Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

“Are you telling me you cannot deal with me directly?”

  Ada squirmed in the seat beside her.

  “Surely you have a gentleman within your family who can assist you, advise you.”

  “I do not.”

  He clasped his hands. “Then it pains me to inform you that we cannot oblige.”

  Erg. “Look, this is really important, and I am the only one left in my family. I have no male family member to help me. So you will have to deal with me.”

  “A man of affairs, perhaps?”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you? This is unbelievable.” She didn’t dare look at Ada for the I-told-you-so look.

  The man remained silent, his lips set into a thin line.

  Yikes, she’d gone a bit mental on him. Cool it. “Is there no other way?”

  “No, you will need to find a gentleman to transact this business for you.”

  Gah! So much for her grand idea to save her job via Katy. A thought struck her. “I have a fiancé, it was announced in the paper this morning. Can I deposit it in his name?”

  “Fiancé? Ah, you are betrothed, excellent. Then that changes the matter.”

  “Oh, good, okay, here’s what I need―”

  “I am sorry, miss, but you misunderstand. If you are engaged, your betrothed may do this for you. That should solve your problem.” He smiled as if he’d done Isabelle a huge favor, moving his arms wide, magnanimous.

  Isabelle stalked out of the office without saying goodbye. “Don’t say it, Ada.”

  “I am so sorry, Isabelle.”

  They returned to the Somerville carriage, Isabelle working hard not to slam things as she passed. However, she didn’t have the option of forbearing to slam the carriage door, since a footman shut it, which, illogical as it was, upset her even more.

  Her breathing calmed. She stared out the window, unseeing, and chewed her lower lip. How to get these letters to Katy? Unfortunately, her only other confidante was a woman. And Isabelle didn’t dare confide in Lord Montagu. He had his secrets, true, but the risk was too great. Could she ask his man of affairs? Maybe not tell him why, have him think it a silly whim to bequeath something to a random someone in the future?

  This was getting complicated. She jerked back against the seat and glanced at Ada sitting opposite. “I think it’s finally hitting me how much control women give over to men in this time. It’s as if I have no identity.”

  She mulled over this problem and, too soon, their carriage pulled up near Ada’s modiste on Bond Street.

  Isabelle stepped out and merged into the throng. Holy cow, were they much into advertising? Everywhere, wooden signs touted everything from shoe repair to cosmetics. A surprising number of them moved, too, men wearing sandwich boards ambling the streets. One fellow stepped around her wearing a tall hat made of some kind of heavy, stiff paper that towered over the crowd and declared in big letters: “Kid gloves at fourteen shillings a pair, warranted.” No shop name accompanied the ad. Were you supposed to follow him, or stop and ask where?

  On the left, a stout woman sold oyster pies from her wooden cart. She held one up and barked her price, the hand with the pie following Isabelle as she passed. A man in serious need of a new set of teeth and some manscaping sold apples from a wooden wheelbarrow. A grubby kid sat beside him, munching on the mealy ones, tossing the worms to a dog.

  Keep moving your feet, Isabelle.

  Ada, however, maintained her moderate pace, hardly noticing the chaos. But, of course she wouldn’t; this was familiar to her. They worked their way along the sidewalk, and guys approaching from the other direction stepped aside to let them pass. Isabelle felt like royalty.

  After an hour spent with the modiste, they stopped in a bookstore. Isabelle had to get the Bentley edition of Jane Austen’s novels so she could bring them back to her own time. She also bought any and all etiquette books she could get her paws on. The way she figured, she couldn’t learn too much.

  Next stop, an apothecary so she could get peppermint drops for her tooth powder; the stuff Ada had given her tasted vile. While there, she bought her own toothbrush with a carved ivory handle. At a stationer’s, she bought a leather journal. On leaving, she saw a jeweler across the way. Just the place she hoped to run across.

  They visited three different jewelers, but none had her silver case. Isabelle wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but by the fourth, she was desperate enough to try a new tactic.

  “Have you sold a silver card case recently?” Isabelle asked.

  The elderly gentleman behind the counter smiled and waved his hand. “I’ve sold several in the last week alone, but I still possess excellent choices in this case.”

  “No, these are not what I am looking for precisely. It is quite plain, with the initials EDA inscribed on the outside. Have you sold anything like that lately?”

  He scratched his head, his powdered wig shifting back and forth. “Not already inscribed, no. But we do that on occasion. I cannot recall anyone asking to have those initials, though.”

  “This would already have them. I am looking for a case that was recently stolen.”

  The relic turned red in the face. His lips worked silently, spittle flying from his mouth. Finally, he marched around the counter, grabbed her by the elbow and marched her out to the sidewalk. He stormed back inside and shut his shop door with a resounding bang.

  “Clearly, I’m not going about this correctly,” Isabelle said to Ada as they slunk away.

  “I do not know how you should proceed with such an investigation. It appears to me we do not know the right people to ask.”

  “No, we don’t. I don’t know anyone really, other than you and Lord Montagu, and neither of you would have connections with the criminal world. And that’s what I need.”

