“My goodness,” Isabella gasped, then laughed. “It must have been quite a haul in those crates.”
His brown eyes flashed as he set her back onto her feet. “You are looking at the newest recruit to the Masonic Grand Lodge, London.”
Isabella’s mouth dropped open. “Did my uncle—”
“Black,” Wendell announced as he sat on the settee and crossed one long leg over the other. “I encountered Lord Black on the docks this morning. We chatted for a bit and he invited me to the lodge. He’s sponsoring me, Isabella. I can hardly believe it. A Mason. A member of the Brethren.”
He clapped his hands and whooped in delight and Isabella couldn’t help but notice how young and handsome he appeared, with the sunlight filtering through the windows, casting him in a brilliant glow. “My first meeting will be tonight. I can hardly wait. You know of my interest in the Templars, and it’s no secret that the Freemasonry, or at the very least, Black’s lodge, practices the Templar ways. Rumor has it, that this particular lodge was opened by members who could actually lay claim to being descended directly from Templar knights!”
“Something must be very exciting,” Lucy announced as she breezed into the parlor, wearing a celadon-colored morning gown. “I could hear the enthusiasm from the hallway.”
Wendell stood and bowed. “Good morning, my lady. Forgive the early hour of my call, but I could not contain myself.”
“Well, I can understand why. Isabella does look astonishingly lovely in pale pink. Ethereal, wouldn’t you say?”
Wendell’s smile faded as he cast a glance in the direction of the chair where she was seated, pouring the tea. Her outfit was a lovely pink bodice made of pleated silk, adorned with an ecru high lace collar that was at once extravagant but beautiful. The bodice fit snuggly, emphasizing her full bust, and the overskirt of pink silk damask was edged in thick velvet. It was something a grand lady would wear, not a poor Yorkshire girl. She felt like a sham wearing such beautiful things, but Lucy had made it for her, another one of her particular designs. Her cousin certainly had an eye for fashion, and the sewing skills to match. Lucy was a forerunner of fashion, and every debutante and fashionable lady strove to uncover the modiste who outfitted Lucy in such wonderful clothes. Little did they know, the modiste was Lucy herself. A fact that would shock society. No society lady would ever deign to make their own clothes—that was for the middling classes. Herself, she didn’t see what all the fuss was about, especially since her cousin’s sense of fashion and ingenious designs outshone anything she had seen done up by the seamstresses that outfitted the cream of the ton. But then, she had never been able to afford to contemplate such things. She’d counted herself lucky if she possessed a cloak without holes in it. Which very rarely happened.
A masculine cough ended her rumination. “Oh, yes, yes,” Wendell said hurriedly. “In my excitement, I forgot myself. You look lovely today, Miss Fairmont. Pink is a very fetching color on you.”
She handed him a cup and saucer, made out of Wedgwood china, which was so fine and delicate she could see through it as the sun’s rays sparkled through the salon windows. “Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Knighton. Really, my vanity can survive a morning without it being complimented.”
She sent Lucy a warning glance, which her cousin, of course, ignored. Sinking onto the chair beside hers, Lucy reached for a cup of tea and brought it to her mouth for a delicate sip before replacing the cup in the saucer with a slight chink. “You must tell us what is so exciting, Mr. Knighton.”
“I am to be initiated into the Brotherhood, my lady. The Masons,” Wendell said with a mix of pride and awe.
“Are you?” Lucy asked. “Did my father offer to sponsor you?”
“In fact, no. Lord Black did.”
“Black?” Lucy asked, her auburn brow furled as she glanced at her.
Wendell took a sip of his tea, then nodded. “Indeed, Black. Very amiable fellow. There is to be a special meeting tonight, an initiation which I will not be privy to. But before that, Black will offer to sponsor me.”
Lucy slid her gaze to Isabella. “Well, then, I do believe you are free tonight, cousin.”
Isabella hid a groan. Not that séance business again. Her head was paining her, and she felt queasy, and the thought of attending Lucy’s morbid curiosity only made her feel worse.
