Perhaps it was for the best that Samuel would not budge. If only Mr. Haws did not possess solid proof. If he did send Mother’s letter to a paper for publication, everyone would know, and then they’d remember Lottie’s scandal with the book dropped in Hyde Park. Two and two did make four.
That cursed letter. How had she not known about it, following Haws and Lord Sillsbury about as she had been doing this Season? She always knew everything before it happened. And yet she’d had no idea about this letter. And now Samuel was paying for it.
The letter.
Isabella yearned for it. To trace her mother’s ink, to hear her voice leap off the page. And she wanted to burn it, too. And she could. She could slip into the Hestia, gain entrance to the Haws’s suite of apartments and…
She could. She could! She jumped to her feet. “I must go.”
“Where?” Lottie demanded. “We need all our brains working on this right now.”
“My brain is quite diligent on the matter, I assure you. I know how to get the letter.”
Imogen jumped to her feet. “You do?”
Felicity scrambled to sit upright. “How?”
“I’ll tell you. But I must go now!” Because one single stone sank her joy. Mr. Trent. He’d promised to banish her for not helping him. But he left at noon today. It was noon now. She could sneak in while he was away.
Chapter Six
His pocket watch gnawed at his bones. It told the truth—half past noon, and Rowan still had not left for Stevenage. Instead, he paced the length of the alley between Hestia and its mews.
There was no reason for him to wait. He had everything he needed. The coach was ready, Miss Hinks trussed up and sitting inside. He should have set off half an hour ago.
Yet, he paced, his coachman, Tom, watching him.
“Is there some task you've left undone in your study that keeps you here?” Tom stood some distance away from Rowan, his voice hesitant, his hat spinning in his hands. He knew as everyone watching Rowan knew—the owner of Hotel Hestia was acting odd.
Rowan never hesitated, and he was never late. He wasn't…waitingwas he? For the fairy woman with a steel spine? No! No. Of course not. She had told him in direct and clear language she would not help him. He had a willing lady in the coach, prepared to pretend for a generous sum.Thatwas all he needed.
“Miss Hinks is getting anxious,” Tom said.
Rowan had bundled the only maid who'd been brave enough to speak to him into the coach an hour ago, after having Mrs. Smith dressher in some finer clothing than she possessed, clothing he bought particularly for her, though ready-made. He’d done exactly what he needed to do because he did not need Miss Crewe.
At the back end of the alley, in the gloom and the damp, he stopped. Not because of the wall, but because of what had been painted onto it with, likely, a bit of coal. He’d noticed it his first pass down this way, and he’d noticed it every other pass as well. And each time he saw it, it bothered him more. A heart drawn a bit crooked over the grooves of brick and mortar. Above it a name, below it a name. Lovers immortalizing their hearts for all the world to see? Ha. As if coal could not be easily wiped away.
“Someone has marked up the side of the hotel,” he called. “Have it cleaned.” Whoever Nick and Sally were, he hoped their lives lasted longer than their vandalism. Because if they did not, that heart they had drawn on the wall, so full and stout despite its wobbly curves, would end up broken.
He snorted, then paced back toward the street. He made it only halfway when a voice from the hotel side door stopped him, one foot raised just above the ground.
“Let me in.” Honey and spice.
He licked his lips, an involuntary gesture attempting to catch the taste of that voice, before he crept closer, stood in the shadows just beyond the corner of the hotel, listening.
“Sorry, ma’am,” one of his footmen said. “Can't let you in.” Tall and wide, Brick was built like one and could always be relied upon to keep the entries of Hestia free from undesirables.
“And why not?” Honey and Spice demanded to know. Miss Crewe. She had come. “It is a matter of some urgency.”
“Don't matter,” the footman said. “Mr. Trent said not to let you in.”
A pause of silence, and then she said, “Mr. Trent? Who is that? I've never met him.” The spice eradicated from her voice. All honey now. “He must not have meant me. How could he when we've never met?” The little liar.
Yet he found himself smiling.
“You look like the lady he described,” Brick said. “Tiny little thing, hair like straw. Blue eyes you can't trust.”
“His words or yours?” All spice now. Not a drop of honey.
