Page 83 of Isabel and the Rogue

Sirius glowered. “What could you have said?”

The lieutenant colonel considered the glass in his hand. “That no matter what you do, or how hard you work, you won’t be able to bring them back.”

Clenching his jaw, Sirius pivoted, his gaze unseeing out the window.

“I know, because I’ve tried.”

Despite how his heart raced, Sirius tried to keep his breath measured. Even. But his emotions were too raw for this discussion. Hadn’t losing Isabel because of his own reticence been enough? And now he was being forced to retire when he needed the distraction of his work the most?

The urge to kick something, to crush something within his hands, nearly overwhelmed him.

But Sirius had already destroyed too much.

Swiping a hand down his face, Sirius poured himself another tumbler of alcohol. “What about Westhope and the information I was trying to get from him?”

“We already have someone else on it”—Green shrugged—“although from what you’ve reported, I don’t think the viscount knows much.”

Unsure of what to say, Sirius filled his mouth with brandy.

Sirius watched as Green stood and walked to the door. “Go to your abbey in Devonshire. Hack out across the meadow, help with the harvest, and let those early country hours lull you to sleep. With those bags under your eyes, you look as old as me.”

“Not quite,” Sirius shot back with a hoarse chuckle.

Green smiled. “Get out of this godforsaken city, Dawson, and let old ghosts lie.”

Sirius stared at the open doorway for an indeterminate amount of time after Lieutenant Colonel Green departed, and contemplated what his life would be like now that he no longer had to spy for the Crown. Boring, no doubt. Infinitely less stressful. For so many years, his work had given him a sense of direction, a piece of stability, and his pay helped him fund the renovations and expansions he’d made not only at Dancourt Abbey, but the nearby village as well. Now that work was done, and Sirius felt a bit like a fish flopping about on the seashore.

And curse his silly broken heart, but the only person he wanted to talk about this news with was Isabel. She would know exactly what to say to strip away this lump in his throat, and the next phase of his life wouldn’t be so uncertain because she would be a part of it. But Isabel would be returning to Mexico. To a life she wanted and deserved. Sirius respected her enough to allow her that happiness.

Dropping his head into his hands, Sirius considered Green’s suggestion to retire to Dancourt Abbey. It was true that he felt more himself, more at peace, within its aging walls than he did anywhere else. And what was keeping him in London now? Sirius could cancel the lease on his townhome, and invite Stanley and the other men to accompany him to Devonshire or pension them, if they’d prefer. Glancing at his bookshelves, Sirius could admit that he liked the idea of blending his collections into one large library. Isabel would have loved organizing them together—

Sirius rubbed his chest as if it could ease the razor-sharp pain that festered there. He couldn’t wait for the day that Isabel Luna didn’t haunt everything he did.

The move to Devonshire proved to be easier than he anticipated, and Sirius settled into the daily routine of a country gentleman. Rising with the sun, he hacked out with Monroe, the gamekeeper, to survey the land. Sirius did so love the early hours when mist still clung to the grass and made the world seem a bit magical. Soon, though, the sun burned away the fog, and Sirius busied himself with visiting the nearby mill before stopping at the various farms located on Dancourt Abbey land. Many of the farmers who worked the land had served in the Crimea, as had a large portion of the mill workers, and the men who tended to the orchards or whom he had hired to restore the old abbey. He had purchased the dilapidated estate after he’d been released from the hospital, and within its quiet walls and sun-dappled meadows, Sirius healed and rebuilt his life. Seeing it provide a place for other men and their families to do the same would always bring a warm glow of satisfaction.

Now Sirius longed to find contentment there again, but it just didn’t feel the same without Isabel’s quiet, calm presence.

“You’ve been staring at that colt for so long, I’d almost think you were expecting it to sprout wings.”

Blinking back to the moment, Sirius shifted back and forth on his feet. “I got lost in a bit of woolgathering.”

O’Brien’s mouth quirked. “You’ve seemed to do that a good deal since you’ve arrived.”

“Have I?” Sirius winced when the other man nodded. “I suppose I have a lot on my mind.”

“The abbey is a great place to think through it all”—O’Brien shrugged—“or so I’ve found since I been here.”

It had been many long weeks since Sirius had met the Irishman in the back gardens of his London townhome, and in that time O’Brien had found a place for himself among the stable hands and trainers who cared for the draft and heavy horses. Sirius had taken to stopping by the stables to chat with the man almost daily, finding him sharp-witted and droll. Oftentimes their conversations led to Sirius assisting him with one duty or another, a fact O’Brien was scandalized by.

“The lord of the manor can’t be mucking out horseshit,” he’d declared the first time Sirius grabbed a shovel to help him.

“I’m not a lord, and I’ve done every job at this manor at least once.” Sirius had chuckled. “I’ve never been afraid to get my hands dirty.”

And Sirius desperately needed anything to keep his mind busy and his hands active.

“I was going to attach Angus and Goliath to the hay wagon, and bring them to the southeast field.” O’Brien cocked his head. “Do you want to come?”

Sirius blew out a noisy breath. “I don’t have anything better to do.”