“Oh, yes, please,” Wendell said as he rose from the settee. “Please, Miss Fairmont, go out and enjoy the evening. There will be few nice ones left before the winter comes. Do not let my plans interfere with yours.”
Isabella accepted Wendell’s hand and allowed him to help her from her chair. With a chaste kiss, he kissed her hand, then reached for his hat. “Good day, Miss Fairmont. Please do enjoy it.”
They watched him leave the parlor, and when the door closed behind him, Isabella sunk into an ungraceful heap onto the chair. She felt…let down for some reason, but why, she could not fathom. Wendell’s visit had been like all his other ones, and she had never felt anything less then satisfied when he had left.
Lucy must have known her thoughts, for she kept her lips pressed firmly together as she toyed with an imaginary speck of lint on her skirts.
“I wonder what Lord Black is playing at, sponsoring Mr. Knighton?”
Isabella took a sip of her tea. “Perhaps he is just being kind, Luce. Not everyone has ulterior motives.”
Lucy’s gaze met hers. “Think back to our conversation last night, Issy. Did I not tell you that Black would not be deterred?”
“Deterred from what?”
Like a sly kitten, Lucy smiled. “You know very well from what.”
“In fact, I don’t. What is it you’re trying to say?” Isabella asked, irritability making her voice sharper than she intended. The mild headache she had been suffering under all morning became a loud and painful throbbing. Now she knew for certain, it was one of those headaches, she thought. Rubbing her temple, she tried focusing on her cousin.
“What I am trying to make you see, dear Issy, is that Black has just removed an obstacle.”
Isabella dropped her hand from her temple. “I beg your pardon? I’m not following your line of thinking.”
“He has removed Knighton from your side, and quite effectively, in fact, for Mr. Knighton will be studying for weeks to make it through the first degrees, thereby leaving you alone, and available for the evenings.”
The door opened, thankfully relieving Isabella of the task of rebutting Lucy’s wild suggestion. Stonebrook’s butler, Jennings, appeared, his face austere and wrinkled. He was ancient and frightfully proper. Isabella had been terrified of him when she had first come to live with Lucy and her father. But since that time, she had softened to crusty old Jennings.
“For you, miss.”
Jennings presented a silver salver with one perfect bloodred bloom, with an ivory card attached to the stem by a black satin ribbon.
“For me?” she asked, even though she could read quite clearly that the card had her name written on it, in bold, black lettering.
“Indeed,” Jennings murmured.
“Thank you,” she returned as she lifted the delicate flower from its resting place. Oh, it was perfect. And the sender had removed the leaves and thorns as well.
Jennings departed, and with a quick glance at her cousin, who was pressing forward in her chair, Isabella turned the card over and noted that there was no seal imprinted on the wax. The only thing keeping the edges together was a large blob of black wax.
“Well?” Lucy asked. “I can hardly bear the suspense, Issy. Open the blasted thing.”
“Your language,” Isabella reprimanded her, feeling every bit as anxious as Lucy.
“Oh, get on with it,” Lucy commanded. “It’s only you and I, for mercy’s sake.”
The wax seal broke, and she opened the card to more of the elegant black script.
’Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Ar
e faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes
To give sigh for sigh.
I dreamed of your sighs last night, Isabella—a most haunting, beautiful sound that I hope, most fervently, I might hear again very soon.
Your servant, Black
Isabella tried to hastily fold the card before Lucy could read it. But her cousin was too quick, and managed to read Lord Black’s missive before she could hide the card.
“Well,” Lucy drawled with amusement, “how could Lord Black know that you have a fondness for Thomas Moore’s poetry?”
Puzzled, Isabella looked up at her cousin. “I don’t know.”
With a smile Lucy breezed past her then stopped at the door. With a glance over her shoulder, she said, “You know, Issy, I would bet my dowry that Lord Black would not command you to see to your own amusement in the evenings—not like Mr. Knighton. Something tells me that Black would keep you exceedingly busy, and delightfully amused, all night long.”
