“Shortly, in a few weeks or so. I feel ridiculously healthy.”
Isobel frowned. “What made you want to make the journey to London?”
“No reason,” her sister said quickly and reached to pour a fresh cup of tea, though she was impeded by her protruding stomach. Isobel grinned and took the teapot from her, refilling both their cups. “Can’t a girl simply want to see her sister?” Astrid asked.
“Not when she’s about to pop, no.”
The duchess chuckled, though she avoided Isobel’s eyes. “I’m weeks away from popping, trust me. I needed a break from the tedium of North Stifford. In any case, Pippa was late in arriving. I assume this one will be as well. I am in no danger, other than being in constant need to relieve myself.”
“Where is my darling niece?” Isobel asked. “Did she accompany you and Beswick?”
“No, though she was dreadfully disappointed to miss out. She’s missed you terribly.” Astrid peered at her over the rim of her teacup. “How has it been, besides your errant husband, of course? Have you seen anyone of note? Any familiar faces?”
It was a rather odd question. Who exactly did Astrid expect her to see? Isobel didn’t know anybody. She thought back to the time she might have glimpsed the Earl of Beaumont, and shook her head. It was no use bringing him up—it would only upset Astrid. Even if he were here, her sister had Beswick, and Isobel had the protection of Winter’s name, if not the man himself.
She sighed and thought about the rest of Astrid’s question. “The season hasn’t been what I expected. It’s exhausting for one. A never-ending carousel of balls and musicales and soirees, all designed to make a girl positively fed up. I miss the country and the fresh air, and being myself.”
“And yet, here you are, still in London,” Astrid pointed out. “When your own husband is telling you to go back to Chelmsford, which seems to be what you claim to want. So, which is it, sister? Roth or Chelmsford?”
Isobel resisted the urge to stick out her tongue in a childish gesture. Astrid had always been able to cut right to the heart of the matter. “I don’t know. Both, perhaps.”
Astrid canted her head. “Do you like Roth?”
“Sometimes, he’s affable.”
Her sister’s brows rose. “Affable?”
“Fine,” she mumbled. “On occasion, he’s clever and thoughtful, and I enjoy his company. Especially when he doesn’t know it’s me.”
Isobel blushed as her sister shot her a questioning look. She hadn’t meant to allude to her secret persona as Iz, but now the cat was out of the bag. And besides, it was probably a good thing, since Iz had supposedly worked for Beswick. In a few short words, she explained how Iz, the groom, had come to be, watching as her sister’s eyes grew into surprised orbs.
Staring at her, Astrid shook her head in mute fascination. “Sometimes, you astound me.”
Isobel bit her lip. “It wasn’t my fault. It just happened. I couldn’t well tear off the mask, dressed like a man wearing breeches in the middle of the dratted courtyard!”
“You could have confessed later.”
Isobel lifted a shoulder. “I liked it,” she admitted. “I liked him talking to me without those walls he surrounds himself with. I saw a side of him that I never expected.”
“Does he know about Lady Darcy?”
She shook her head hard. “No, and he will never find out!”
Concern flashed on Astrid’s face. “Secrets have a way of coming out, Izzy, you know that. It’s better to be truthful before they have a chance to hurt you or anyone you care about.”
“There’s rather little chance of that, isn’t there?” Isobel said, a wave of bitterness cresting through her. His words from the study haunted her: I never wanted to marry her in the first place. “Winter doesn’t care about me, and if he has anything to say about it, I’ll be cloistered away in the country, never to be heard from again. So my secrets are safe.”
“Quit being dramatic.”
“Well, you’re being entirely too pragmatic,” Isobel tossed back. “I thought pregnancy would have softened you, but you’re as waspish as ever.” A horrified sob broke from her at the hurt look on her sister’s face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. You’re right, of course, you’re right about everything.”
Astrid reached for her hand, and squeezed. “You need to talk to Roth. One on one, without anger and without agenda. Men are complicated creatures, and unless the question is put to them in a direct way, you will never have the answers you seek and it will drive you to folly trying to read his mind.”
