The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,103

orders, you know.”

Winter had scowled. “I didn’t need to rest that time Matteo rescued us from an angry mob in Venice, and I sustained three cracked ribs and a broken nose trying to save your arse.”

“A cracked skull is slightly different,” an eavesdropping Matteo had put in. He’d eyed Winter, who’d put one leg over the side of the mattress. “Don’t make me get Ludlow!”

A grudging Winter had replaced his leg.

Ludlow, Matteo, Westmore, and the lot of them would pay when he was fully mended. It chafed that Isobel hadn’t visited. Matteo as well as Westmore had been surprisingly close-lipped about his wife, other than to say she was recovering. However, he needed to see her for himself.

He’d sent countless messages to Vance House, but had received none in return. Oliver had also come by the day before, his shoulder bandaged and healing, though he’d been suspiciously unforthcoming as well, only to say that he was sure that Isobel was doing well, but he’d been busy of late with managing the duke’s estates. And no, Isobel hadn’t sent any messages for him.

Upon reflection, Winter frowned. Everyone’s responses seemed far too similar and much too carefully guarded. He sat up and swung his legs over the bed. Two days before he’d risen to use the chamber pot and to have a bath and the effort had exhausted him. He felt much better now, and besides, he had a purpose. Isobel. There had to be a reason why she hadn’t been to see him.

Iz like the verb.

He almost laughed out loud. Winter still couldn’t reconcile the fact that she’d been disguised as a stable boy all along and he hadn’t recognized her, but little things kept coming back to him at random moments. Like Isobel herself…when he’d noticed that she had smelled like honeysuckle one afternoon in the yard and he’d remarked upon it. The saucy tart had deflected it with a careless her perfume makes my nose itch.

Chuckling, Winter slid a pair of trousers on and found a clean shirt. He let out a breath as he tucked in his shirt tails and fastened the falls. Not bothering with a waistcoat or cravat, he shrugged into a nearby coat and found his boots. When he was done, he glanced at himself in the nearby mirror and winced. His gray eyes were bloodshot and a lovely purple bruise that was turning yellow flowered down one side of his temple. A few days’ growth of dark beard covered his cheeks. He grinned. Add in a gold earring and he’d look like a pirate who’d gotten on the wrong side of the law.

“Matteo!”

Several minutes later, the man waltzed in, a banyan flowing in his wake, and scrutinized his charge with narrowed eyes. “Going somewhere, my lord?”

“Yes, I need to see my wife. Have Ludlow summon the carriage.”

If he didn’t know Matteo so well, he would have missed the infinitesimal furrow of his broad forehead, but he didn’t. His suspicions heightened. “You’re still not fully recovered, my lord, to venture out. I must—”

“It’s been days,” Winter cut in. “As accommodating as I’ve been to the doctor’s draconian demands, I haven’t lost my ability to function. And unless you have something more to say, help me look presentable. I need to see her.”

Matteo hesitated. “You cannot, my lord.”

“Try to stop me. I’ll plow through you, Ludlow, and anyone else.”

“You cannot because she’s not in London.”

It took a moment for Winter to register the full measure of what he’d said. “Where is she?”

“I’m not sure.”

“When did she leave?” he asked.

Matteo canted his head. “The day after the attack.”

“So you’ve all been lying to me?” he shouted, his fingers curling in powerless rage. He wanted to rail and yell and pummel something—preferably all his so-called mates—but his body probably would not cooperate.

“The doctor said it was for the best, my lord,” Matteo said. “And it wasn’t precisely a lie. She is resting, only not in London. I’m sorry I could not tell you.”

Winter closed his eyes, irritation tightening his belly. Of all the bloody nerve. Not only had they sequestered him against his wishes, they’d all been in cahoots to keep him in the dark. And now Isobel was gone. She’d run from him because he’d been too blockheaded to tell her he loved her back.

“Lord Roth,” Ludlow said from the doorway. “His Grace, the Duke of Kendrick.”

Winter gave the butler such a look of fulminating fury that the man visibly paled and rocked back, his eyes widening