CHAPTER FOUR
PALL MALL AND COCKSPUR STREETS were bustling with trade. Elegant carriages transported the rich and fashionable down the cobbles for an afternoon of shopping, while wooden carts carrying fresh vegetables and apples wound their way to Covent Garden where the goods would go up for sale in the market.
On the sidewalks, people walked shoulder to shoulder, some in a hurry to carry out their business, others at a more leisurely pace, stopping occasionally to peer into a shop window or to purchase a newspaper from one of the many young boys selling them on the street corners.
“Wolf escaped from London Zoo! Still at large!” called one such boy as Isabella passed him.
“Mystery in Spitalfields!” cried another. “Bodies found murdered! Read all about it in the Standard!”
Pressing on, Isabella ignored the chilling headlines of the day and continued down Cockspur Street to Jacobson’s, the preeminent apothecary in London. Her headache would not give up, not even after a pot of tea and a nap. When she’d left the house, Lucy was still napping, so Isabella had taken a footman with her. The footman, Isabella noted, was lingering behind, talking to a buxom shopgirl who was trying to sell the young man a haunch of pork—and other wares, Isabella was certain. It didn’t matter that she was getting farther and farther away from him, for her head was throbbing, and the smells of the city were beginning to nauseate her. She needed that medicine, the only tonic that had been able to cure the headaches and stem the dreams.
Oh, how she hated to think of them coming back. They’d been gone for months now. She’d thought herself cured. How very distressing to know she wasn’t. She’d had one of those disturbing dreams that very afternoon, during her nap. It was upon awakening that she realized the dreams had only been on hiatus—not banished. She knew then that she must come to Jacobson for more of the tonic.
“Women gone missing from the Adelphi Theatre,” a boy called as he rang his bell. A group of gentlemen stopped and clustered around the lad for a look at the day’s headlines. The boy held out an issue of the Times to her when he saw her standing on the sidewalk, attempting to move around the group of men. “Read all about the Adelphi mystery in the Times, miss.”
Reaching into her reticule, Isabella removed a shilling and gave it to the lad.
“Thank you, miss,” he said, his eyes growing round. “’Ave a good day.”
Nodding, she accepted the paper from the boy and unfolded it. Scanning the headlines, she read the blurb of the actresses who had gone missing from the Adelphi, the notorious music and dance hall.
The ladies were last seen in the company of a tall gentleman, his features concealed by the brim of his top hat. An eyewitness observed the ladies being ushered into a black town carriage driven by four black horses…
The Earl of Black had such a carriage, which was drawn by four magnificent warmbloods the color of midnight. The thought stopped her cold. Lucy had mentioned seeing Black leave his town house late at night…the very night, in fact, that the women were seen getting into the carriage.
Nonsense. Black was a refined gentleman. What in the world would he be doing with three women whose reputations were dubious at best? Women were always missing from the Adelphi, and more often than not showed up months later after a sojourn in the country and with a child on their hip.
Silly, overactive imagination, she admonished. At times it could be such a nuisance. And yet, an image of her and Black dancing whisked through her mind, paralleling the opening of her book. They shared the same eyes, Black and her image of Death. As well, they both embodied the blood-heating characteristics of mystery, danger and a luring sensuality. And that, she thought with a little shake of her head, was the most preposterous thought of all.
Folding the paper in half, Isabella tucked it under her arm and continued walking. The three actresses, if they could be called such, were probably listing away as mistresses to some rich man. Everyone knew that the music hall was as infamous for its debauches as it was its musical performances. Still, the streets of London were getting more dangerous…
She rounded the corner of Cockspur and crossed onto Haymarket where stood a short, round man on a box, soliciting interest in an illusionist. She glanced to where a crush of people were gathered around a man standing beside a coach that reminded her of a gypsy’s caravan.
