“Certainly, miss, but I am uncertain what you mean by gifting me with this scrap of paper.”
Isabelle sighed. British humor. Whatever. “I’d like my coat, please.”
The attendant shrugged and took the ticket, although with a slight hesitancy, as if the paper might come to life and bite him. He cleared his throat. “Your name, miss?”
“My name? What does—Oh, whatever. It’s Isabelle Rochon.” She tapped her foot, trying to picture the crackling fire in her library. And perhaps a glass of white wine, instead of the hot cocoa. And a piece of dark chocolate to go with her book. And Lord Drool-Worthy stretched beside her, reading a book by the fire. Aaaand, she seriously needed to get him off her brain. That had been a non-starter from the get-go.
Isabelle looked up. The attendant still stared at her. At her glare, he retreated into the cloakroom and returned after several minutes. “Sorry, we don’t ‘ave your coat, miss.”
“What do you mean? Did you use the ticket?” She couldn’t help but raise her voice. White wine, dark chocolate.
The attendant frowned and glanced at the ticket clutched in his hand. He donned a polite and tolerant air and replied, “No, miss, I did not.”
Good Lord, seriously? Okay, two bars of dark chocolate.
The attendant’s gaze shifted to peer over Isabelle’s right shoulder. His eyes grew round, and a panicked look stole across his face.
“Is there a problem?” The deep, newly familiar, baritone voice came from behind, resonating within her.
Isabelle whipped around. Lord Montagu, Mrs. Somerville, and Ada stared at her, eyebrows raised.
Yes. You make my insides all squirmy. And—her breath caught. “Oh, your eyes are two different colors! Did you know? Of course you did. I’ll shut up now.”
Contemplating Miss Rochon’s anxious brown eyes, Phineas questioned the complete soundness of his judgment. Why he deemed it necessary to ensure she was settled in her carriage was beyond him. Miss Byron, however, had been concerned—evidently Miss Rochon lacked a chaperone. Yes. That was the only reason. To appease his cousin. He would ignore how his body hummed like a tuning fork in her presence.
“My eye color is of no import.” Some of his closest friends had never taken note of the variant hues.
Her neck and cheeks turned delightfully pink. “Yeah, probably not the time to get into it.”
“What is the issue here?” Phineas indicated the footman with a tilt of his head.
“He can’t find my coat. It’s the only one I have.”
He raised an eyebrow at the servant—he always found that to be quite effective, as well as expedient.
“I-I don’t have her wrap, your lordship.” The fellow turned crimson.
“Very well.” Phineas proffered his arm to Miss Rochon and held her gaze. Yes, her eyes were quite lovely. “We will be happy to escort you to your carriage. It is warm for May, so I trust the short distance should not inconvenience you too much.”
Miss Rochon gave every appearance of mounting a protest, her stare boldly assessing and still locked with his. However, she shook her head instead and said something under her breath that sounded like, ‘Whatever, dood.’ What in the devil’s name was a dood?
However, she did accept his arm.
Miss Rochon’s bare hand curled around his arm, her warmth penetrating the sleeve of his evening kit. The air in his lungs hitched and he forced a full, steadying breath. He must resist her charms for many reasons. Chief among them—what possible good could it serve to be attracted to a Miss Rochon of America, of all people? About her and her connections, he knew nothing, and to relieve his ignorance, folly. Besides, Edgerton’s cut direct had been a salient reminder of his true purpose, and she was a distraction. A distraction he could not afford.
Not at this critical juncture.
But Christ, her scent was intoxicating: dewberry and something more earthy, more arousing, more female. The waltz, intimate as it was, had not brought him this close to her. He had definitely not bargained on being arrested by her fragrance. Setting his jaw, Phineas forced himself to lay aside all inconvenient thoughts of Miss Rochon from America.
With Miss Byron and her chaperone, Mrs. Somerville, ahead, Phineas escorted them to the front doors of the duke’s townhouse. They crossed the threshold, and Miss Rochon gripped his arm tighter. Out of reflex, he laid his free hand on her bare one, lending his support. And wished his own gloves to Hades.
