Page 4 of Isabel and the Rogue

Unable to resist, she added a line about finally reading The Mill on the Floss, a novel the priest had encouraged her to read for years. After assuring him she would write about her feelings regarding it in a future letter, Isabel signed her name at the bottom of the sheet. Folding and sealing it, she tucked it into her shirtwaist to have it franked later in the day.

Pushing her chair back, Isabel dropped her head and covered her face with her hands. This was the thirty-second such letter she’d penned over the last two years, and they never became easier to write. In how many different ways, with various arrangements of words, could Isabel express that she had yet to discover information that would aid her beloved Mexico in its fight against the French? She longed for such a boon, a fact she knew Padre Ignacio was aware of. He knew her better than almost anyone—although her time in London had allowed Isabel to grow close to her sisters, a development she was thankful for. But it was the old priest who knew how desperately she wanted to be of use; to step out from the long shadows of her sisters; to finally see a spark of pride in her father’s eyes when he’d only ever looked at her with disappointment. It was why Padre Ignacio had recommended her to Señor Fernando Ramírez for just such a task.

It was the evening before they fled Mexico City when he had found her in the library at the Luna family villa, trying to decide which books she would take on the voyage. The idea she would have to choose between them had gutted her, for her collection of books had been her friend for longer than she could remember. Oftentimes the written word had been her only friend.

“Señorita Isabel,” Señor Ramírez had called, coming around the shelf where she was crouched among stacks of poetry, fiction, and history. “Padre Ignacio said I would find you here.”

“As if I would be anywhere else.” She stroked her hand over the cover of The Lusiads. “This room has been more my home than anywhere else in the villa.”

Señor Ramírez propped his shoulder against the shelf as he looked down at her. “How will you decide which ones to take?”

Isabel shrugged, although she could not stop her hands from shaking. “How do you decide which child is your favorite?”

He didn’t laugh at her comment. Didn’t try to placate her or comfort her. Señor Ramírez had simply nodded, as if he understood.

Releasing a shuddering breath, Isabel had taken a moment to appraise her older sister’s fiancé. Señor Ramírez was handsome and knew it, his laughs and smiles his social currency. Isabel had noted that the man used his natural charm and winning smiles as a mask to disguise his sharp, cunning mind. She had thought the young politician would make an ideal husband for Ana María, his charisma a match for her sister’s golden perfection. But then Isabel hadn’t known Ana María as well as she thought she did, for Señor Ramírez was not the only person wearing a mask.

But he had never sought her out before, and cautious curiosity had flared within her.

“Tell me, Señorita Isabel,” he’d said, his dark eyes keen on her face, “does Señor Luna know you slip out of every gathering he hosts?”

She dropped her gaze as she lifted a shoulder. “If he knows, he certainly doesn’t care.”

Isabel had long thought of herself as her father’s throwaway daughter, for he had never seemed to find use for or value in her.

“Well, you’ve certainly taken advantage of his disinterest, and have developed a talent for blending in. Becoming a part of your surroundings.”

“I have?” Isabel wasn’t sure if he was insulting her or merely stating the truth.

The man crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you thought of how you could use your skill of disappearing in plain sight to help Mexico?”

Isabel’s brow furrowed even as she leaned eagerly toward him. “I don’t understand.”

Fernando crouched down until his gaze was level with hers, his forearms perched on his knees. “You will be in London, but that doesn’t mean you cannot serve Presidente Juárez while you’re there.”

Anticipation tingled along her spine, and Isabel carefully set down the book in her hand. “Of course I want to help. If I can.”

“Padre Ignacio said you would. Because you’re a Luna, and your loyalty to Mexico runs in your blood,” he murmured, nodding his head approvingly.

“I am,” she’d answered, earnest and determined. “What would I need to do?”

Señor Ramírez had seen her. Had seen what she was capable of. Had entrusted her with a great responsibility when others struggled to even recognize her existence.

But perhaps everyone had been right not to notice her, for Isabel had been unable to provide anything of use to the Juárez government. Almost two years on English shores and she’d yet to send back any useful information. Oh, she sent along gossip she’d overheard at social events, and speculation about secret scandals, but Isabel possessed no proof of them. She knew that rumors and snippets from tête-à-têtes would not truly aid her countrymen, but then Fernando had not had time to share what specific information she should gather. So Isabel had studied Debrett’s so she could learn who was who in British society, devoured the morning papers for all manner of news, eavesdropped on the servants’ gossip, and listened to chatter at the various social events she attended with her sisters. She recorded names, dates, and titles in a secret journal, and tried daily to piece together her findings, with no success.

Ana María had found love with her new husband and Gabriela charmed the ton, while Isabel had purposely cultivated her quiet, bookish persona, all the better to remain unassuming. Unsuspecting. But it felt like it had all been for naught. One failure after another had withered her confidence to dust. Isabel clenched her eyes shut to hold back the tears. Tears would do nothing to solve—

“I knew I would find you awake,” a voice proclaimed into the silence of her chamber.

Spinning about on her seat, Isabel scowled at her younger sister. “Will you ever knock?”

“Buenos días to you, as well, hermana.” Gabby plopped on the bed, relaxing back onto her arms. “What are you writing?”

Isabel flicked a hand, hoping she appeared unconcerned. “Nothing of consequence.”

“I thought perhaps you were writing out your disgust at having to dance with Captain Dawson at the ball last night.”

Gabby’s tone was a tad too light. Too innocent. Nothing Gabby did was ever light or innocent.