“Step inside and witness for yourself the mystery of Herr Von Schraeder. Come, come,” he said, waving them closer. “For a crown you can witness all the magic.”
Her gaze drifted over the crowd, then down the street that led to the Strand. The Strand was packed with tourists and young men vying for tickets to the numerous theaters and music halls that lined the street. The crowd was turning rowdy—this wasn’t the fashionable part of Mayfair where everything was polite and orderly. This was the gray area of London where the posh West End melted into the slums of the East End.
With the days turning shorter and the nights longer, Isabella reminded herself that it would not do to stand idle and woolgather. She needed to retrieve her medicine and return to Mayfair before dusk. And by the look of the cloud-covered sky, dusk would be arriving far sooner than usual.
Turning away, she stepped onto Haymarket Street, stopping abruptly when she saw a tall man, dressed in black, leaning leisurely against an ebony-and-silver-in-laid walking stick, obstructing her path. He was watching her over the rims of his blue sunshades. She could not help but shudder at the intensity of that unblinking gaze. Or wonder why he was wearing them when there was no longer any sunshine.
“Good day, Miss Fairmont.”
Lord Black.
“Oh, good day, my lord. I did not recognize you with your sun spectacles.”
He smiled as he took her hand, his gaze catching hers over the silver rims of the lenses. “I will forgive you this time,” he teased, bringing his lips to brush against her gloved hand.
“Are you enjoying the autumnal weather?” she asked. “Or are you by chance hanging about for a chance to witness Herr Von Schraeder’s magic show?”
His pupils grew large, engulfing the pale blue of his iris. He blinked, then hid his eyes from her behind the dark lenses of his spectacles. His body appeared stiff now, and he seemed to be watching her curiously.
She was about to speak, when she was jostled by a pack of young men running past her as the Adelphi opened its doors for business. She was pushed into Black’s chest, and he caught her, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist to keep her from falling.
When the ruffians had passed, he slowly released her, and she looked up into his face, which showed none of the lightness that had been there when she first saw him. He was back to being a mystery—a beautiful one.
Pulling back, she put distance between them. Discretion, she reminded herself. It would be so easy to find herself failing against him, and the seductive lure he cast—Isabella couldn’t lie—she was already weakening. Her mother had been weak, and he
r father had taken advantage of the fact.
“My lord, you were saying?”
“Unless Herr Von Schraeder’s magic is exceptionally potent, I believe the citizens of London have seen the last of him,” he muttered, guiding her with a hand on the small of her back, to the safety of the apothecary’s storefront.
“What do you mean, sir?” she asked. As she looked over her shoulder at the cart, she saw Herr Von Schraeder’s assistant come flying out, bellowing something.
“I believe it was the apothecary you were seeking,” Black replied as he pulled open the door and ushered her through. The bells tinkled, drowning out the rest of the assistant’s words as he ran from Von Schraeder’s cart.
“How did you know I was coming here?” she demanded, her gaze narrowing, just as a fresh flush of gooseflesh erupted on her skin.
“Jacobson’s apothecary is most famous. I guessed that perhaps it was him that brought you to this side of the city.”
“Oh.” She flushed and looked down at her gloved fingers, which were wrapping around the braided cording of her reticule. “Forgive me, my lord, if I seemed short just now. I have a terrible headache, I’m afraid.”
Pulling his spectacles from his face, he caught her chin in his gloved hand and angled her face to the waning afternoon light that filtered in through the large window of the apothecary.
“You’re pale, Miss Fairmont. I don’t like it.”
“Well, I can’t help it,” she snapped, not knowing whether to be touched or embarrassed by his frankness.
“It worries me to see you suffering,” he murmured, his thumb grazing against the apple of her cheek. “Is there anything I might do to relieve you of it?”
She was touched. Not only by his words, which seemed to be spoken without artifice, but also by the concern she saw in his eyes. “No, my lord. I’ve tried everything, and nothing seems to relieve it, except for Mr. Jacobson’s wonderful bergamot tonic.”
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