Queen (Regency Refuge 3) (11 page)

A week had passed since Jackal's visit. Nay, Rupert's visit. Isabel couldn't help but smile whenever she tried to think of him by his real name. It felt funny on her tongue, even when all she did was think the name.

Despite all the work she and Owen had put into going through the minister's paperwork and belongings, they'd found nothing to tie anyone — her parents or otherwise — to the thwarted attack on the London Docks or the Battle of Trafalgar, and Owen wasn't happy. He hid his feelings well enough, but she'd seen the bleak expression on his face once he'd thought she was occupied elsewhere. She'd noticed the way his shoulders drooped a bit more each time she asked if he'd had any luck yet.

Dropping the lid onto the last of the boxes, frustration and fatigue weighed heavily on her. Isabel rounded on Owen. "We've pored over every piece of correspondence the minister had in his possession at the time of his death. Is it possible some of these are written in code? Should we try to decipher them?"

Owen ran a hand through his blond curls and shook his head. "With no key to unlock the code, it would be a waste of time. We could spend years and learn nothing."

"Why has this now become so important? More than a decade has passed. Why this sudden push for answers?"

Owen frowned. "I think Tobias is taking advantage of the current situation. The minister's death gave him access to files he wouldn't have seen otherwise. Then Parliament stepped in and forced the dissolution of the War Department, followed by the creation of their own agency, which has led to its share of chaos and confusion. Add your return from America and Parliament wanting my head, and there it is. The right people at the right time."

Isabel fought the disappointment that hung in the room like smoke in a men's club. "I'm sorry we couldn't find answers. Nothing we found would have brought them back, but it would be nice to have proof of their innocence."

His eyes somber, Owen stepped close and, with a finger under her chin, tilted Isabel's head up until she met his gaze. "You know in your heart. So do I."

Isabel shook her head, despising herself for her own doubts. "We both know perfectly ordinary people can be party to terrible deeds. Just because I loved my parents doesn't mean they were innocent."

Owen leaned closer, and for a moment Isabel thought he might kiss her. Her heart raced, and she fisted her hands at her sides, not quite sure what to do with them. Then he said, his voice full of conviction, "I won't let you carry this burden the rest of your life. I'll uncover the truth." He did kiss her then, a soft touch of his lips against the corner of her mouth, and her hands at last knew what to do.

Isabel brushed her fingers against the side of Owen's face. He caught one of her hands in his own and brought it to his lips where he kissed it, his green eyes dark with emotion.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her knees turned to liquid. Isabel opened her mouth to say something.
Kiss me again.
A throat being cleared on the other side of the small room broke the spell of the moment. Owen and Isabel jumped apart like children caught with their hands in the candy dish.

Williamson stood there, staring at the floor. "Pardon the interruption, but night has fallen, and I can get y' out of here now."

Isabel nodded briskly and sought Owen in the small room. He gave her a sad smile before turning back to the man who owned the apothecary shop in which the secret store room was hidden away. How Tobias found such people and convinced them to help him, she would never know.

"Very well." Owen shook Williamson's hand. "It's been a pleasure working with you, and I thank you for your hospitality." Up until this night, they'd been lodging in rooms above the shop, but on this night they would be leaving London. It was necessary to sneak out under cover of darkness so as not to arouse suspicion from the neighboring businesses or passersby.

"You two take care of each other. The world's hard enough without the mess you two are involved in. Be safe." Williamson opened the back door of his shop with practiced silence and offered Isabel a wink as she and Owen slipped out into the night. She bid him farewell with a small wave before stepping away and allowing herself to be swallowed by the night's darkness.

Isabel concentrated on following Owen. The disappointment she felt over not finding any evidence to exonerate her parents was deep, but she forced it away and concentrated on the task at hand. They needed to get out of London, and she was going to have to convince Owen to visit his father.

She'd wondered over the years if Mr. Loring had in any way been involved in the treasonous schemes. He and her father had been friends and business partners. Because no charges had been brought against him, she'd forced herself to accept his innocence, even if doing so forced her to acknowledge her own parents' guilt. Surely she didn't want Owen's father to be a traitor, did she? Unthinkable! She'd experienced the shame such a truth carried, and she could never wish that on another person.

The emotional turmoil pulled Isabel in different directions until she gritted her teeth, focused her eyes on Owen's back, and stepped her way through the muck of the alley. By concentrating on every detail around her, she was able to force the doubts into a small corner of her mind.

****

Buttercup and
Despiadado
made their way south at their riders' direction. Twelve years had passed since she'd last been back to Surrey. She'd adamantly avoided the area while she'd still lived in England.

Owen glanced back at her and slowed his horse to a walk to come up alongside hers. "Are you sure you can handle this?"

She nodded.

"You're lying to me."

Again, she nodded.

