Page 21 of Isabel and the Rogue

“Delano?” Gabby snorted. “It’s a fine name, but surely they could have come up with something more fanciful.”

“I suppose that to French ears, Delano is fanciful,” Whitfield drawled.

A diverted smile lit Gabby’s face for the shortest of moments before she angled about, her bonnet hiding her expression.

Isabel chanced a glance at the duke, who was staring intently at Gabby, a deep V cut into the groove between his brows.

Licking her lips, Isabel considered this new information. She knew very little of the viscount but seemed to recall that he was active in Parliament. Perhaps Gideon had mentioned him. Whatever the case, with Westhope’s close ties to France and the government, it wouldn’t hurt for Isabel to learn more about the man. She felt as if she were running out of options, and she was determined to investigate any possible lead, no matter how scarce the suspicions.

Simply put, she needed to meet Viscount Westhope. And while the duke had not offered to introduce them, Isabel was not above manipulating him to do so.

“I would love to learn more about Delano. I haven’t selected a horse for the race yet,” she said, choosing her words with care to not arouse his suspicion.

It was not the duke who appeared interested in her words, but rather Gabby, who looked over her shoulder at Isabel with narrowed eyes.

“Indeed, Your Grace. Would you be so kind as to introduce us?” Gabby asked sweetly.

Whitfield’s shoulders sank, and after a short hesitation, he extended an arm in the direction of the race box. “Of course. Let us hope, ladies, that the footmen are serving lunch, for I fear I will require sustenance to survive the rest of this event.”

• • •

“Would you care for another dram of whisky? I’m certainly going to have one.”

Sirius chuckled, but nodded readily. “With the heat and the noise and the crowds, I would be very thankful to partake of your excellent selection again.”

With a slight jerk of his head, Viscount Westhope gestured to a footman, and the man approached instantly, extracting a small decanter from behind his back. As Sirius watched the amber liquid splash in his tumbler, his mouth watered.

Raising his full glass in salute to his host, he said, “To victory on the racetrack.”

“And not succumbing to sunstroke,” the viscount added with a jaunty laugh.

The liquor hit the back of his throat like a sharp jab, and Sirius ran his tongue over his lips to not let any drop go to waste.

“As fond as I am of my horseflesh, and Delano in particular, I despise race-day festivities.” Lord Westhope studied the liquid in his glass before turning his gaze to survey their surroundings. “I often feel as if I’m at a carnival instead of one of the premier races in England.”

“Are you telling me you have no interest in watching the clowns perform or the strongmen wrestle?” Sirius asked, flourishing a hand.

“None at all.” The viscount feigned a shudder. “If I could sit quietly off to the side in the shade with a glass of cold lemonade, no one aware of my presence, I would be content.”

A frown twisted Sirius’s mouth. “Then why invite a whole box full of guests to watch Delano race? It seems as if you could have spared yourself this…torture.”

“Torture indeed.” Westhope sipped his whisky, wincing slightly at the bite. “But I invite guests”—he waved at the expensively dressed people laughing, chatting, and eating behind them—“because a working horse farm needs investors. And if I want investors to go into business with me, I not only need a winning horse, which Delano is, but I need to treat them well.”

“Thus this circus show.”

“Precisely.” The viscount raised his glass to him.

Sirius leaned forward in his chair. “Does this mean you’re hoping I will invest in Delano?”

“Actually, no. Although I certainly would not turn you away if you’re interested.” Westhope barked a laugh. “You just seemed like a fellow who wouldn’t try my nerves or patience if we spent an afternoon together.”

Sirius chuckled in return. He may have been tasked with befriending Viscount Westhope, but it was not hard to like the man. Truthfully, Sirius felt a bit guilty that he hadn’t known how genuinely agreeable Westhope was until now. Until he had been compelled to socialize with him to determine what exactly his French connections were and whether they would be a problem. Britain certainly could not afford to have another traitorous peer working with the French.

Although to compare Westhope with Lord Tyrell, the earl who had abducted Ana María Fox with the intention of turning her over to his French coconspirators, was laughable. But Sirius knew better than to take people at face value. Hadn’t he learned that recently when his annoyance and mistrust of Isabel Luna had changed to admiration? The reserved Luna sister had turned out to be much more than the shy and irascible young woman he thought her to be.

Relishing his next sip of whisky, Sirius propped his elbow on the armrest. “I confess that this most excellent libation is one of the only things helping me to remain pleasant right now.”

“No clowns or puppet shows or trapeze performance for you, either?” Westhope cocked his head.