Page 71 of Isabel and the Rogue

When Westhope extracted a letter from his front pocket to show her the postage mark, elation surged through Isabel’s chest. The letter was new. Did it finally contain information she could use? The possibility left her almost lightheaded, and Isabel knotted her hands together so she was not tempted to pluck the correspondence from his fingers.

“Even reading French is a different experience,” the viscount continued, unaware of Isabel’s tense silence. “For instance, he was just telling me—”

The conveyance jerked to a halt, and Isabel reached out a hand to brace herself against the front panel. Frowning, she turned to Westhope, who was already leaning over the edge of the curricle to inspect what might have occurred.

“I think one of the horses may have slipped a shoe.” He sat up and passed the reins to her hands. “I’m going to give it a look. I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

“O-of course,” she stuttered, watching as he climbed from the curricle and jumped to the ground.

Stifling a sigh, Isabel looked about. The walk wasn’t particularly busy, but nor were they alone. If Westhope was in need of assistance, help would arrive in no time, a fact Isabel was grateful for, as holding the reins made her a bit nervous. She was comfortable enough on the back of a horse, but had not had many opportunities to drive a team. The thought that two powerful bays were controlled by the strips of leather in her hands had perspiration beading at her hairline.

Isabel squared her shoulders, holding the reins more firmly. She was in control. The beasts would not be able to move if she—

The letter! Stifling a gasp, she whipped her head about trying to locate it…until she spied the parchment near her feet, where it must have fallen. Craning her neck, Isabel spied the viscount kneeling next to one of his bays, the beast’s right back hoof nestled in his lap. Isabel knew she had only a few moments before he returned and her opportunity was lost.

Without a second thought, she quietly unfolded the letter and quickly read. It was written in French, and she murmured a prayer of thanks that her father had insisted she and her sisters learn the language as part of their studies.

The letter was not a long one, and was mostly filled with irreverent observations and tidbits of Jean-Charles’s day. Isabel gritted her teeth in frustration at its mundane contents…that is until she reached the last paragraph, and terror cinched her chest tight.

I don’t know when my next letter will reach you. We’re leaving for Mexico tomorrow because Maximilian has called upon the French garrison stationed here. Word is that the imperial army has discovered the rebel president’s hiding place, and the emperor wants to stamp him out and finally put an end to this rebellion.

She felt as if her entire body had been dunked in ice water, and she stared unseeing at the parchment. The French had finally found Presidente Juárez? And if they had found Presidente Juárez, they had found her parents. Her chest rose and fell as her breaths turned into pants, and Isabel clenched her eyes closed, her mind reeling. She needed to tell Tío Arturo. Now. Without delay. Surely her uncle would be able to get the message to the president before the French captured him.

A rattling breath slipped past her lips, and Isabel carefully refolded the letter and placed it back on the squab, where the viscount had left it. Twisting her hands around the reins, Isabel desperately tried to calm her breathing. It would do her no good to arouse Westhope’s suspicions. Jean-Charles’s lack of circumspection about sending such sensitive information to him made her uneasy; did the viscount know more about the imperial government in Mexico than he let on? Isabel didn’t think so, but with her parents’ lives and freedom on the line, she could not afford to trust him.

“Well, he’d definitely thrown a shoe, but we should be able to make it back to Yardley House without issue, as long as I don’t push the team past a walk,” Westhope said as he climbed into the carriage. He paused when he looked at her, his brows knitting together. “What’s wrong, Miss Luna?”

¡Ay! “I just…” Isabel pressed a hand to her temple, excuses pinging about in her mind. “I wanted to ask if you would be kind enough to bring me to Señor Valdés’s home? I was on my way there when I encountered Captain Dawson and Lady Needham.”

“The Mexican ambassador?” When she nodded, Westhope blinked but immediately grabbed the reins from her. “Oh, of course. His residence is not far from here, and I would be happy to take you.”

“That’s very kind,” Isabel murmured, daring to pat the back of his hand for a brief moment. “I intend to ask him if he can help me get a letter to my parents in Mexico City. I’ve been feeling quite homesick lately.”

Westhope rotated his hand until their palms met, and he grasped hers tightly. “Well, then I won’t be too disappointed that our ride is ending. I will try to get us to Mr. Valdés’s as quickly as I can, but unfortunately with my lame horse, our pace may be a tad slower.”

“I appreciate it,” Isabel said with a nod before lapsing into silence. She hoped Westhope would take her silence as a wistful one filled with memories, and not because dread and fear for her parents had coiled in her gut like a venomous snake.

But the viscount was ever a gentleman, and did not engage her in conversation, instead making general observations about the people or sights they passed.

When they finally arrived at Tío Arturo’s stately townhome, Isabel felt ready to jump out of her skin, and wished Lord Westhope a polite but swift goodbye. If he was taken aback by her brusque manner, his expression did not reveal it, and Isabel was thankful. All she cared about right now was alerting her parents to the danger that awaited them and Presidente Juárez, and nothing else.

“I look forward to seeing you again soon, Miss Luna,” the viscount called as he took up the reins again and departed.

Offering a hasty wave, Isabel clasped her skirts and sprinted up the front steps. Before she could grasp the knocker, the door opened, revealing Señor Alvarez, the butler. Isabel slipped past him into the foyer, pacing to look down the hall toward Tío Arturo’s study.

“¿Está aquí ahora?” she asked, a bit breathless.

Alvarez nodded his graying head, his brows knotted together. “¿Algo está mal, señorita?”

“Sí,” Isabel said succinctly, before grasping her skirts and dashing toward the study.

Without waiting, she burst through the door. Her uncle was seated at his desk, reading a letter. At her abrupt entrance, he snatched his spectacles from his face and rose to his feet.

“Sobrina, what’s happened?” he asked, coming around the desk to grasp her hands.

Swallowing down the sob that surged up her throat, Isabel managed to say, “The French have found them.”

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