Page 41 of Isabel and the Rogue

“Where do you think we should start?”

Advancing to a table tucked behind the desk on the far side of the room, Sirius stuck his hand inside an urn filled with flowers. His expression turned triumphant as he held up a long key. “Here.”

Isabel rushed over as he dropped into a crouch behind Fairchild’s desk, maneuvering the key inside the lock of the small safe. She held her breath as he swung the door open.

“Is there anything of note?” Isabel asked.

“This,” Sirius said, holding out a silver case.

“Do you use snuff?” she asked, her nose crinkled.

“I used enough of it while in the Crimea. I haven’t been able to stomach it since.”

She tucked that knowledge away for later. Isabel tried to crouch down to get a better look of what was inside the safe, but her skirts refused to condense enough to allow her to fit, and she huffed in annoyance.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if there’s anything of note inside,” he said, flashing her a quick smile.

“I hate these stupid skirts.” Isabel batted at the fall of her gown, a snarl curling her lips. “I swear they’re designed to keep women under control. They’re cumbersome and heavy, and it’s impossible to do things when you have to heft around such weight.”

His brow puckered. “I have never thought of it that way, but it makes sense.”

“Society just loves to dictate how a woman is to live her life.” Isabel lifted her chin. “Did you know that some members of the ton thought poorly of Ana María because she smiled too much?”

Sirius chuckled as he peered inside a satchel he’d pulled from the safe. Isabel tried to look over his shoulder, but the dim lighting hid the contents. “I can’t say I’m surprised. You and your sisters were at a deficit when you arrived. While you are wealthy and beautiful, you’re also foreign. Criticizing such innocuous behavior is another way to maintain the social hierarchy.”

“How depressing.” Isabel sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Find anything interesting?”

“It appears to be deeds and mortgage drafts for Fairchild’s estate and his many, many mills.” Sirius looked up and met her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“This keeps happening to me.” Isabel covered her face with her hands. “No matter where I search or how promising the lead is, I haven’t been able to find anything to help my family. I’ve been hoping Westhope’s cousin will pass along information, but so far he hasn’t and now my parents are in more danger. I would hate myself if something happened to them while I’m wasting time here in London.”

“Nothing is going to happen to them,” Sirius said quietly, wrapping his hand around her ankle and stroking his thumb along the bone. The gesture was so scandalous—a man with his hand under her skirts—and yet his touch was comforting. “Despite the French occupation, there are many who are still loyal to Benito Juárez and democracy. They’re going to do everything they can to protect him, and the men and women who work for him.”

Isabel blinked down at him. “How do you know that about Presidente Juárez?”

The corner of his mouth kicked up. “I have contacts, remember?”

“Of course.” Isabel shook her head. “You certainly didn’t learn that from the papers here in London. My sisters and I are always complaining about how rarely the British press writes about the occupation.”

Sirius opened his mouth…when a noise sounded from the corridor. It was the soft murmur of voices and the steady beat of footfalls on the tile. Isabel went stone-still, her eyes darting about the room for a place to hide. Sirius had managed to hide her in the drapes at Westhope’s house, but the only reason she hadn’t been discovered was that he served as a distraction. He couldn’t do that tonight for he was not supposed to be in this room, either.

“Come here,” Sirius hissed, grasping her hand and pulling her toward the desk.

“What?” Isabel scowled at him. “There’s no way my skirts will fit under there.”

Sirius’s expression turned fierce. “We’ll make them fit.”

Isabel had no chance to protest, for Sirius yanked her down, quickly wrapping an arm about her waist and pulling her flush with his chest. With quick backward movements, he managed to tuck them both under the desk. Before Isabel could point out how her gown billowed from their hiding place, Sirius swept the bulk of it in his arms when he arranged her neatly in his lap. Her shoulder was pressed into his chest, his chin resting against her cheek, every one of his exhales drifting along her temple. Isabel clamped her eyes closed, allowing herself a short private moment to simply enjoy the feel of Sirius Dawson all around her.

“You have a regrettable knack for hiding under desks, Isabel,” he whispered on a dry chuckle.

Before she could respond, the study door swung open.

“I told Edward he was a fool to go in with that lot, and now we both know I was right,” a masculine voice said, the smug satisfaction in his inflection easy to note. “If he had listened to me, he wouldn’t be out at the elbows.”

“Some people have to make their own mistakes,” another voice said, moving across the room from where they were hidden. The sound of bottles clinking together met her ears. “Edward is one such person.”

“Pity that.”