“I am not them. Mother said only that we may choose our own husbands without interference, not that we had to marry for reasons of the heart.”
He glanced at Isabella. “Do you approve of this?”
Not truly. But it had delayed any announcement of Samuel’s engagement. Mr. Haws approved of having one fewer sister for his daughter to have to manage and of having one more peer related to him through marital bonds. “I want Imogen to do what makes her happy. And if Thurston does that, then yes, I approve.”
An unhappy sound grated in Samuel’s throat.
The twins shared a look. “We’re sorry,” they said together.
“You’ve already said that.”
“We mean it,” Isabella insisted.
“Any regret you may harbor changes nothing. It is done, and I will protect you.”
They’d begged him not to marry Miss Haws too many times. It seemed useless to ask him again. He pulled out of their hold and caught up with their younger sisters.
Imogen glided closer to Isabella’s side. “What if we lock him in a carriage with guards and send him to Gretna Green?”
“With whom as his companion and, ostensibly, future wife?”
“I was hoping you would have some idea. Who does he like better than Miss Haws?” Imogen gasped. “Speak of the devil and she will appear. See? Ahead on the right side of the path.”
The Haws, grinning and bowing, and thank goodness, they hadn’t seen Samuel yet. Mr. Haws had accepted the Duke of Clearford’s demands that his sister be married first and without the interference of another betrothal. It hadn’t taken much to convince the man that his daughter’s light would shine brighter without a shared engagement period, and her life would be easier if one of the sisters were married off first. After Imogen’s wedding, Miss Haws would only have to worry about two charges more senior than her in years.
And Imogenhadsuggested, after all, that a quick marriage might be necessary. And after Samuel had roared for a bit, he’d sunk back down into his now-habitual fog of defeat.
Not defeat. Isabella refused to accept it. Simply… a delay. She should be at the Hestia now, searching the Haws’s clearly empty rooms.
“I must go,” she said. “If they arehere, they are notthere.”
“Yes. Never let an opportunity fall through your fingers. But… what if he’s left the letter with a solicitor? You’ve searched the rooms before.”
“The Haws occupy several apartments and possesslockedtrunks. I’ve only searched a fraction of the space they occupy at the Hestia. A portion of my time is spent eavesdropping on them, praying they’ll let something slip. And I’ve only managed to pick the lock of one of the trunks. It’s much more difficult to do than Alex lets on.” Andromeda’s brother-in-law, the young Earl of Avelford had taught them how.
“It must be in one of the trunks. If I were Mr. Haws, I would not let that letter far from my person. A solicitor might misplace it. Or poke his nose into it and discover information only Mr. Haws wishes to be privy to. I must return to Hestia now.” She stepped backward, then changed her mind, grabbed Imogen’s arm. “You must talk with them. Keep them here as long as possible and see if you can discover anything of importance. Please. I must search every inch visible and invisible. Please, Im.”
Imogen nodded. “But search quickly. And find the cursed letter so we can be done with this.” She stomped off to the Haws with a broad, fake smile stretching her face wide.
And Isabella fought off a wave of guilt. Imogen only knew Isabella had not yet found the letter, not why it was taking her so long to look. Rowan was the first secret she’d kept from her sister, and it sat in her gut like a rock, impossible to move aside.
“Imogen!” A man ran down the path, darting between horses and those on foot, gathering glares as he passed. Thurston, waving wildly, his chocolate-brown hair flying back. “Im, why is your mouth contorted like that? You resemble a gargoyle.”
Isabella groaned, and Imogen ran to intercept Thurston. Shewhispered something into his ear that seemed to tame him, and then she dragged him off to converse with the Haws.
“Imogen, you are a wonder,” Isabella whispered. She backed down the path, watching them awhile longer, then turned and—
“Mrs. Trent? Mrs. Trent, is that you?”
Isabella froze. She could not see the woman calling her fake name, but she knew the voice quite well. The crowd parted, and there, beaming as usual—Mrs. Barlow. And Mr. Barlow.
And Rowan.
Oh.
Blast.
Isabella ducked her head, tugged her bonnet low, and waited for the destruction of the known universe to peel across the skies. Stars falling, the moon crumbling, the earth dissipating like mist in the morning.