“Oh, this is getting to be a bit too much. Carriages? I’m over it. You guys really take this all so seriously, don’t you?” Oddly, her tone sounded as if it were laced with false bravado.
Phineas peered at Miss Rochon. He looked at Miss Byron and Mrs. Somerville to see if they understood this latest outburst better than he, but they also appeared at a loss. “Shall I call for yours?” he ventured.
Miss Rochon rolled her eyes. She had the most undisciplined expressions he had ever encountered in a lady. “Oh, of course. Fine. I know. I’m being a party pooper. If you’re going to do something at all, you might as well do it right, my mother used to say. A bit tired, I guess. Don’t mind me, y’all have been nice. Really. Appreciate it. I’m going to catch the subway down the street and go home.”
“The subway?” Though he and Miss Byron spoke at the same time, her voice held a slight stammer.
“Oh, yeah, you guys call it a tube, I keep forgetting. Anyway, toodle-oo, as you Brits say. And thanks again.” She pulled her arm from his, her bare fingers slipping past his gloved one, waved and walked away from them. Alone.
Phineas flexed his now empty hand, dropped it to his side, and tried to recall earlier conversations with Colonials. They did use different words and expressions, and were informal in their speech, to be sure, but this one made the others look as if they could converse with the King himself and not make anyone blush. Moreover, because she was determined to walk away from them alone, he knew he had but one choice.
“One moment, Miss Rochon, if you please. We will accompany you.”
“You don’t need to. Thanks, though.”
“I insist.” He searched the line of carriages amassed on this side of Grosvenor Square and hailed Mrs. Somerville’s carriage.
“Really, I’m fine. It’s not very far.”
Devil take it, she sounded annoyed. Keeping one eye on Miss Rochon, he watched Mrs. Somerville’s carriage approach. He handed the elder lady in. Miss Rochon was now several paces away.
“One moment, Miss Rochon, please.” For propriety’s and expediency’s sake, he instructed the driver to follow them. With that accomplished, he focused his attention on the exasperating Colonial. “I will not hear another word of protest.”
“Fine.”
With Miss Rochon and Miss Byron on either arm, he proceeded to the corner, with Mrs. Somerville following in her carriage. At first, the silence was amiable, and because their conversations had been baffling so far, he deemed it wise to remain silent. However, as they neared the corner, Miss Rochon walked slower and slower. He risked a glance. The skin around her eyes and delicate cheekbones was stretched tight. Confusion and, if he was not much mistaken, fear, clouded her cinnamon-colored eyes. Her nostrils flared slightly.
She glanced frantically from one spot to another and appeared ready to cast up her accounts.
Alarmed, he edged closer, in case he was called upon to relieve her evident distress. He matched his pace to hers.
They reached the corner of Davies Street and turned left. She came to an abrupt stop. The other three street corners and the little plaza across the street received her slow perusal.
A tremble went through her body, and her hand tightened its grip on his arm. “But, I know the tube station is here. I made a point of checking.” She peered up and down the street, panic glazing her eyes. “More horses and carriages,” she whispered. “Okay, this is getting a little weird. This doesn’t look anything like I remember. Where’s the Hog in the Pound?”
“The what?” asked Miss Byron.<
br />
Miss Rochon did not answer, but continued her frantic inspection of the block. She swung around and looked at him, eyes narrowed. “Did you guys cordon off the whole freakin’ block for this thing? Cart off your cute red phone booths? There’s not a single car or bike to be seen.” She pulled her arm away. “Your reenactor buddies are taking this too far. I mean, everyone’s in costume up and down this street, also. The gas lamps are a nice touch, but―” She glanced down and pointed. “And, is that horse poop? Seriously?”
What nonsense was she babbling now? Phineas stared.
She punched him in the shoulder. “Knock it off, will you?”
Phineas blinked. And blinked again. He was supremely confident this was the first occasion in his thirty-one years he had ever been hit by a lady.
“This isn’t funny anymore,” she continued. “I really am tired and just wanna go home.”
