, he spoke with a surety and comfort he did not possess when discussing himself. Yet she’d learned just as much about him during his lecture concerning comfortable hotel accommodations as she had learned when he had spoken of himself, perhaps more so. He put all of himself into the Hestia, that much was clear.
It made her, quite suddenly, want to give more of herself to him, to tell him about those things that were dearest to her. But she could not. She could tell him nothing much at all because she courted scandal enough as it was, and scandal was what she was trying to avoid, that and her brother’s misery.
“I think,” she said, “even though you are clearly an unlikable human being, you are good at what you do. And though you should not be so demanding and high-handed when asking for help, I'm glad to help you.”
The muscles in his jaw twitched. “You think yourself an old henwife with magic in her bones, here to help me catch my fate? Will you gift me a pair of songbirds and golden saddle and— ”
“Birds and saddles and magic? I thought you a man of sense, so I’m entirely baffled.”
“An old story my mother used to tell me about a beautiful but neglected daughter. Her sisters steal her attention and leave her a spinster.” His voice settled in a smooth and steady rhythm, his dark, gruff tones rolling over each word. “But the old henwife dresses her in magic clothes and outfits her with magic animals, dappled with gems.”
“Jeweled animals?”
“Mm. And the prince falls in love and chases her when she runs. He catches her by the size of her foot.” He smiled, lazy and sweet and ripe with memory.
Mesmerizing. He seemed to slip away to some unreachable place, and she needed to follow him there, learn more about him to fill up the still-dark spots in her knowledge.
Nonsense was right. “You apply this story because I am the henwife and you the princess?”
He snapped up straight. “I said you think that is the correct relationship. It is not. Look. We have returned to London.”
And indeed, they had. The buildings were ever more congested, and the streets more crowded. They rode the rest of the way to the Hestia in silence, and when the coach entered the mews, Mr. Trent helped her down.
“I don't even know your given name,” she said as he helped her out of the coach. His hand gripped hers tightly, but the heat of his body, so close, made her feel as if she floated.
He released her hand, and she hit hard ground. No more floating. “I see no reason for you to have my given name.”
“Of course there is reason. I must play at being your wife at least once more. Yet I must Mr. Trent you constantly, adding a my husband or two for variety. It is not right. My mother and father used their given names, and my sisters and brothers-in-law use given names. I know not all married couples do, but I guarantee this is an important detail for your success. If you remember, Mr. and Mrs. Barlow are searching for—”
“A happy marriage, not just a marriage. Yes, so you’ve said.” The muscle in his cheek twitched. He knew she was right, and he did not like it.
“Come, then. Tell me your name,” she coaxed.
He started for the Hestia’s back door.
She scurried to catch up. “You are immovable sometimes, a perfect boulder.” She exhaled loudly. “Very well. I concede. If you tell me your given name, I will tell you mine.”
“You've already given me yours,” he grumbled. “Sarah.”
She grinned.
“You lied?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes it is necessary. And how is it any different from you denying me your name?”
“Because you could ask around and likely find mine out.”
“Does Mrs. Smith know it?”
“No.”
“And do any of the footmen know it?” When his cheek twitched but he offered no answer, she continued, “No, then. Does your valet know it?”
“No,” he ground out. “But my secretary, Mr. Poppins does. He will not tell you, however.”
“Well, then, I could not ask around and find out, could I? Now, the question that really matters, Mr. Trent, is whether you wish to know my true given name.”
“What is it?” he snapped.
“Promise you'll reciprocate.”
“My name is Rowan. Rowan Trent.”
He’d answered so quickly, as if he wanted her name as much as he wanted that inn.
It made her feel floaty again.
And what a terribly delightful name. It quite fit him. It would sound good on the tongue, feel good parting the lips. Rowan . Yes.
“I’m Isabella.” She spoke without thinking, her voice a bit hazy and dreamy.
“Huh.”
The wind whistled to a stop again, dumping her back to earth. “Do you find my name questionable? ”
“Not at all. In fact, I find it exponentially more appropriate. Sarah is too plain a moniker for a sidhe like you.”
They stared at one another—Rowan and Isabella. She had to lift her chin to look into his face, and she could not but think of that moment earlier in the coach, when she’d been thrown against him and their bodies had met and hers had tried to melt, to learn the feel of him better, and for a moment, she’d thought he might melt, too. He’d leaned closer like he had a new goal he intended to achieve with all possible speed and dexterity.
She might have learned if her lips had become his goal or not if she’d remained pressed so close to him. But she’d run, bouncing backward and reminding herself of her own goal—pretend, gain entry to the Hestia, steal the letter, save Samuel.
Now, in the alley behind the Hestia, she felt drawn to him once more, so much so a foot slipped out of her control and shifted his way. At the same time, he moved toward her, mirror movements that brushed his boots against her skirts. His green eyes fluttered, found a new home just above her chin. He might kiss her… if she let him.
She stumbled backward, rubbing her palms up and down her arms. He closed his eyes, shook his head. Then he opened the back door and held out an arm to her. “You’ve earned your entry.”
Yes, she had, and she should not dawdle or allow herself to become distracted. She swept for the door, and he followed.
She stopped just inside. “You’re off to your apartments now?”
“I thought I’d help you retrieve your belongings.”
“I need no help.”
“Still. I’d rather escort you.”
“Scoundrel!”
“Perhaps I am. But you are clearly a thief.”
“A thief! You have very high opinions of me.”
“I know little of you. What else am I to think?”
He would not leave her alone this night. She stepped back outside. “I should go home. It’s much too late. My family will worry.”
“I’ll escort you.”
“No!” Had there ever been a more bothersome man than this one ?
“It is getting late, therefore it is getting dangerous. I will escort you.”
She grabbed at the first excuse that came her way. “I do not wish you to see my living circumstances.” True, actually.
“Ah. Your pride will be pricked. But you have said you do not want for money, so it cannot be so bad.”
Would she have to beg him? She dropped her head back with a groan. It popped an idea into her head, and she pointed toward an upper window of the Hestia and gasped. “There’s a child half out the window!”
“What?” Mr. Rowan Trent growled, storming outside, spinning around, and cranking his neck back to see…
Nothing. He’d have seen nothing. Because there was no child.
And Isabella was gone, darting between two coaches and running alongside them, hidden and already out of breath. Not from the running. But from the stubborn, dark well of a man who, twice now, she’d thought might kiss her.
Her name rang out behind her. “Miss Crewe!” Loud and rough with rage.
But still she ran because nothing seemed sure now. She’d thought just this afternoon that a quick visit to the Hestia would solve her family’s troubles. She’d thought after that a brief jaunt to Stevenage would procure her ends. None of it true now because Mr. Rowan Trent would haunt her every move. And once he learned she planned to steal something from one of his guests, he’d make sure she never entered the Hestia ever again.
Because if she knew anything about the man now, it was that he’d protect his hotel as she protected her family—with tooth and nail and every bloody breath in his body. And he would not hesitate to tear Isabella to tatters.