The easy smile that followed answered her question.
And annoyed her further.
“I trust you are come for one of two reasons, sir, either of which shall leave you disappointed.” She inched up her chin. “One, to attend business matters with Lord Gresham, whom I fear has been hastened to Bath this morning on a trip of indeterminable days.”
“And two?”
“To woo his daughter.”
“Who is also on a trip?”
“No. Who has already hopelessly been wooed by another.” Well, nearly so. After all, Lord Livingstonedidgarner her curiosity—and that was more than she could say for anyone else Father had tried to espouse her with.
The gentleman’s smile widened more fully. “Then I shall waste no more of your time … Miss Gresham. Tell your flowers they may carry on.” With one more glance, if a sober one, to the townhouse door, the strange gentleman turned and walked away.
Isabella stared after him longer than she should have. Who could he be? And what could he want with Father—or her?
My sister.Like the constantclip-clopof the hackney wheels on cobbles, the words clunked over and over.Sister?Why had he not considered the possibility before?
William had prepared himself to face the man who had forsaken him. He’d gone through the words in his head. The way he’d look. The questions he’d ask.
But he hadn’t been prepared to set eyes on hissister.She was small and slender, even when she’d tiptoed to reach the flower box beneath the window. Black ringlets had peeked out from her straw bonnet, and the face that looked up at him had been youthful, flushed, and pretty.
An unbidden ache slithered through him. How often as a child had he longed for someone to play with? Someone who would not strike him? Or run to his aunt? Or chortle from the other side of the door when William was locked in solitude?
He tried not to imagine what it would have been like to have a sister to befriend him.
Or a father to love him.
When the hackney deposited him in front of a white-bricked inn, he paid the jarvey, passed a shingle reading THESILVERLYNXINN, and entered through an arched doorway. He scanned the public room in one swift glance.
No brooding eyes. No continental hat.
He paid for his room and went upstairs, locked the door, and checked both windows. Nothing stirred below but a swarm of flies from dung piles smeared into the cobbles. The pungent odor intensified with the sight.
Perhaps better lodgings could have been found, but funds were not plentiful.
Nor were they his own.
He would pay Lord Manigan back, though. He would get the answers he came for. He would return to Rosenleigh and see that Shelton’s grave was proper and reverent.
But in the meantime, he would learn more of this sister of his.
That and stay alive.
The stranger had come again.
Twice.
The first time, Isabella had been descending the stairs, and on the fourth step down, the butler’s scratchy voice and the stranger’s steadier one drifted to her ears through the hall. The words were lost on her.
The second time, she had been entertaining Lord Livingstone in the parlor. She’d been close enough to the window to glimpse the stranger disembark from a hackney. Minutes later, he climbed back in and the carriage rolled away.
Lord Livingstone must have detected her distraction, for he’d leaned forward and frowned, teacup clattering back to its saucer. “Something is amiss.”
Mercy! Such perception. Was she flattered by his meticulous scrutiny of her—or like everything else about him, was she only intrigued by it? Whatever the case, she’d laughed and called him silly and bidden him to finish his tea.
But today the stranger was back. Yet again. Why?