  “Lord Montagu has a Runner investigating on your behalf. You should leave it to him. It is his trade, after all.”

  “I know, but Ada, this is so frustrating—no offense—to be stuck here and not do anything myself to fix it. You’ve been so kind, I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t taken me in.” Isabelle shuddered. “From what I remember of history, there’s a good chance I would’ve ended up in a brothel.”

  On Wednesday, Isabelle received a veritable mountain of invitations printed on heavy stock. People must really want to meet the lady marrying the Vicious Viscount. She lugged them to a table in the drawing room and ordered them by date, since she knew nothing about the hostesses to organize them by priority or any other criteria.

  She placed the last one in its spot.

  A throat cleared. The footman stood at the door and intoned, “Lord Montagu.” She checked that her hair was tidy and twisted around in her chair to watch the entrance.

  Lord Montagu strode into the drawing room. “I see I was correct.” His eyes swept over the invitations, then over her, and swept her equilibrium bye-bye. His appreciative gaze set off an internal chain reaction—erratic heartbeat, rush of heat—like all her cells collectively blushed, sighed, and propped their chins in their hands to stare. Well, if cells had chins and hands.

  Isabelle motioned him to a chair on the other side of the card table she was using as her base of operations. She busied her hands so he wouldn’t notice their shaking. They were betrothed, it was okay to see him alone. She was strong willed—she could resist him. She thought. Maybe.

  “Yep, you were. It’s amazing.” Isabelle cringed; she’d lapsed into her regular speech. She cleared her throat. “Yes, it is astounding, I mean.”

  Lord Montagu tilted his head, eyebrow cocked. “It is amazing, as well as astounding, but to be expected.” He sat beside her. “Forgive me, I cannot help notice your speech and manner are markedly different from the night we first became acquainted. Then, well...”

  “You can say it. You could scarce understand me, correct?”

  He set his hat on the table and tugged on his shirt cuff. “Indeed, often you sounded as though you were speaking gibberish.” He lost a little color. “You were
not, that is to say, you, uh, were not... in your cups, were you?”

  “Intoxicated? No, that was not the issue.” Isabelle laughed and straightened the stacks of invitations.

  His face relaxed a little. “If not that...”

  Oh, man, how to answer? “Well, let me just say, something occurred that upset me and I-I forgot myself.” A bit of an understatement if there ever was one. Pretty lame, too. Oh well.

  Lord Montagu’s hand covered hers. “Is it anything you are still distressed about? Anything I can do to help?”

  At his touch, warmth shot up Isabelle’s hand and arm, whooshing through the rest of her body, straight to her toes. And to her lady parts. Oh, man. Her heart beat grew loud and distorted in her ear. Honestly Isabelle, it’s just a hand. No need to get all hot and bothered.

  She took a deep breath and fought her attraction. Seriously. The guy was from another time period. She couldn’t get carried away here. But her other half chimed in—she could count on one hand how many men had caused such a reaction.

  Actually, less than one whole hand: three fingers. Only three men so far in her life. Tony, the scholarly but goofy co-worker back at the Atlanta History Museum. Sitting at a staff meeting, he had to turn a page on a report—he licked a finger and she’d clenched. And he hadn’t even touched her. Never would, either. A married man was a no-go zone for her. And number two, an illegal Irish immigrant named Niall whom she met at an Irish Pub in Atlanta’s Buckhead neighborhood. They moved on to a club afterward, he grabbed her hand to dance and a jolt of electricity shot up her arm. Unfortunately, he was deported a week later.

  More guys than that, of course, had made her stomach do flips, like Billy. But, Lord Drool-Worthy here was only the third man in her life who could make her spark with desire by only a touch or a look. And, dammit, he fell into the no-go zone, too.

  Couldn’t get any more no-go than living in the past.

  Ugh, life wasn’t fair, was it?

  And why did she still ask herself that?

  And his hand still covered hers, and he stared at where they joined. She had no gloves on. Shit. His Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow.

  He’d asked her a question, hadn’t he? Oh God, she was such a dork. “Sorry, my lord, what did you ask?”

  He cleared his throat and his eyes met hers. “Are you in trouble? Do you need help?” His thumb rubbed the back of her hand.

  “Oh, that’s right.” Could she ask him to deliver the letters? Too risky. “No. Well, yes, I am desperate to get my silver case back.”

  “But, that transpired at evening’s end. Your distress originated before.”

  “Well, yes, but, uh, they are both related, connected.”

  Lord Montagu looked at her a little longer. He straightened and removed his hand, thank God. “As to your silver case, the Runner has not had any luck thus far. I gave him your drawing, of course.”

  “Is he checking with his contacts in the criminal underworld? With any known fencing kens to see if any will blow the gab?” Damn, the lingo was tripping off her tongue; not for the first time since this bizarre time-jump happened did she thank her frivolous side for reading all those romantic suspense novels set in the Regency era. Though she knew she was babbling to cover her discomfort.

