Page 70 of The Rakehell of Roth
“Follow that hack,” she told her coachman before she could change her mind.
“Yes, my lady.”
Her brain spun with scenarios. Where on earth was he going? It didn’t take long for her to guess that the tightly-packed, run-down houses they rode past were in Covent Garden or spot the seven-road irregular square that gave the warren its name, Seven Dials.
After a few more minutes, the coach rolled to a stop and she peered out of the narrow window to see Winter descending the hackney in front of what looked like an old church. Her heart dropped to her stomach as a beautiful blonde joined him. Recognition was slow to hit, but when it did, she felt it everywhere like a blow she couldn’t dodge.
Contessa James—the opera singer over whom he’d allegedly fought a duel.
She watched in horror as he kissed her cheek and the voluptuous singer flung her arms about his neck with a cry. Winter didn’t detach, but hugged her back, in full view of passersby, and judging from the wolf whistles, there were a few. After their lengthy embrace, they disappeared together into the building.
Isobel’s heart crumbled inside her chest even as she climbed down from the coach. Was it a bawdy house? Some kind of gaming hell?
“My lady,” the coachman warned. “It’s not safe here.”
“I’ll just be a minute.”
Ignoring his protests, she crossed the street to the well-kept building, only to nearly crash into her husband on his way out. “That was fast,” she said for lack of anything better to say.
His gray eyes widened with shock and then alarm. “Isobel, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” she bit out. Was that guilt slinking through his eyes? “Meeting the mistress you claim not to have? Contessa what’s-her-name?”
Speechless, he stared at her. “It’s not like that.”
“Then explain it to me,” she said, slamming her hands on her hips, uncaring of the curious crowd they were drawing. “Because it sure as hell looks like a bawdy house to me.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s a shelter. My shelter. I own it.”
“You own it,” she repeated dumbly, staring anew at the facade and seeing the plain bronze plaque affixed to the side of the door:Prudence Vance, In Memory.
“For my sister.”
…
“Your sister?” his wife repeated, pale blue eyes widening.
Winter blew out a sigh. “She died not too far from where you’re standing right now. We found her in an opium den. She had no place to go and ended up here in Seven Dials. Daughter of a duke with no way out but death.”
“I’m so sorry.” Her eyes shone with the glimmer of tears, the scent of honeysuckle curling into his nose and chasing away the ripe stench of the vicinity. “I didn’t know you owned a shelter.”
“No one does. Besides Westmore.”
Winter frowned at the accumulating crowd. He was dressed in a pair of nondescript brown breeches and unassuming coat, while she still wore an obviously well-tailored and costly blue silk and muslin day dress. From the avid looks she was getting, it wouldn’t take much for a mob to gather or for the pickpockets to make quick work of any loose buttons, coin or other easily removable possessions. While he could handle himself, he didn’t want her in harm’s way.
He had no idea how she’d come to be here and whether she’d followed him, but this wasn’t the place to discuss it. “Did you come by carriage?” he asked.
She blinked as though coming out of a trance. “Yes, it’s just over there,” she replied automatically, but when he took her arm and attempted to escort her toward it, she shook off his grasp. “No, I’m not going anywhere with you. Even if this establishment is for your sister, I’m not blind, Roth. I saw you go in with Contessa James.” Her voice faltered. “You fought a duel for her, if you recall.”
Isobel wouldn’t believe him, but he was never involved with Contessa James. She’d wanted to get away from her current protector—a viscount who treated her abominably and had bruised her throat so badly weeks ago that she couldn’t perform on stage. When he’d threatened to cut out her tongue so she could never sing again, she’d come to Winter.
It was why she’d been temporarily staying at the shelter, until she could find new accommodations. The viscount had thrown her out on her ear after Winter and Westmore had paid the man a sinister visit, letting him know in no uncertain terms what would happen if he ever laid a finger on the contessa again. That was the purported duel that had made the papers. But this wasn’t the place to clarify that.
“It’s not like that,” he said again. “I will explain, but it’s not safe here, Isobel. Will you please let me get you home?”
She stared at him, and then her glance slipped to the side as if only just taking stock of the infringing throng. “Take me inside.”
God, she was a stubborn thing.
