Bo frowned at that. “Has Westmorland asked it of you?”
“He insists I may keep it,” she grumbled.
Bo’s frown dissipated. “I understand all too well your desire to maintain your freedom. But believe me when I tell you that love with the right man will not feel like a cage, entrapping you. It will feel instead as if you are a bird, set free to fly for the first time.”
Indecision skewered her still. “How do I know if Westmorland is the right man?”
“Put aside all your fears and doubts and ask your heart,” Bo directed her sagely. “That is where the true answer lies.”
Could she? Did she dare?
She stared down at the book, still open on her lap. Four words taunted her.
My Love, my own.
She took a deep breath, then exhaled on a long sigh, praying what she was about to do was right. “I believe I have my answer.”
One day to go.
It loomed before him like a grim eternity as Benedict attempted to focus upon the reports he had received that morning from his League agents overseas. Word from Philadelphia and New York suggested the dynamitards responsible for the attacks in Westminster and the Tower of London had emerged from a new, more dangerous faction of the Fenians. Previously, they had operated out of New York under the direction of Drummond McKenna.
In the wake of McKenna’s death, the Fenians had fractured, splintering into different groups. There was strong suspicion that more such outrages would be perpetrated in the days to come, unless the men responsible could be apprehended. One man had been arrested, but one man alone could not have planted three bombs at once. Which meant the others remained out there somewhere.
Capable of bringing more destruction to London.
Capable of attempting to harm Isabella once more.
Damn it. Why the hell had he agreed to give Isabella two days to contemplate their marriage? The reports also contained confirmation of what he had already suspected—that the London Fenians had used Isabella’s abduction as a distraction technique, attempting to rattle him. Their plan had worked, and he had played right into their hands, diverting detectives and League agents while the dynamitards laid their bombs.
He had his best agents on their trails now. Scotland Yard, meanwhile, had released the address and movements of the man they had arrested on suspicion of the Tower of London bombing, imploring the public to come forward with more information. For the moment, it seemed, every part of his life was a game of waiting.
With a frustrated sigh, he stood, needing to take a break from the monotony of his day. He stalked from his study and nearly mowed down an elegant female form. Jarred from his thoughts, it took him a moment to realize who he had just almost trampled.
Roberta.
“Westmorland!” she greeted him with a smile.
Unlike Isabella, Roberta considered dressing an art form. She wore a smart navy walking dress accented with thin ivory stripes, a fall of delicate lace on her bodice. Her brilliant hair was piled extravagantly atop her head, a fringe of bangs on her forehead au courant. She was a striking woman, and yet when he looked upon her now, he felt nothing.
“Roberta.” He offered her an abbreviated bow, wondering what the devil she was doing here. “Forgive me for my haste. I am afraid my thoughts were otherwise occupied.”
“Of course.” She studied him. “I confess, I am happy to see you, though I had been calling upon Lady Callie. I have missed you.”
Bloody hell, this was not the complication he needed in his life today. “I have been meaning to speak with you, Roberta.”
Her smile faded. She was an intelligent woman. “I see.”
He looked about, realizing they stood in the midst of the hall where any servants might overhear. “Have you a moment?”
She had been on her way out, and knowing Roberta, she also had a social calendar laden with calls and obligations.
“I always have a moment for you, Your Grace,” she said softly, her voice tinged with an underlying sadness he could not ignore.
He led her into his study, closing the door for privacy before turning back to her. “Roberta, I hold you in high esteem.”
She raised a brow. “However?”
He sighed. “However, I must put an end to our arrangement. I should have done so a long time ago.”
“Who is she?” she asked, solemn.
“Miss Isabella Hilgrove,” he answered without hesitation. “I intend to make her my wife as expeditiously as possible.”
Her expression reflected her shock. “The typewriter woman?”
He was surprised Roberta recognized Isabella’s name, but then he supposed his endorsement of Isabella’s school in the Times had not gone unnoticed. “She is the proprietress of a typewriting school, yes.”
“I had not thought to see you marry ever, and certainly not to a woman so obviously beneath you,” Roberta said sharply.
Some of her response was, he did not doubt, tainted by her own disappointment. But he did not care for the manner in which she scorned his future duchess.
“On the contrary,” he countered coolly, “she is my better in every way.”
“You fancy yourself in love with her, do you not?” Roberta questioned.
He detected the scorn in her voice, in her expression. After having suffered a vastly disappointing marriage of her own, Roberta had little respect for the institution. It had been one of the qualities which had made her an ideal lover. There had been no expectations, on either of their parts. He had long believed his parents’ awful marriage had cured him of the desire to ever wed himself.
Isabella had proven him wrong.
“I know I am in love with her,” he told Roberta, though his feelings for Isabella were hardly her concern.
He owed her no explanation. But neither did he want her to harbor any illusions he would change his mind. He was marrying Isabella Hilgrove as soon as she gave
