The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,82
faking an affected voice and throwing her hand against her forehead. “What better place to see and be seen, darling. It is nearly five, the fashionable evening hour, after all.”
Husbands aside, Isobel did need to get out of bed. Clarissa was right. She needed the fresh air, and she was sure that Clarissa needed a break as well. The twins, too. Being in mourning had to be hard. Isobel had been so caught up in her own drama that she hadn’t even thought about how Molly and Violet might be adjusting to London, considering it was improper for them to attend too many social functions.
The last time she’d spoken to Violet, the woman had been complaining about the never-ending amount of needlepoint she’d been doing to stave off boredom. Guilt sluiced through Isobel. Lately, she avoided anything that involved a pair of knitting needles or embroidery hoops, but knew someone like Violet would also abhor the tedium. She should have been spending more time with the twins.
“Good idea,” she said to Clarissa. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. Get the twins and we’ll make an outing of it.”
It didn’t take long for her to have a quick slipper bath and get dressed in a navy riding habit with silver buttons and matching trim. It was one of the fashionable new pieces that she had commissioned from Madame Pinot.
“You look smart,” Clarissa said with an approving smile when Isobel emerged from her bedchamber. Clarissa had also changed into a forest-green habit that accentuated her figure, also one of the modiste’s creations. The twins waited on the landing, smiles on their faces. Even Molly looked excited at the prospect of going out for a spell.
“Thank you, so do all three of you.”
“We look like ghosts,” Violet said mournfully. “Drab riding habits are the worst. You and Clarissa look lovely, though. I can’t wait for half-mourning to be over, God rest Papa’s soul. He would want us to look our best, I think, and gray’s just not my color!”
Molly sniffed. “Speak for yourself. I look fabulous in gray.”
“You’re deluded, sister.”
Laughing, they descended the staircase, only to bump into Oliver on the way out. The look he gave Clarissa was downright cold, though Isobel didn’t miss the way his blue eyes flared at the snug cut of Clarissa’s clothing. He might pretend he didn’t want her, but his gaze gave his inner desires away.
Isobel grinned. “Don’t mind us, we’re off to find a husband for Clarissa.”
Oliver opened his mouth, thought better of it, and then closed it, turning on his heel and striding away without a word. But from the rigid set of his shoulders, it was clear that he was furious. Good. Isobel ground her jaw. She’d had outside of enough with broody Vance men. A brisk outing would do her and Clarissa good.
“Won’t Oliver be angry we’re taking his barouche?” she whispered as Randolph brought the conveyance around the front and the twins piled in.
Clarissa’s grin was wicked. “Isn’t that the whole point?”
Isobel grinned, her friend’s mischievous mood contagious. However, as they rode into the park, she found herself to be the subject of considerable attention and fevered conversation. Fans lifted and heads bowed. It was curious…and unsettling.
“Something is wrong,” Isobel whispered to Clarissa who nodded, her brow furrowed.
“Why’s everyone looking at us?” Molly asked.
“And whispering?” Violet added, scowling.
Clarissa frowned. “I will get to the bottom of this.”
Isobel watched in silence as she directed Randolph to steer the carriage over to a nearby throng of people, where she descended and spoke to them for several minutes, and then hurried back over with a handful of crumpled newssheets in hand. Isobel felt her insides tighten with dread as her friend climbed back into the barouche and shared them with the twins. Isobel bit her lip, watching them. Anything in there couldn’t be good, not with the pitying look on Violet’s and Molly’s faces. Isobel had enough experience with the gossip rags to know.
“Izzy—”
“Just hand it over,” Isobel said, reaching out a gloved hand.
Violet passed them over with great reluctance, and Isobel drew in a clipped breath. What could be worse than her husband fighting a duel over an opera singer? She smoothed out the crinkled paper, the dark ink smudging. The first thing to jump out at her was the headline.
FORSAKEN ITALIAN HEIRESS TELLS ALL
And then her stomach turned as she took in the rest. It was worse than she had ever imagined, each word like lead ballast to the chest. Not only