Page 72 of Isabel and the Rogue

Isabel arrived at Yardley House after dark.

Gabby and the viscountess met her in the foyer, demanding to know where she had been. Mentally and emotionally drained, Isabel assured Lady Yardley she was well, but then grabbed her sister’s hand and dragged her up the stairs to her room. Thankfully, Gabby held her tongue until Isabel had shut the door, and then whirled on her with large eyes.

“Dios mío, what happened?” she demanded, grasping Isabel’s hands.

Somehow Isabel made it through a quick recitation of what had transpired in Lord Westhope’s curricle, and then the notes she and Tío Arturo had written to those in Mexico. Her sister bombarded her with questions, and Isabel did her best to answer them, but some required more explanation than she had the energy for.

“Hermanita, I know there is more you want to know, but can your questions wait for the morning?” Isabel rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes as she yawned. “The stress of the day is catching up with me.”

“Bien,” Gabby murmured, kissing the top of Isabel’s head. “Get some sleep, because I’m sure Ana will be here early to ask the same questions.”

Just the thought exhausted her.

After Gabby left, Isabel allowed Lupe to strip off the turquoise walking dress that made her feel so beautiful, and pluck Gabby’s fetching hat from her hair. Slipping a simple cotton nightdress over her head, Isabel shook out her curls and watched as Lupe fixed her hair in a single plait over her shoulder before bidding her good night. Wandering into her room, Isabel paced to her bookshelf and considered her selection. Lady Yardley had given her the six-shelf bookcase for her last birthday, and Isabel had been ecstatic to move her books from the trunk she’d stored them in since they escaped Mexico City. Seeing them on display, her favorite volumes organized by author and title, filled her with joy.

But even her oldest friends could not chase away the dread that sat on her chest.

Her chamber door opened behind her, and assuming it was a maid with a food tray, Isabel gestured to her desk with a hand. “You can put it there. Gracias.”

At the sound of the door closing, Isabel pivoted…only to jump back, clapping a hand to her mouth.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Sirius whispered, whipping off his hat and rushing forward to grasp her shoulders.

Isabel slowly dropped her hand and stared up at him with wide eyes. “What are you doing here? How did you get in here?”

“You’re not the only one with a talent for slinking about.” Sirius curled the tail of her braid around his finger. “And I came because I had to see you. Fate conspired against us this afternoon, but we still need to speak.”

Without hesitation, Isabel wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest. “I’m so glad you did, because fate was actually on our side today.”

“What do you mean?” Sirius asked, craning back to look into her eyes. “Did something happen?”

“I hope not. Not yet, at least.” Isabel pressed her lips together for a long moment. “I pray my letter arrives before something terrible occurs.”

Sirius bent down to hold her gaze. “Tell me.”

“I finally found something. Some way to help,” she whispered. “Westhope received a letter from his cousin, and I read it when he wasn’t looking. The French have discovered where Presidente Juárez is hiding. They’re preparing to capture him.”

Her voice broke off with a hitch.

What if she was too late? What if the French found them before her letter could? What if a storm swept the ship bearing copies of her letter off course, and they never made it to her parents? Isabel had managed to block out all the horror of what could happen, of the precarious position her parents were in, by focusing on the task at hand. Her tío Arturo had hastily written several letters, each bearing the same message, and had them dispatched within minutes of her arrival. He assured her at least one of the letters would arrive before the French did, and Isabel clung to his confidence.

Yet, in the privacy of her room, pressed against Sirius, all the possibilities became too much. Isabel didn’t know how she’d survive the guilt if something happened to her parents—to the president—because she had taken too long.

As if sensing how much she needed him, Sirius gathered her in his arms and carried her to the bed, where he cradled her against his chest. Tears streamed down her face as sobs rattled from her throat, and he stroked a hand along her back and brushed her tears away with his knuckles.

“If the warning doesn’t reach them, or it gets there too late, I’ll never forgive myself,” she confessed around her tears.

Sirius pressed his lips to the crown of her head. “It’ll get there, sunshine. I know it.”

“I wish I had your confidence,” she mumbled into the folds of his coat.

“Well,” he began, an odd note to his voice, “I’m confident because you’re not the only one to have sent notice.”

Isabel reared back to meet his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that the Home Office also received intelligence that the French were marching north to capture President Juárez.” Sirius smoothed his thumb over the crest of her cheek. “So a message was dispatched to British contacts within Mexico to alert the president. I signed your name to it.”

Cotton seemed to fill her ears, and Isabel stammered, “M-my name?”