The last part, at least, he understood. He would not hazard inquiring into the meaning of the rest. “I am sure Mrs. Somerville would be happy to escort you home in her coach. What is your direction?”
“Coach?” She frowned. “Forget it. I live in Guildford, and I’m not going to ride in a carriage, no matter how period and charming.”
“Guildford? You mean to travel all the way to Guildford tonight?”
He had thought Miss Rochon a puzzle? She was exasperating.
No, he amended. Daft.
“It’s not far by tube to the train, and it’s not late.” She glanced around again, and back at him, “You know, forget it, I’ll text my friend Katy and see if they’re still at The Mad Martini.” After this incomprehensible speech, she pulled out a round, thin, brass object from her reticule. Her thumbs glided along the surface, a tiny glow emanating from it.
Phineas could only stare. What device was this?
Miss Rochon emitted an unladylike snarl and shoved it back into her reticule. “Figures, no signal. And my photo didn’t post.” She pursed her lips and peered around. “Doesn’t matter, it’s only a block or two away, I’ll hop over and see if they’re still there.” She turned to Miss Byron. “Really, you guys have been nice, thanks again. One of them can give me a ride.”
She stepped away, waved, and walked alone down the dark street. Again.
Yes, a candidate for Bedlam, this Miss Rochon. He contemplated leaving her and her idiotic expressions to her certain fate. He looked at his cousin.
Miss Byron returned his gaze with concern in her eyes. “Cousin, we cannot let her walk alone. She certainly is a strange creature, but we cannot in good conscience leave her be. There could be footpads about, even in this neighborhood.”
At times, Phineas hated being a gentleman. Of course, Miss Byron was right. Despite her youth, his cousin possessed an innate sense of other people’s character and situation. He felt it only prudent to agree, since her assessment matched his own sensibilities. Besides, Miss Rochon was obviously distressed by her surroundings and endeavoring to put a brave face upon it. Something was amiss. With a grunt, he tucked Miss Byron’s arm under his own, and they hastened to catch up with Miss Rochon.
“We will accompany you to your destination.” He gave her his best glare, to stifle any objection she might effect. He also hoped it would discourage her from continuing with her Colonial babble.
“Whatever. Suit yourself.” She shrugged. “Well, Katy did say to bring a hottie, and she’s sure to like you, too, Ada.”
He whipped his body around to regard her more fully, surprised at her for being so free with Miss Byron’s Christian name.
The less discourse the better, in his opinion. They proceeded in silence. As earlier, Miss Rochon’s steps slowed by degrees, until she stiffened and marched around the corner onto Marylebone Lane. She stopped, her brow furrowed, her lips trembling.
He followed her troubled gaze down the lane. The dark windows of the butcher’s and peddler’s shops gave no hints as to the reason for her distress. No dark shapes loomed. The new gas lights provided ample illumination.
“What happened to The Mad Martini? I was here just last Friday.” She gazed up and down the length of Marylebone. She looked back at him, and he was certain of her fear: her voice quavered and her eyes seemed wild as they pierced into his, almost pleading. “Okay, I’ve been trying to stay calm this whole time, but now I think—I think I might scream or faint. Yes, faint. And then I can wake up in Kansas.”
She pinched herself.
Kansas? He was unfamiliar with that particular place. Perhaps it was the town from whence she came. But—why would she expect to wake up there? Homesick?
Insane?
A street urchin streaked by, bumped into Miss Rochon, and dashed across the street.
“Hey, my calling card case. Come back here! Shit!” Miss Rochon darted into the street after the thief.
Miss Byron gasped. Phineas stared, his muscles locking him in place, his breath now lodged somewhere in his body. Perhaps in the soles of his Hessians.
A hackney cab clipped past and knocked her to the ground into a stinking puddle of water and offal. Her head struck the curb.
Phineas’s gut tightened. His muscles unlocked and he leaped forward. She did not move.
Chapter Four
I stood
Among them, but not of them, in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.
Lord Byron, Childe Harolde, Canto III, 1816
The rhythmic pounding in her head expanded and contracted with each heartbeat. Isabelle rose from unconsciousness, and her awareness coalesced into thoughts: Why? Head injury? Or, was this the Hangover to End All Hangovers? She didn’t remember drinking that much. She raised her eyelids a fraction and winced. Too bright. She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut.
