To Wed A Rebel. Sophie Dash
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be too well-known to succeed, but by that point he aimed to have all the money he required to free him from this life.
Then he would never need to do such tasteless deeds again.
Well, unless they sounded fun.
Eyes tracked his footsteps, there was nervous laughter from younger women – gaggled together like geese – and gossip followed, largely untrue, about heroics and sea battles and how he had wrestled a vicious beast to save two young women the night before. It was all tedious, even if it brought a smile to his face and a drink to his hands. He had barely taken a gulp before his employer was at his throat.
“Why isn’t it done yet?”
“It takes time,” said Isaac, scanning the assembled women with their pretty frocks and fickle dreams. “Where is the Osbourne girl? I haven’t seen her.” He hadn’t looked. “Don’t tell me you wanted me here purely because you enjoy my company? If so, the sentiment is not returned.”
Griswell’s tone was as sour as the wine. “I thought you had done this before?”
“I have, more times than I can count,” he replied levelly. “Didn’t you like the snake incident? Its owner was reluctant to put the creature at risk, but your money persuaded him.”
“My daughter was on that blasted boat.”
“No harm came to her and it made an impression.” It also kept him from getting bored. One woman was much like all the others in his profession. Why not add exotic animals and hysteria? Anything to keep his interest and get the job done.
Isaac needed a stronger drink – several stronger drinks – consumed anywhere that wasn’t here. It had been a while since he’d mingled with polite society and he was out of practice, too rough around the edges, blunt and careless. It was easy to hate them all. The challenge was not to show it.
“This isn’t a game, Roscoe.”
“And yet I play it so well.” Before the merchant could lose his temper, Isaac added, “I shall make little Miss Osbourne fall. She’ll throw her life away for me. It won’t be difficult; it never is.” And then, as always, he’d vanish with little thought as to the destruction left behind. “But you cannot bully a woman into holding feelings for you. It has to be done in a way that won’t arouse suspicion. It has to seem genuine.”
“If you don’t arouse something soon, she’ll be married to that oaf.”
Isaac flashed a sardonic grin. “Then I guess I am doing her a favour.”
It had taken great self-will not to aim a fist squarely into Griswell’s jaw, but the man paid well – or he would do, when this was all over. The merchant left behind stern words and a reprimand. He had no idea where Isaac’s target was, but the man’s daughter was easy to spot. Lottie’s red hair gave her away, a shining beacon in the candlelight. Now, there was a pretty woman not far from his grasp, but nothing usually was.
“Miss Griswell?” Lottie’s carefully considered expression was directed his way, ready to turn down any unworthy suitor, until – of course – she saw him. An expectant smile folded back her lips as he bowed. If only he’d been paid to seduce her; it would all be over by midnight and he’d be a rich man. “I take it that you are recovered from yesterday’s excitement?”
“Almost,” she replied, meeting his eyes with unnerving intensity. “But now that you’re here, I know there’s nothing to worry about.”
“There are no snakes here tonight, Miss Griswell,” he assured her. “At least, not the kind with scales.”
“I suppose such excitement is bland for you, what with your time at sea.”
“Now who have you been talking to?” Isaac’s practised smile grew thinner, an impatient flicker. She did not notice. They never did.
“No one who could satisfy my curiosity.” She gave him a childish pout. “You’re an enigma, Mr Roscoe.”
Her reply did not reassure him. If there were any here who knew his past, it put his aims in danger. “I am surprised Miss Osbourne isn’t with you tonight.”
“She’s not one for all this.” Lottie waved her hand at their surroundings: glittering chandeliers, peacock feathers, military uniforms and forced civility. “Not like us two, who are far more suited to such high circles. We are very much alike, you and I.”
“Where did you say she was?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t.” Women like Lottie wore jealousy like jewellery, on show for all to see and pander to. The hold he had over her was slipping – and if he couldn’t charm the friend, he would have no hope manipulating the Osbourne girl.
The things I do for money, he thought.
“Would you like to dance, Miss Griswell?”
Lottie’s demeanour changed entirely, gloved fingers resting on his arm, victorious. Her chatter never ceased as she tried to coax out his mysteries, flatter his ego or endear herself to him. He could almost hear the wedding bells sounding in her barren, shallow skull.
It was midway through the minuet, as their hands found one another, that she said, “You have rescued me from loneliness tonight, for Ruth’s never any company.”
“How so?”
“She constantly abandons me and finds some sad little corner somewhere, as though she’s above all this.”
“How could anyone possibly leave you, Miss Griswell?”
Isaac mistakenly, for a brief second, stumbled into guilt. It was Lottie’s hopeful expression that did it, that chipped at his resolve, when she became the person behind all the flirtatious comments and wilful actions. Another lonely woman, looking for a deeper connection under all the flat promises and endless, lifeless parties.
“Ruth’s usually hovering in doorways or sitting alone, still as a statue,” said Lottie, as the music played on and she faced the tall man. “I can’t tear her away from Lady Winston’s garden this evening, not even to dance. I can hardly understand her most days. Who wouldn’t want to—”
Ruth was in the gardens.
He had her now.
And so Isaac left Lottie, without apology, standing on the ballroom floor with a lost expression and the dance incomplete.
“Do excuse me,” were the only words he offered, moving on without a backwards glance. She did not call out; he knew she wouldn’t. To do so would be to risk looking even more foolish, mouth gaping, pride wounded, hopes crushed and surrounded by twirling, happy couples. Isaac had a job to do.
The gardens were littered with small groups who tipped wine down their necks and basked in the cooler air. Night had washed the colour from the leaves, leaving greys and blacks behind. No distant figure sat in solitude. No wanderer marked the grounds. The girl was nowhere to be found. As much as he hated to admit that Griswell was right, Isaac was running short on time. He must have overlooked her, walked straight past her, somewhere. He told himself he’d find her on his way back towards the punch bowl, because another drink never hurt, but his march was halted. The doors to the glasshouse, the orangery, were wide open.
Slapping footfalls came from within, along with high laughter – a child’s.
He followed it.
In amongst the narrow trees and sweeping plants, Ruth’s ill-coloured gown brushed along the floor, a whispering noise, as she slowly approached a shadowed hiding place. Isaac could not see what she chased, not until her purposely slowed movements gave the three-year-old, her playmate, enough time to dart out and weave through the pots. Their little game was filled with high voices and scary growls, clawed hands and delighted screams.
“Not so fast,” called Ruth, as she reached out and easily captured the little boy, swinging him in a wide arc. Bare feet, mucky from the