She sniffed. “Clarissa has a theory about them having two heads for a reason.”
“That girl is outrageous, but she’s not wrong.” Stifling a snort, Astrid shook her head. “Talk to your husband. If you wish to go back to Chelmsford, I will be leaving in three days. You can accompany me and spend some time at Beswick Park. Pippa will be thrilled to see her favorite aunt.”
Isobel leaned in and gave her sister a side-armed hug. “Thank you, Astrid.”
“What are sisters for?”
…
Steering his mount through Covent Garden, Winter tried to tamp down the maelstrom of emotions coursing through him.
The fact that she’d overheard his cold explanation to Oliver and the duke dug at him. Tormented him. This was his fault. She wouldn’t have left if he’d been truthful…that this wasn’t just a marriage of convenience. It might have started out that way, but Isobel had come to mean something to him. The thought of her lying hurt in a ditch somewhere left him cold. Fearful. This was the Garden…not Mayfair. Isobel could be in real danger. The fright that swallowed him made him urge the horse to go faster.
Hell, what if he was too late?
Something inside of him faltered at the thought. Life without Isobel would be…desolate. Impossible to contemplate. No, no, no. He’d find her and all would be well. She would laugh about being clumsy and he would berate her for running off without a word. Isobel was alive. She had to be. The alternative was…intolerable.
Winter eyed the brace of pistols tucked into his saddle and moved one of them into his waistband. He’d also tucked a smaller one into his coat pocket and had a knife hidden inside his boot. If he had to take on bandits or ruffians, he wanted to be prepared. All he cared about was finding Isobel and making sure she was safe.
The sense of foreboding settled more firmly over his shoulders, even though his initial alarm was settling. Was she truly hurt? Or was it a ploy? If it was an accident and some Good Samaritan had indeed found Isobel—who seemed to attract trouble like honey drew bees—he would be grateful. But something about this didn’t seem right, and his sense of misgiving thickened the deeper he headed into the narrow, smelly streets.
Isobel wouldn’t have ridden here alone. She was smarter than that.
Then again, a handful of days ago, she had followed him here.
Hell.
Agitation made his muscles tight as he rode. The rookeries were full of rough men and criminals. He wasn’t afraid, but he wasn’t foolish, either. Winter’s hard reputation wasn’t limited to the drawing rooms of the ton. Those in Covent Garden knew enough not to steal from him or cross him in any way. But at this time of night when crime was rife, he had to be careful.
Gritting his teeth, he cantered ahead toward the address that had been written on the scrap of paper, feeling the eyes on him from various doorways and windows. Thank God he had the presence of mind to shout to Oliver to send for Westmore as well as the Runners if he didn’t return in short order with Isobel. Instincts on high alert, he came to a square with several gin-shops, a street or two away from Prue’s shelter house.
He normally took care to dress down whenever he visited the area, but today, he was in his usual, expensive kit. Winter was well aware that the lure of a few gold buttons could tempt even the most hardened thief, much
less a foxed one. He gave the gin shops a wide berth. His hand slid over the butt of his pistol beneath his cloak when he entered a small alleyway, unsurprisingly in the most dangerous part of the district. This was Russell Street, but it was uncannily quiet.
Too quiet.
His senses tingled, and Winter swung around only to dodge the missile swinging toward his face. Ducking, he slid from the horse. The smell of unwashed bodies wafted into his nose as three footpads surrounded him. They were huge, two of them holding what looked like makeshift cudgels. The other held a blade.
“Give us yer purse, guv, or we’ll slit yer throat.”
Winter grinned. “Is it going to be like that then?”
“Aye.”
“Come and take it, if you dare.”
