Page 33 of Lady Isla and the Lord of Rogue (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #6)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lord Algernon Wynthorpe was a hero, the papers proclaimed.

He’d single-handedly brought down England’s worst criminal, the Lord of the Underworld, the mastermind of crime.

He had slipped through the fingers of justice for years, causing no end of trouble, even escaping the gallows.

But no more. Thanks to Wynthorpe, the rookeries were cleared and both the notorious Mudlark Skulls and the fearsome Blood Wolves, two of the most feared crime syndicates that had ever terrorised the streets of London, had been apprehended.

‘The streets of London are safe once more,’ the papers declared, ‘thanks to the decisive actions of Lord Wynthorpe.’

In parliament, the House members cried “hear, hear” so thunderously the walls trembled, and men on the streets tossed their hats in the air when they saw him pass by.

The Duke of Wellington, the hero of Waterloo, invited him to a gala supper at his residency, ‘ Number One, London,’ Apsley House. People soon referred to the event as ‘The Supper of Heroes.’

“From one hero to another,” Wellington told Algie suavely, clapping him on his shoulder, “let me confess that heroism is a heavy burden which is best borne in the company of those who understand it.”

Isla had been invited to attend, but she declined, citing a splitting headache.

That was not untrue; but the real reason was not one she could publicly share.

The day had been intended for her wedding, and she could not, would not, face society with a smile.

No one knew that her betrothed, Lord Thaddaeus Linwood, was in truth Lucian Night.

It was a secret that would remain forever buried.

Algie had suggested they claim the wedding had merely been postponed, and that Linwood had embarked on an urgent voyage to the Indies due to family reasons, never to return.

“He won’t be returning from the trip, as his ship will sink. It is the cleanest way to rid ourselves of him,” he had said curtly.

She had scarcely recognised her brother at that moment. His voice had been cool and precise, as though he were closing a ledger rather than disposing of a man’s life. Isla had said nothing, only looked at him with wide, sorrowful eyes.

But to Catherine, she’d poured out her heart.

“It is a strange thing,” she told her, when Catherine stopped by briefly on her way to Apsley House, “A widow is permitted to grieve her husband. But when a wedding ends before it begins, because the bridegroom is unmasked as a criminal, and then dies, shot by her own brother, the bride is left in an odd kind of limbo. There is no name for what she is. I cannot even wear mourning. It would be considered improper.”

Catherine teared up. “Oh, Isla,” she whispered and gathered her into her arms.

Yet Isla, curiously, had not cried.

She found herself unable to.

“The worst thing,” she murmured into Catherine’s shoulder, “is that the brother I have loved, adored, admired, and trusted all my life has become someone I barely recognise. Perhaps it is a sign I never truly knew him at all. There is a side to him he never showed me. Brilliant, yes. But manipulative. Successful, yet utterly ruthless. He pulled the trigger and ended a man’s life without hesitation, without remorse.

” Her voice faltered. She paused, swallowed, and pressed on.

“It is a side I cannot abide. I find myself beginning to dislike my own brother. I no longer trust him. He feels like a stranger. There. I have said it.”

Isla sniffed and gently withdrew from Catherine’s embrace to search for a handkerchief.

“Oh, Isla,” Catherine said again, her eyes troubled.

“It is no wonder you feel this way. You must feel terribly used, as though he trampled your feelings in pursuit of his own aims. Forgive me for saying so, but I see it from the outside perspective as well. Every decision he made was in service of the Home Office. Your happiness was sacrificed for what he believed to be the greater good. I do not say this to excuse him. You have every right to feel betrayed.”

“He used me. Lied to me. Not once, not twice, but time and again.” Isla pressed her fingers to her temple.

“Perhaps it was for king and country, or whatever noble cause he deems worthy. But still.” She gave a helpless shrug.

“I was nothing but a pawn in a game I did not even know I was playing. He is my brother. Or… I thought he was. I suppose I shall call him Wynthorpe from now on. Algie is gone. I do not know who he is to me anymore.”

“And Linwood?” Catherine’s voice was quiet, full of concern. “You loved him dearly, did you not? And I mean Teddy, not Lucian Night.”

A shadow crossed Isla’s face. At the mention of his name, a dark wave of grief rose so forcefully that it left her gasping.

With all the strength she could muster, she shoved her emotions back where they came from, that treacherous box of her heart, slammed the lid shut, and swallowed the wail rising in her throat.

“Love,” she said with a brittle smile. “What is that? He said he loved me. And it was all a lie, spoken by a black-hearted criminal. He never meant a word. Yes, he deserved to die.” Her voice wavered again. “If only for lying to me like that.”

Catherine said nothing, but her eyes brimmed with sorrow. She patted Isla’s hand gently. “You should rest, dear friend. Forgive the platitude, but time will heal all wounds.”

Isla gave a hollow laugh. “And yet, despite everything, you rather like Wynthorpe, do you not?”