"You don't have to come with me. We don't have to go at all, in fact."

Isabel's heart caught in her chest. She wanted to turn and flee, to get as far away from this place as she could. That, however, wouldn't be fair to Owen. Something important awaited their discovery.

With gritted teeth and a forced smile, she said, "I'll be fine. We're this close. We should at least visit your father. I'm sure you don't get out here often enough to suit your parents."

He grimaced and looked away. Owen wanted to avoid it as much as Isabel did. Why was he so reticent? Unless he and his family had suffered a falling out. Or perhaps… Was this about her parents?

"Owen?"

He spun back and looked at her again, his eyes shuttered. She noticed the dark circles beneath them. She'd been so intent on her own feelings these past weeks, she'd paid little heed to Owen's.

She tried to keep her voice light. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

The corner of his mouth tilted up, giving him a sardonic look. "I believe that's in the job description, wouldn't you say?"

"About your father," she pushed. "Are you keeping something from me?"

He broke eye contact, and her heart dropped into her stomach. He suspected his father.

"Come. Home should be over the next rise." Owen gave
Despiadado
some sort of silent signal, and the horse took off, giving Isabel and Buttercup yet another view of their backsides.

"All right, girl, let's get this over with." Isabel gave the cue, and Buttercup jumped forward, chasing the arrogant stallion.

****

By the time Isabel arrived and dismounted, a bleary-eyed stable lad was seeing to
Despiadado
. The sun began its daily job of painting the sky to the east, changing it from midnight's black to the purpled indigo that would soon give way to pink, orange, and eventually daylight.

Showing little care for the time of day nor the breathtaking scenery around them, Owen grabbed both his and Isabel's satchels and marched resolutely toward his childhood home. Isabel collected her smaller bag and scurried to keep up with him.

"Owen, slow down."

He didn't.

"For pity's sake, Owen, wait for me."

She might as well have not spoken.

"Stop and speak to me."

Owen skirted the front entrance and led them around the house and down a flight of stairs to the servants' entrance. The second he opened the door, the smell of fresh-baked bread and some kind of sizzling meat greeted them. Isabel's stomach growled — loudly, she feared — but everyone was so busy exclaiming over Owen's presence that nobody paid her any mind.

"Mr. Owen, shall we ready your room?"

"How long will you be with us?"

"Look at you! You don't come around near enough, you know."

"Are you going to settle down with a wife, then?"

The last question made Isabel blush. Her hope that nobody would notice fled as silence fell over the kitchen.

"Och, what do ye have here, lad?"

She knew that voice. Cook. Not the Lorings' cook, either. At least, not when she'd last seen her.

"Isabel? My girl, is that you?"

She lifted her eyes in time to see there was no escape from the woman bearing down on her. Not that she wanted to escape, but any hope she'd harbored about remaining unnoticed vanished in the light of Cook's eyes. Isabel stepped forward and met the woman's hug with one of her own.

"You were such a wee chil' the last I saw you. I didn't ken if I'd ever see you again. I hoped, but I never dreamed…"

"It's good to see you, too. When did you start working for the Lorings?"

Cook gave Isabel another squeeze before releasing her. "I hired on here five years ago. They're a good family, and Mrs. Loring…"

As if suddenly remembering her position, Cook stepped back and released Isabel. She cast a keen look to Owen. "Will you be needing a room, then? Or two?"

Owen shook his head. "I need to see my father. Is he up yet?"

"In his study, he is," a footman in liveried uniform volunteered from near the kitchen's doorway.

Owen turned toward the door and began walking. Isabel picked up her skirts and hurried after him. "I'm coming, and don't think you can stop me."

She heard Cook's tongue cluck behind her and peeked over her shoulder. The woman's once-vibrant red hair was fading, but her eyes spoke of kindness and wisdom the same as they always had. What Isabel saw in them now worried her.

Isabel was not going to like what the day had in store for her.

Owen had thought to keep Isabel away from the conversation with his father. Day after day, alternating between going through the minister's papers and watching her, had made one thing abundantly clear. He needed to do what was best for Isabel. Wherever the battle line was drawn, he would stand beside her — whichever side she chose to stand on. Too many times in her life, people had put their own self-interests ahead of hers, and she had suffered as a result. Time had come for somebody to put her needs first, and whether she wanted it to be him or not, he would see this through to the end.

With a soul-deep sigh, Owen opened the study door. It moved silently on its hinges, and his father heard nothing. Owen and Isabel stepped several feet into the study, the door closed behind them, before Mr. Loring noticed the movement and glanced up.

"Owen!" He jumped from his seat behind the desk and rushed around to greet his son. "I had no idea you were here. Who do you have…"

Mr. Loring paled.

"Isabel, you are a vision."

Owen, who watched his father closely, couldn't miss the sheen of tears in the man's eyes.

