The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(99)

“I thought so. The sale is at nine o’clock tonight in the Rockport building by the docks.”

Once Hardaway had left the library, Fallon leaned a hand on his desk. His friend’s question had been ridiculous. Reginald Grapling was finally within his reach. Of course that was all that mattered. The man would pay for all of his crimes—especially for daring to place a finger on Isabelle.

*

Isabelle had often wondered what it must be like for the lady in the story to return to her home after being rescued from the villain by the brave knight—and now she knew. It was blasted uncomfortable.

Perhaps in her case the difference was that the villain was still on her mind when she ate or went to bed or thought of something amusing that would have made him smile. Tears stung at her eyes when she did anything at all. Fallon was everywhere she looked, even here in her home. This is what came of ladies who fell for the villain and not the hero. There was no brave knight at hand, no noble steed, and no hero’s love to cling to. There were only her parents screaming at each other, Victoria keeping her distance, and the maids eyeing her like she might break at any moment. And she wasn’t even allowed as far as the garden. The walls of her home made a more formidable dungeon cell than Fallon’s bedchamber ever had.

“Father, I think it would be best if we left London. I would be safer in the country. We would all be happier if we packed immediately,” she recited to herself once more on her way down the stairs.

She’d perfected a rather rousing argument to sway the man into taking the family back to the country before the end of the season. Now all that was left was to confront her father and make her case in favor of leaving town—as soon as trunks could be packed.

She couldn’t recall ever confronting her father about anything at all, having preferred to slip beneath his notice and wait for life’s storms to pass while in the garden. Two days ago, however, she’d escaped captivity, walked across London, and jumped from a moving carriage. She’d suffered enough at the hands of gentlemen, and she would have this conversation with her father now.

There was nothing left for her here anyway. Once outside town, she would be able to breathe. She wouldn’t feel as if her heart had been trod upon by a coach and eight. She wouldn’t be reminded of blasted Fallon St. James at every turn. Or at least that was her plan. Move on. And the first step on that journey was here.

Rounding the corner into the library, she stopped. It was empty. Turning back to the hall, she spotted a passing footman. “Do you know my father’s whereabouts this afternoon?”

“He left an hour past, just after the post arrived. He mentioned a meeting.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. Isabelle paused at the door to the library, tapping her fingers on the doorframe. Idle hours hadn’t eaten away at her this much when she’d been at Fallon’s home. She’d read books, painted, dreamed, and sorted out his chaotic life. She almost smiled at that. Her own home was different from her experience there. What had once filled her time now seemed empty. She’d been content before Fallon kidnapped her, hadn’t she? At least she’d thought so at the time. Once she was away from London, things would improve. They had to.

The library wasn’t a large room—not like Fallon’s, with its grand artwork and tall windows—but it was filled with books. She inhaled the scent of hundreds of leather-bound volumes and stepped inside the room. It was her father’s domain, his retreat from her mother, but he wasn’t home just now.

The fire hadn’t been stoked since this morning and now burned low in the grate. Flickers of light danced over the two chairs and the table that sat on the thick rug. The post still lay scattered on the table from where her father had scanned through the letters before he left the house. One was open on top of the pile. Isabelle glanced back to the door and picked up the page.

Sharp angular writing of only a few lines covered the center of the paper. A red wax seal was broken on one edge, but she could still see the letters pressed there—SHS.

“Father isn’t in,” Victoria said from the door behind her.

“I know that. I was only—”

“Looking through his things. I suppose some things never change.”

“Victoria…” Isabelle began, turning to look at her sister but unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry. I was angry with you before I went away, but I shouldn’t have turned my back on you.”

“Oh, but our aunt, whom we’ve met on only the one occasion, needed you. You had to leave immediately. It hardly mattered that I was to marry someone I detest. Our aunt required you. It’s all quite understandable.”

“Victoria, that isn’t how it happened,” Isabelle said quietly. How much could she tell her sister? Her parents had obviously told her the same tale that had been spread around town. Suddenly, her sister’s distance since she returned home was clear—Victoria was hurt by her absence.

“I’m sure the story is quite dramatic—with you they always are.”

Isabelle searched her sister’s face, willing her to see that the decision to abandon Victoria on her wedding day hadn’t been Isabelle’s. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re correct. I don’t.” Victoria turned and walked away.

“Victoria,” Isabelle called after her, but there was no response. She would have to explain everything to make things right between them, and she would, but not right now, not when Victoria’s anger toward her was still so raw. Her sister would never listen to her admittedly dramatic story when she was in such a state.