A faint blush crept into Catherine’s cheeks. “He asked me to accompany him to the supper at Apsley House. ”

“That is tantamount to an official declaration of engagement.” Isla waved a hand. “My felicitations.”

Catherine plucked absently at a flower petal from the arrangement on the table. “He has not proposed. I hardly think a supper invitation constitutes an engagement.”

Isla chuckled tiredly. “He is ruthless in matters of state, but when it comes to affairs of the heart, he turns lily-livered. My advice, Catherine: do not make it easy for him. If he wants to win you, make him beg. Let him crawl. Let him humiliate himself for love, publicly.”

“Yes, yes,” Catherine replied, still patting Isla’s hand as though humouring a wilful child, her brow furrowed. “You really must rest now. I shall return tomorrow and tell you all about the gala supper.”

For once, Isla did not mind being sent to bed.

Weeks passed. And Isla found herself in a strange, suspended sort of life. Her days unfolded just as they had before she ever met Teddy. She visited hospitals, orphanages, prisons, and charitable events. Her time was fully occupied, and each night she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Only once did she dream. And vividly.

She dreamed of Vanya and of Jem.

Vanya, whose soft hands braided her hair while she sang a lullaby in that gentle, lilting voice Isla remembered so well.

Vanya, who tucked her into a coarse woollen blanket as they lay beside the fire, sleeping on the bare ground.

She saw the moors again and felt that aching loneliness rise in her chest, just as it had when she once ran barefoot over gorse and heather, calling out for Vanya.

But Vanya was gone, slipping from her grasp like mist. Try as she might, Isla could not hold on to her.

She cried out, and sorrow swept through her. But someone else was there, gripping her hand.

Jem.

Jem, just as he had been at thirteen years old, with wild, thick, tawny hair and thin, lanky limbs.

That ever-present whistle on his lips. Jem, who could flip coins in the air and make them disappear.

Always a step behind her. Always there. Teasing her, shielding her, holding her hand.

Jem, who had sat beside her at the orphanage.

Jem, who was there when the grand carriage arrived from London, bearing the Wynthorpe crest. A beautiful lady had stepped down, Lady Wynthorpe, and beside her, a gentleman, Lord Algernon Wynthorpe.

They had come to take Isla into a new world.

Jem had told her to go.

“I do not want to go,” she cried.

“You must. You belong with them,” he had said then, just as he said now, in the dream. “You must go with them.”

“I do not want to go.” Isla clung to him, weeping. Over and over, she cried. “I do not want to go.” But Jem gently uncurled her fingers from his hand. She tried to hold on, but he slipped from her grasp. Then, like Vanya, he began to rise, higher and higher, until he vanished into the sky.

Meggie woke her.

“M’lady, wake up now. Come on, wake up.” She was shaking her gently .

“Meggie?” Isla blinked at her, dazed.

“There now, there,” Meggie murmured, patting her arm. “Ye don’t have to go. No one’s forcin’ ye. Ye don’t have to go nowhere ye don’t want to.”

“I had a nightmare.”

“Aye, that ye did. And a bad one too. Ye was thrashin’ and cryin’ in yer sleep, sayin’ ye don’t want to go––to that supper, I reckon, but ye ain’t goin’, over my dead body.” Meggie shook out the blanket and tucked it round her. “I’ve never seen ye in such a state.”

“It was only a dream.” Isla wiped her cheeks. “Only a dream,” she whispered.

But why, even in her dream, why had Jem told her to go?

As if he had wanted to be rid of her. Why couldn’t it have been different?

Why couldn’t she have dreamed he asked her to stay, just once?

Not even in her dreams did the people she loved choose her.

Not even in her dream did the people she loved stay by her side.

The thought filled her with a deep bitterness.

Jem.

Thanks to that wretched dream, Isla’s thoughts were full of him that morning.

The boy she had loved so dearly, who had grown into someone she hardly recognised.

She played with the thought of contacting him once more.

She had not heard from him since that strange meeting at the inn.

She had not reached out to him, and clearly, he had not cared to send a note either.

He must know where to find her. After all, she was the sister of Wynthorpe.

She picked at her breakfast with little appetite. These days she took her meals in her own morning room, no longer in the dining room with Wynthorpe. They no longer shared luncheons or suppers either. In truth, she rarely saw him now. Which was just as well.

He had buried himself in work.

“Did you turn him down?” Isla asked Catherine once, wondering whether his increased workload was an attempt at healing a bruised heart.

“How could I turn him down when he never proposed?” Catherine replied dryly. “I confess I grow weary of waiting, Isla. He cannot feel too deeply if he cannot even be bothered to ask for my hand.” She shrugged. “I have other suitors too, you know.”

Isla nodded. “Perhaps it is for the best. Wynthorpe is the sort of man who will always be married to his work. You deserve better.”