"Father, we came…"

Mr. Loring held up his hand to silence his son. "You suspect the Thorpes were innocent of the crimes for which they died, and you believe me to be complicit in their conviction and execution."

Isabel stepped forward. "You were my father's best friend. Did you believe him capable of treason?"

Mr. Loring ran a shaky hand over his face. "No, dear. I never believed it. What's more, I had proof of his innocence, but by the time I got my hands on it, the sentence had already been carried out. Then you vanished, and I had no way to find you."

Owen took a step forward as his father moved back around his desk and sank into his seat. "Do you still have the proof?"

His father nodded. "You have a puzzle box in your room. Do you remember my giving it to you?"

"It was a gift after I took the job with…" Owen had lied to his parents upon going to work for the War Department. He'd told them he worked for, "…the Bank of London."

One side of his father's mouth tilted up. "Of course. The Bank of London. I knew who you worked for, and I wanted to warn you, but to tell you would put your life at risk. So I put the evidence inside that puzzle box and trusted you would find it someday when the time was right."

"It's been in my old bedroom? All these years?"

Mr. Loring nodded, his eyes on Isabel. "I learned of the minister's death and the dissolution of the War Department and hoped Owen would eventually come looking for answers, even if he didn't know which questions he should ask. It never occurred to me he would bring you with him, but I'm glad you're here. Your parents were good people, and what happened to them should have been stopped. I tried. I give you my word, I tried. But I had to give up. There were threats. Against my family. Against Owen. I… maybe I'm a coward, but I gave up the fight."

Isabel took a seat in a decorative Jacobean chair. "Tell me what happened. I have a right to know."

Owen, who wanted nothing more than to run up to his room and collect the puzzle box, took a seat in another nearby chair, unable to ignore the entreaty in Isabel's voice.

Mr. Loring leaned back. Sadness painted an intricate pattern of shadow in his eyes. The weight he carried tugged at his shoulders until they were stooped. "Thorpe and I ran a small investment firm. We weren't wealthy, but we did well enough. We made sound investments, lived honorable lives, and provided for our families. Then along came a man who wanted us to invest in a shipping venture. The investment was larger than we were used to, but the man was reputable and influential. Working with him would open doors that had until that point remained closed to us. So we agreed."

Owen leaned forward. "And this man was?"

Mr. Loring frowned. "Charles Enderly."

Isabel wasn't as bitter as Owen might have expected. "Minister without portfolio. The man who claimed to want to stay out of the middle of the goings-on at the War Department, and yet somehow managed to maintain an iron grip."

Mr. Loring nodded. "He wasn't a minister yet, and he had no involvement in the War Department, either. At least not then."

"The investment was bad?" Tension crackled in the air around Owen.

His father swiped a kerchief across his brow. "The paperwork we received for the investment made everything look legitimate. The papers turned out to be fabricated. We were investing in a war, and England wasn't meant to be the victor."

Isabel gasped. "Trafalgar? The docks?"

The older man bowed his head. "I vow we had no idea. More than a year later, Thorpe began to suspect. He sent off letters requesting additional information and shared his concerns with me. Before we had a chance to take action, documents showed up." Mr. Loring spat the next words. "
The minister
, as he was known by then, gave testimony that both of your parents were complicit in those plots."

Owen hurt for Isabel. Her heart was visible in her eyes, and he watched as it broke all over again. She had to be reliving the deaths of her parents. He stood, the motion abrupt and stiff-legged, and began pacing the study. Shooting the arrow-sharp words with the speed of a longbow, he asked his father, "What did you do?"

"I visited Thorpe in prison. He believed the letters he'd sent out had been intercepted. We had no proof. Your father urged me to save myself and asked me to take care of you. I did the best I could to fulfill his wishes." Mr. Loring held out a hand to Isabel across his desk. "You stayed with us. Do you remember?"

She shook her head. "Those months are a blur."

"You lived with us during your parents' imprisonment and trial. Owen," he said with a flick of his eyes at his son, "was away at school. Once your parents were gone, the minister came and took you away. He said he'd found relatives to take you in. I tried to keep track of you, but the family he named, though distantly related to your father, had no knowledge of you."

"The minister took her, and you let him?" Owen's bellow filled the room.

His father stood. "I was a weak man, afraid for my family. Then I got a letter, a long overdue reply to one Thorpe had sent out. It contained proof of the minister's involvement and Thorpe's innocence. It was too late for them, but I could at least try to save their child. Or so I thought. I went to the minister and demanded he return Isabel to my care. He refused."

Isabel's voice was small. "And you let him keep me?"

Mr. Loring fell back into his chair. "Yes, I let him."

"Because of me." Owen's whisper fell into the silence with the explosive force of a cannonball into a ship's hull.