They rushed him at once and Winter only had time to throw his fist out, catching one of them in the nose. Blood spurted as he howled, but Winter paid him no mind as he fought to stay out of reach of the other man’s knife. Energy coursed through him as he kicked his leg out, forcing one of the men to his knees, then he brought his elbow up into the man’s jaw. A sharp crack echoed through the alley. Thank God for the kidskin gloves protecting his knuckles. With another swift move, he disarmed the man of his blade, and kicked him square in the gut, sending him crashing into a pile of rubbish.
The skirmish with the three was over in seconds…but far from over as a handful more men surrounded him. This couldn’t be coincidence. It was too organized, and these men didn’t smell like the others. Had they followed him from Vance House? He would bet his fortune that these new arrivals were paid brutes. And given that none of them had guns, they were there to incapacitate, not kill.
Winter had no such compunction, however. He drew the small pistol from his coat and fired a warning shot into the air. To his surprise, they didn’t scatter. They were not only being paid, but they were being paid well enough to risk their lives.
By whom?
Before he could go for his second gun, a fist the size of a boulder came flying out of nowhere to crunch into his face. Pain exploded behind his eyes as he fought to defend himself, throwing up an automatic left hook that connected with bone. A scream was the only sound as his assailant stumbled backward. Winter shook his head, seeing stars. The momentary distraction cost him greatly as four bodies attacked him at once, taking him to the filthy ground.
He fought with everything in him, but he could barely find purchase. His feet kicked out, and one of the men uttered a savage oath as it connected. Winter could only register one thing—the man had cursed in fluent Italian, and only one person of his recent acquaintance hailed from the continent.
It could not be a coincidence.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sometimes, Dearest Friend, white knights are overrated. Be the storm in the night and stage your own rescue.
– Lady Darcy
“What do you mean he’s gone looking for me?” a dumbfounded Isobel asked Clarissa upon her return to Vance House. Though she’d visited only for a brief time with Astrid, her sister was right. She needed to talk to Winter once and for all. They were married, for better or for worse, and unless he had plans to dissolve said marriage, they had to come to some workable compromise. For everyone’s sake.
But she’d walked into utter chaos. Amidst shrieks from the twins that she was safe and well, Clarissa was in a fine froth. Her friend blew out a breath. “You told Violet you never should have come to London. I thought you’d gone back to Chelmsford!”
“I did need to clear my head,” Isobel said, “but I went to visit Astrid. Goodness, Violet, can you be any more dramatic?”
“I’m not dramatic!” Violet screeched.
“Your sister is in town?” Molly interjected at the same time. “Isn’t she with child?”
“When has that ever stopped Astrid? She claimed she wanted to get out of North Stifford for a spell, but my sister rarely does anything without a reason. She asked if I’d seen anyone familiar, which I thought exceedingly strange. I suspect her being here must have something to do with Beswick.” Isobel shook her head and focused her attention back on Clarissa. “Wait, what were you saying about Winter before—why on earth would he go looking for me?”
Violet’s eyes widened. “He received a note, Izzy, that said you had fallen and needed him to come to you.”
“But I didn’t send any note. And as you can see, I’m perfectly well.”
Clarissa let out a breath. “Clearly. Though he rushed out of here like a beast the moment he had an inkling you might be hurt. If I were a betting girl, I’d wager that man has feelings for you. Told Oliver to get Westmore and the Runners if he doesn’t come back in an hour.”
“It would reflect badly on the duke if anything were to happen to me,” Isobel said automatically. “He was motivated by duty, nothing more.”
“You didn’t see his expression. We did.” Clarissa ignored Isobel’s skeptical look even as the twins nodded. “In any case, I read the note. Number twelve Russell Street. That’s near Seven Dials, I heard him say, right before he took off at a breakneck pace on his horse.”
Isobel felt a beat of shame for leaving as she had without a word to anyone. He was probably out of his mind with worry, out there searching for her. She gathered her skirts. “I have to find him.”
But Clarissa grabbed her by the arm. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she hissed. “You can’t just waltz into Covent Garden. It’s dark and it’s rife with criminals and prostitutes.”
