She grabbed at the first excuse that came her way. “I do not wish you to see my living circumstances.” True, actually.
“Ah. Your pride will be pricked. But you have said you do not want for money, so it cannot be so bad.”
Would she have to beg him? She dropped her head back with a groan. It popped an idea into her head, and she pointed toward an upper window of the Hestia and gasped. “There’s a child half out the window!”
“What?” Mr. Rowan Trent growled, storming outside, spinning around, and cranking his neck back to see…
Nothing. He’d have seen nothing. Because there was no child.
And Isabella was gone, darting between two coaches and running alongside them, hidden and already out of breath. Not from the running. But from the stubborn, dark well of a man who, twice now, she’d thought might kiss her.
Her name rang out behind her. “Miss Crewe!” Loud and rough with rage.
But still she ran because nothing seemed sure now. She’d thought just this afternoon that a quick visit to the Hestia would solve her family’s troubles. She’d thought after that a brief jaunt to Stevenage would procure her ends. None of it true now because Mr. Rowan Trent would haunt her every move. And once he learned she planned to steal something from one of his guests, he’d make sure she never entered the Hestia ever again.
Because if she knew anything about the man now, it was that he’d protect his hotel as she protected her family—with tooth and nail and every bloody breath in his body. And he would not hesitate to tear Isabella to tatters.
Chapter Nine
Rowan liked throwing open the curtains just before dawn when the world was gray with the promise of yellow around the edges. He’d thrown the window open, too, and he leaned against the frame, staring out into a foggy London almost-morning. Two days without a single sighting of Isabella Crewe. Clearly, she did not need whatever she’d left inside Hestia as badly as she’d said she did.
How in hell would he find her when he needed her to complete their game of pretend? Quick, she’d been, slippery, dodging between horses and coaches and disappearing like a fairy into the fog. He’d set his best footmen at every entrance. They knew just who to look for, knew as well to bring her to Rowan as soon as they caught her.
She wasn’t coming round to be caught, though.
He’d have to kill her off sooner than he’d planned. Surely the Barlows would pity a widower. Couldn’t be consumption. There hadn’t been enough time. Perhaps he’d tell them she—
He shivered and shut a steel door on the possibility of imagining her death. Didn’t like it one bit. Kill off the woman who’d put a sweet kiss on his cheek? Who’d tidied his cravat and teased him into arelatively… fun game? Even in his imagination, he couldn’t do it. He’d simply have to… find her. Wherever she was.
Isabella. Not Sarah. Likely not Crewe, either. Couldn’t trust she’d told the truth about that, so he’d been left with only one way of thinking of her—Isabella. His body didn’t seem to care how untrustworthy her eyes were. It simply liked the way she smelled and felt, the way being near her made him feel.
She was rather like that gas lamp on the street below his window, illuminating the fog, breaking through the darkness.
“Ridiculous.” He closed the curtains and sat at his desk, unsure of exactly what to do next until a knock at the door solved that particular problem. “Come in.”
The door opened, revealing a small, cloaked woman. For a half moment, his heart flipped, and his body grew heavy and light at the same time. Had she come to him before he’d been forced to seek her out?
“Darling boy, there you are!”
No. Isabella had not come to him. He plopped backward into his chair, making the front legs rock off the ground for an unbalanced instant before thumping back down. “Aunt Lavinia. What are you doing here so early?” His muscles relaxed. She always did that—softened him. He never growled with her. How could he? She’d been his second mother, loved him just as well as one.
She pushed her hood back and checked her coiffure in a small looking glass on the wall by the door. He only kept it there because she liked it, because she needed to make sure everything about her person was properly in place. “Is it early? I find it’s rather late. I was returning home from the Springdale ball and realized I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“A fortnight at the most. Come, sit.” He guided her to the large chair behind his desk and then leaned against the desk next to her, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I tried to visit you a few days ago. You were occupied with a guest.”
Her red brows furrowed. “Yes, the admiral told me you’d made a visit. He also told me you’re set against marriage. Nothing I didn’t know, of course.”
“There is nothing in it for me.”
“Nonsense. There is companionship. Children. Love.”
“And which lady would I marry?”
She threw her arms out wide. “Any of them! You are rich and handsome, and your father—”
“Not really my father.”
“I’m aware. Your father was a dear friend to the admiral, and the admiral has tried his best to love you as a son.”