She’d been at the ball. Yes. And it had become overwhelming... and Lord Drool-Worthy and the carriages... the odd imaginings. Had someone spiked her last Bellini with some hallucinogen? She’d been queasy for a bit there, but—
She tried to harness and ride the insistent pounding. Part of her head felt bruised, painful. Wait, that must be why her head hurt; she’d fallen at the ball, bumped her head, and the rest was her over-active imagination.
Wherever she was, it was soft. And stationary. Yep, she’d open her eyes and be resting on a couch in the Ladies’ Room at the ball, a museum co-worker helping her.
How embarrassing.
A distant staccato sound intruded into her consciousness.
She groaned. No, no, no! It sounded suspiciously like horseshoes clip-clopping over cobblestones, trotting in syncopated time with her pounding headache. She moved her head from side to side. A tickling of nausea tripped through her stomach.
“I think she is awake,” came a gentle, feminine voice to the left. Skirts rustled and a door snicked open and shut. The voice sounded familiar.
Where am I? Isabelle tested her senses further. She lay on a soft bed, not draped on a couch. The heavy covers anchored her in a way that negated her body below the neck. And she was thirsty as all get-out.
Well, nothing for it but to open an eye.
Through the dry, sleep-coated blur of a contact lens, Isabelle got a vague impression of a bedroom drenched in daylight. She inhaled deeply—fresh linen smell. Clean.
She risked opening the other eye and blinked until her lenses cleared, adjusted position. Thank God for extended wear lenses.
An over-bright glimpse of a gorgeously decorated bedroom done up in soft pinks and Regency-era antiques swam into view. The chirp of a bird called for attention. A yellow canary fluttered back and forth, up and down, in a white ornate iron cage in a corner.
Someone had nice taste and a great eye for detail. She found the source of the voice from earlier: Ada Byron sitting in a chair, her brow furrowed. Then who had left the room?
Isabelle groaned. “Where am I?” She kept her head still, using only her eyes, so as not to tempt her nausea further. No more head shakes.
“Thank goodness you are well. We wor
ried we might have to send for Dr. Somerville. You are in a guest bedchamber of his house in Chelsea.”
Isabelle digested this. Dr. Somerville? Oh yeah, Ada’s chaperone was a Mrs. Somerville. “What happened?”
“You see, when the footpad made off with your pretty silver case, you hit your head. After the horse bumped you, that is.”
Not the best question to have asked, then. For her sanity’s sake, anyway. Footpad? Horse? Fabulous.
Isabelle clamped her eyes shut. When she reopened them, she’d be back in her home in Guildford. Or, draped on that couch at the ball. Anything.
She risked a peek. Sight—Ada’s wan smile, obviously worried about her.
A logical, rational explanation existed. She was unsure what it would be, but regardless, one existed. What she suspected last night could not be true. However, she had no clue what to say next.
Ada took care of it for her. “Miss Rochon, Lord Montagu wished to pursue the footpad to retrieve your case. It seems you hold it quite dear. However, we determined it was more important to get you someplace safe. He deposited us here and returned to search, but he sent a note earlier informing me he had not met with success.” She took a deep breath. “Moreover, he said he would call this afternoon to inquire after your health.”
So, he was real, too. Had she imagined his good looks and the frisson of awareness he generated whenever near? His intoxicating scent that reminded her of woods after a thunderstorm—clean and elemental?
Agh. She needed to stop thinking about him and make sense of last night instead. She stomped on the little flicker of excitement which competed with her nausea by dancing stupid butterflies in her stomach.
“So, it’s morning?” Isabelle swallowed, trying to get more moisture into her dry throat.
“Yes, almost eleven. You must be famished. I shall have the cook send nourishment and tea.”
Goose bumps pimpled Isabelle’s arms as several thoughts vied for attention:
1. Ada still sported a period costume, though less formal than last night’s.
Must Love Breeches Page 3