“And if it’s a trap, then you should tell the duke and let the men deal with it,” Violet put in, her face worried, but Isobel shook her head, her mind already made up.
“You’re going to go no matter what we say, aren’t you?” Clarissa asked.
Isobel set her jaw. “I can go as Iz. I won’t be recognized.”
“You’re still a lady venturing into a literal cesspool of sin and vice,” Molly said.
“I’ve been there before,” Isobel admitted. “It’s not so bad.”
During the day, a voice reminded her. It was well past dark now.
“What?” Clarissa bellowed. “When?”
She bit her lip. “I followed Winter there after that time we went to his house on Audley Street, when you went for an ice with Oliver. I was in the coach and was quite safe,” she added, when she caught sight of her scandalized expression. “Roth saw me home himself.”
It was a lie. She’d fled her husband’s presence after he’d basically given her leave to take a lover if she so wished. Even now, the memory of his cruel words and the sting of rejection caused her chest to burn. But of course, Clarissa knew her well enough to see right through her fib. She shot her a narrow-eyed stare. “You only call him Roth when you’re anxious about something.”
Isobel didn’t have time to argue. “Yes, I’m anxious that he’s walking into a snare of someone else’s making and that he’s going to be in trouble because of me.”
“Winter is a grown man, Isobel,” she said. “What are you going to do? If you want to help him, it is best to stay here and safe for when he returns. Oliver and the duke will send for the police.”
“I’m not going to sit here and do nothing!”
“We are women, that’s what we do.”
Isobel scowled. “Bite your tongue.”
With that, she marched upstairs and started disrobing, calling for her maids to unbutton the long row of fastenings at the back of the riding habit. Clarissa and the twins followed, relief on their faces. But it was short-lived when Isobel shot them a look filled with stubborn determination and called for her breeches. Her lady’s maid fetched the garment without comment.
Violet let out a cry. “If anyone discovers you’re not a man, what do you think will happen? I’ll tell you what. Nothing good!”
“I’ll be careful.” Isobel tried for a reassuring smile.
C
larissa cursed. “Good God, Izzy! Violet’s right. You can get hurt if you put one foot wrong. You think you can hide that face and body with some dirt and rags? Those people are born swindlers—they’ll see right through that flimsy disguise of yours. And it’s not just women—men there take a fancy to young boys, too.” She broke off, her chest rising and falling in agitation, and made a visible effort to calm herself.
Isobel was sure Clarissa was right to err on the side of caution, but there was no way she was going to sit back and do nothing while the police mucked around, figuring out what to do, and with every second that passed, Winter could be in danger. She knew it was risky, but she was well-versed in the persona of Iz. She would not be discovered. Her plan was simple. She would go to the address. If Winter was in trouble, she’d help him if she could, and then ride for assistance. And if he wasn’t, they’d return home, no worse for wear.
Easy as pie.
Pinning her lips, she tugged on her breeches and pulled on a ratty linen shirt, foregoing the usual binding of her breasts in wide bands of linen. She didn’t have time. The brown waistcoat and coat would have to do. A tweed cap hid her blond curls. Some soot from the fireplace smudged on her cheeks, neck, and brow completed the look. Within minutes of arriving in her chambers, she’d gone from lady to lad, from upper-class to urchin.
“There,” she said to her worried friends. “No one will recognize me. I’ll be in and out before you know it.”
Molly pursed her lips, frowning hard. “Can’t we say anything to stop you?”
“No.”
Dismissing the maids, Isobel walked over to her wardrobe and removed a case, whereupon she expertly loaded two pistols with shot and tucked them into her coat pockets.
“Isobel—” Clarissa began.
“It’s only as a precaution, don’t fret.”
But she could see that Clarissa and the twins were truly frightened. Their faces were ashen. “This isn’t Chelmsford, Izzy,” Violet whispered.
“I know and I’ll be careful, I promise.”
The Rakehell of Roth Page 23