“There were certain traditions of our true faith that we practiced at home. Traditions the king wouldn’t have tolerated in his tailor.”
“I’ve noticed you wear the hand of Fatima.”
Isabel pulled the necklace from her bodice. “Muslims call it by that name. For the Jews, it is the hand of Miriam. It was Mama’s hamsa, and, yes, another remainder of our heritage.”
Percy had vowed to keep his emotional distance from Isabel—she was his enemy’s pawn—but he couldn’t, not with the unresolved pain he saw in her eyes. “How long before he was caught passing information to the English?”
“Three years.”
Three years was an eternity to have one’s neck bared to the blade of potential exposure. “And your father was imprisoned?”
Eyes brimming with unshed tears, she nodded.
“Then how did you and your sister come to be in England?” Before she could open her mouth, Percy answered the question. “Montfort.”
“Montfort transported us and offered us a place to stay,” she said, voice cleared of emotion as she recounted the facts. “Fortunately, Papa had planned for an emergency. Eva and I refused any more help from Montfort and used the monies to find a suitable shop and start our dressmaking trade. A few months later, Montfort arrived at our door to give us the chance to both serve our new country and free Papa. The debt that Eva and I had acquired by accepting his help to leave Spain obliged us. Eva volunteered to go with him without any idea of what he had planned for her.”
“Which was?”
“To use her beauty and body for his own ends.”
Anger surged hot through Percy. “He turned her into a prostitute.”
“He used the word courtesan, but, yes. When she finally came home, she was addicted to laudanum and several months gone with child. Ariel was born sickly.”
“But that wasn’t the end of it,” Percy stated. Isabel still hadn’t explained her involvement.
“A few months after Eva returned, Montfort came back and explained that our debt wasn’t paid. I needed to take my sister’s place at Number 9.”
Percy’s anger grew spikes and tapped into a vein of pure rage. This was how Montfort bent others to his will. “Now it wasn’t simply about freeing your father, but about you, Eva, and Ariel staying in England.”
“You know the story from there.”
“And you believed Montfort?”
“On each and every point.”
“Why?”
“Because he seems all powerful.” With a sudden surge of agitation, she pushed off the window ledge. “The lives of my family are at risk,” she said, a plea in her voice.
She wanted him to understand. And he did. All too well. “You have no choice.”
“He’s coming after you now.”
“And using you to do it.”
She nodded, abashed. “But why? Why is he coming after you?”
“I did treat his beloved niece, Olivia, rather poorly when we were married,” Percy said, trying for flippancy.
Grave eyes stared out at him, unconvinced by his forced lightness. “That isn’t why, though, is it? And it isn’t simply about this Savior of St. Giles business.”
A frisson of surprise traced through Percy. “You know about that?”
“I have my sources, too.”
He exhaled a humorless laugh. “Touché.”
