The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,86
dark.”
Grabbing a lamp, Winter bolted to the mews, calling for Randolph. When the old groom came running out from the depths of the stables, his eyes widened. Winter clenched his teeth, worry lashing through him. “Did you see where my wife went?”
“No, my lord. She’d just come back with Miss Clarissa and gone into the house, only to rush out again, calling for her mare. It was a while ago.” He hesitated, and Winter waved his arm for him to continue. “She seemed upset, my lord. Her eyes were red.”
Fuck. He looked around the yard. “Where the hell is my horse!”
“One of the grooms was tending to him, my lord. I’ll get him at once.”
Randolph raced back inside the mews, and Winter paced, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. Where would she have gone? Was Clarissa right in that she would decide to ride to Chelmsford? It was over forty miles—several hours of hard riding—and she loved Hellion too much to run that horse into the ground. How could she be so reckless?
He didn’t realize he’d muttered that last question out loud when Clarissa replied, sniffing. “Because she’s Isobel, and because you hurt her.”
A heavy hand came down to grip his shoulder and he turned to see his father standing there. Amidst murmurs of Your Grace in the courtyard, the duke turned him about. “Isobel is capable, Son. If she is alone, she won’t have left here unarmed.”
Winter frowned. Armed? His wife?
“Don’t look so surprised,” Clarissa said in a scathing tone that he no doubt deserved. “She owns pocket pistols and has better aim than my brothers.”
Kendrick nodded. “I taught her. The girl is a skilled marksman.”
Winter barely had time to process that his straitlaced, uptight duke of a father had taught his young, impulsive wife to shoot before the butler came running down the stairs to the mews.
“Your Grace?” he said to Kendrick. “It’s a message for the marquess.”
Winter snatched the grimy bit of paper that was scrawled with an address, one he recognized in Covent Garden near Seven Dials. But that wasn’t what made his heart drop to his feet—it was the note at the bottom, written in an untidy scrawl.
Come quickly. Lady Roth has taken a terrible fall.
Chapter Twenty
Dearest Friend, if you intend to enjoy the benefits and pleasures of conjugal love, communication is the cornerstone of any relationship.
– Lady Darcy
Isobel swiped her tears angrily away. Though she swore that she wouldn’t shed any more tears for Winter Vance, here she was doing just that. Sobbing as though she was the first girl in history to ever have her heart trampled upon by a cruel, unfeeling man.
God, he was a blackguard. A rotter. The worst kind of scoundrel.
And she was married to him.
“I hate him,” she whispered.
Her sister’s eyes met hers, compassion swimming in them. “I know it feels like you do at the moment, but you don’t. You’re just upset.”
“Don’t patronize me, Astrid.” Isobel sniffed. “I hate him enough to shoot him or strangle him with my bare hands. And that isn’t love, it’s assassination.”
The duchess laughed and patted her rounded abdomen. It was only by chance that she’d accompanied Beswick to London, given her advanced state of pregnancy, and had sent a note of her arrival to Isobel only that afternoon. Apparently, Astrid had insisted she was sick of the country, and because the duke was so besotted and couldn’t deny his wife, she was here for the week. Isobel couldn’t have been more grateful for her sister’s presence.
“Trust me, I’ve felt the same with Thane on more than one occasion. But those we love have a certain knack for getting under our skins.”
Isobel blinked. “I don’t love Winter.”
“Don’t you?”
“He’s a rogue without a heart,” she said. “There’s not much there to love, trust me. He doesn’t want me here in London. He doesn’t want me at all. I’ve lost track of how many times he told me to go trotting back to Chelmsford like a good, biddable pet.” She paused for breath. “And let’s not talk about that club of his. Goodness, if you only knew!”
“I know about The Silver Scythe,” her sister said.
Momentarily thwarted from her tirade, Isobel gaped. “What?”
“It’s Beswick’s social club of choice. He frequents it for the gambling.” A secret smile touched her lips as she caressed her baby bump, making Isobel’s jaw drop to the floor. “Though we’ve visited the private side on occasion. Eight months ago to the day, in fact.”