The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,88

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