The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,78
I saw it at the first ball we attended. You didn’t see Winter’s face at the exhibit, when he thought you were hurt. I’ve never seen anyone look at someone the way he looked at you…as though he’d almost lost something precious beyond measure. Anyone with a smattering of sense can see it.”
“If you say so,” Isobel said dubiously.
“I know so.”
Still, by the time they pulled up to Winter’s residence, Isobel’s heart had settled into her throat. She was in the middle of calming herself enough to climb out of the coach when Clarissa gave an absurdly shrill squeal.
“Oh, there’s Oliver! And he’s looking so much better.”
Sure enough, her brother-in-law was descending the staircase, his face wreathed in its usual dour lines. Didn’t the man ever smile? Isobel couldn’t fathom what Clarissa saw in him, but to each her own, she supposed.
Clarissa pushed past her. “I’ll get a ride with him. That way, you can take this coach when you’ve finished and not have to worry about me.”
“Clarissa, you don’t even know where he’s going.”
She winked. “Oh, I’m going to convince him to take me to Gunter’s for an ice.”
Isobel watched as a bold Clarissa sauntered over to Oliver, tucking her arm in his and batting her eyes up at him. Isobel half expected Oliver to give his usual reaction and reject her, but instead, she was astonished to see her stern brother-in-law actually crack a smile. Clarissa turned back with a jaunty wave, giving her a thumbs-up, and then they both disappeared into Oliver’s waiting coach.
Well, wonders would never cease.
Smiling, Isobel drew a breath, trying to drum up the courage to go to the door, when it opened and her husband strode out. Hat and cane in hand, Winter looked utterly delectable. She sucked in a breath at the windblown, gorgeous sight of him, and ducked down. He took no notice of the plain coach, instead intent on flagging down a passing hackney. She frowned—why wouldn’t he avail himself of his own horse or carriage?
“Follow that hack,” she told her coachman before she could change her mind.
“Yes, my lady.”
Her brain spun with scenarios. Where on earth was he going? It didn’t take long for her to guess that the tightly-packed, run-down houses they rode past were in Covent Garden or spot the seven-road irregular square that gave the warren its name, Seven Dials.
After a few more minutes, the coach rolled to a stop and she peered out of the narrow window to see Winter descending the hackney in front of what looked like an old church. Her heart dropped to her stomach as a beautiful blonde joined him. Recognition was slow to hit, but when it did, she felt it everywhere like a blow she couldn’t dodge.
Contessa James—the opera singer over whom he’d allegedly fought a duel.
She watched in horror as he kissed her cheek and the voluptuous singer flung her arms about his neck with a cry. Winter didn’t detach, but hugged her back, in full view of passersby, and judging from the wolf whistles, there were a few. After their lengthy embrace, they disappeared together into the building.
Isobel’s heart crumbled inside her chest even as she climbed down from the coach. Was it a bawdy house? Some kind of gaming hell?
“My lady,” the coachman warned. “It’s not safe here.”
“I’ll just be a minute.”
Ignoring his protests, she crossed the street to the well-kept building, only to nearly crash into her husband on his way out. “That was fast,” she said for lack of anything better to say.
His gray eyes widened with shock and then alarm. “Isobel, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” she bit out. Was that guilt slinking through his eyes? “Meeting the mistress you claim not to have? Contessa what’s-her-name?”
Speechless, he stared at her. “It’s not like that.”
“Then explain it to me,” she said, slamming her hands on her hips, uncaring of the curious crowd they were drawing. “Because it sure as hell looks like a bawdy house to me.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s a shelter. My shelter. I own it.”
“You own it,” she repeated dumbly, staring anew at the facade and seeing the plain bronze plaque affixed to the side of the door: Prudence Vance, In Memory.
“For my sister.”
…
“Your sister?” his wife repeated, pale blue eyes widening.
Winter blew out a sigh. “She died not too far from where you’re standing right now. We found her in an opium den. She had no place to go and ended