Page 39 of Bride By Mistake
“That I was to go at once to my aunt at the Convent of the Broken Angel—it is not the correct name of the convent, you understand, but what those who know it call it—and to take his jewels with me.”
“His jewels?”
“It is what he called Esmerelda—his mistress—and Perlita. An emerald and a pearl—his jewels.”
“Are you sure he didn’t mean actual jewels, your mother’s jewels, for instance?”
She shook her head. “No, for then he would have written ‘your jewels,’ because Mama’s jewels belonged to me. In any case, we sold Mama’s jewels to raise money to equip Papa’s army.”
“You sold your mother’s jewels?”
“Of course.” She saw his look and shrugged. “We needed guns to fight the French, and our king was a weak traitor who’d handed the country over to the enemy.” She noticed his expression and added, “It wasn’t so hard. I had no sentimental attachment to most of her jewelry—only the pearls. I never saw Mama wear anything except her pearls. They were a wedding present from her parents.”
“Where are they now?”
“Hidden in Papa’s secret safe place at Valle Verde.”
“So you want to fetch them.”
“No, my mother’s pearls are not sufficient cause. To be honest, I don’t look forward to going back there. I have no desire to meet my cousin Ramón again, and my home is no longer my home, not without Papa. But I promised Papa obedience, and I broke my promise when I fled Valle Verde and abandoned Perlita and her mother to their fate.”
“You were a child of thirteen,” he reminded her.
“I was responsible. And Perlita was—is—younger than me by two years.”
“Her mother wasn’t younger than you, however. Shewasan adult and perfectly capable of taking care of her own child.”
Isabella shook her head. “She was not raised to be the son of the family,” she said, hearing the edge of bitterness in her voice. “Perlita’s mother is beautiful and brainless. She was entirely dependent on Papa for everything. And he passed on that responsibility to me when he left. And then, as he lay dying, he charged me with their care…” Her voice cracked, and he completed her tale.
“But in your fear of being forced to marry your cousin Ramón, you panicked and forgot them.”
Isabella glanced away and said nothing. Fear and panic were acceptable excuses for a thirteen-year-old. Let him believe it. It was better than the truth.
“Did you make inquiries after you reached the convent?”
“Yes, my aunt sent letters to Valle Verde several times.”
“And received no response?”
“No, but in wartime, letters go astray. And if Ramón received the letters…” She made a gesture of disgust. “Ramón would pass on nothing from my aunt. He suspected she was hiding me, but there was nothing he could do.”
Lord Ripton seemed to be pondering the situation.
“Papa gave Esmerelda and Perlita a house on the estate. They must be there. Where else would they go?”
“Were you close?”
“What does that matter?” she said, a telltale defensive note in her voice. She scanned his face, trying to read his expression. “My sister’s fate weighs heavily on my conscience. Imustgo.” Could he not see that? He had to, surely.
“No, it’s eight years since you left your half sister behind. There’s no point in traipsing across Spain on a wild-goose chase. Whatever her situation when you left Valle Verde, it is long since changed, and I don’t wish to delay our arrival in England any further.”
“Because of this important engagement of yours?”
He looked at her. “Yes.”
“What is so important that it comes before my sister’s welfare?” Isabella waited. She’d bared her soul to him—almost—and he’d waved it aside as if it meant nothing. And to him, perhaps it didn’t. But not to her. It was a matter of honor. And blood.
“It’s not important.”