  He drew back and stared at her with wide eyes. “What do you know of such things?”

  Okay. Maybe she’d overdone it on the lingo. “I am not ignorant, Lord Montagu.”

  “Indeed.” He remained quiet for a moment longer, studying her. Jeez, and she thought the men of her own time were difficult to figure out. Finally, he said, “It is my understanding he is indeed checking with his contacts, but so far, nothing has surfaced.”

  Isabelle slumped back in her chair, but remembered her recent training and corrected her posture. “Is there nothing else we can do? I feel so helpless about it.”

  “Not that I can determine.”

  “Well, thank you for what you have been doing. I very much appreciate it. Now, about these invitations...”

  Isabelle explained how she’d organized them, and Lord Montagu picked the ones to attend. Sometimes several were on the same date. It seemed it was not so much particular evenings he tried to fill, but certain people whose invitations he wanted to accept. He pointed to one from the Havershams. “I will be away at my country estate for a few days, so the first party shall be this one, two days hence.”

  Friday night, Isabelle made small talk with a number of oh-so-polite ladies of the haut ton, and she really rather thought that sticking a fork in her eye would be more pleasant. She fidgeted in the small chair, smoothed her skirt, and tried to maintain the smile plastered on her face. Lady Haversham’s rout was the first party she attended as Lord Montagu’s fiancée. And boy, was it crowded. She’d been lucky to get this seat, and she wasn’t giving it up no matter how annoying the ladies became. Apparently, routs were wall-to-wall mingling and no dancing—thank God for that, at least. But it would be nice if she were actually with Lord Montagu.

  “I tell you, I was so vexed with her, I almost turned her out without a reference,” said one of the ladies seated with her.

  “But I thought you adored your lady's maid. She certainly does wonders with your hair,” another replied.

  Just keep smiling and nodding. What old advice did mamas give about their impending wedding night? Just lie back and think of England? Well, she’d sit back and think of Mobile.

  She’d always intended to move back to her home town. She loved the port city of Mobile, its history, its funky charm. She smiled at the memory of her father telling her he’d secured a spot for her on the Queen’s Court as a Lady-in-Waiting.

  She hadn’t wanted to do it, but she hadn’t had the heart to tell him so; he’d been so proud. One of the quirkiest aspects of Mobile was the debutante season’s grand finale—the days leading up to Mardi Gras, when the city pretended to be ruled by King Felix III, the Lord of Misrule. The dresses, the rounds of parties that lasted all winter, all leading up to the elaborate coronation of the king and queen, attended by their ladies-in-waiting and knights. Thank God for that experience—who would have thought it would come in handy in such a way as now?

  But thoughts of Mobile invariably led to thoughts of family, and that was definitely not something she wanted to dwell on. She sucked in a deep breath to counteract the tears gathering strength. Weird how sometimes a sudden memory could make her smile and other times yank at her, taunt her. She’d had such a great childhood, but always suspected the happy times were adding up to a big tragedy to balance the scales. So when she lost them all in a car crash one rainy night—her father, mother, and sister—while the grief had been unbearable, a tiny part of her knew it for what it was: pay back.

  “Miss Rochon?”

  Isabelle straightened. Had she zoned out that bad? Why were these fashionable ladies gaping at her? “Pardon me?”

  “Are you well, dear?” Lady Rathburn, wasn’t it?

  “Yes, why?” Had she been drooling? She brought her hand up to do a quick chin check.

  “We were remarking on your engagement,” said the one with bright red hair, whose name Isabelle had already forgotten. “It is all so very exciting. An American cousin marrying the V— Lord Montagu. Lady Alice asked if you were looking forward to being his next victim, and you nodded your head.”

  Oh, Lord, she deserved that for not paying attention. “And...?” She smiled politely and looked around.

  The other ladies’ eyes widened and avoided hers. They moved on to other, safer, topics.

  Would this party ever end? And where had Lord Montagu disappeared to? He’d barely spent ten minutes with her at this party. She’d asked him if he had any pointers on how to interact with the guests as his fiancée, and he’d been totally unconcerned.

  A footman appeared at her elbow. “Miss Rochon, your pardon. Lord Montagu is outside in his carriage and is ready to depart. He wishes to know if you care to meet him there to be escorted home?”


  The other ladies glanced at each other. Isabelle replied, “Yes, of course, thank you.”

  Why didn’t he come get her himself? He was certainly the arrogant one, wasn’t he? She strode across the crowded ballroom, following the footman.

  Muttering to herself, Isabelle got her wrap and went in search of his carriage. His footman spotted her first and waved. He opened the door, pulled down the steps, and helped her inside.

  “My lord, I know we are not really engaged, but could you at least have the decency to come get me yourself?” Isabelle held onto the carriage doorframe and let her eyes adjust to the darkness within.

  Lord Montagu’s dark form loomed in the corner, the lamp hanging on the inside illuminating his face and casting dark, shifting shadows. She settled on the same seat in the opposite corner; she wasn’t yet used to riding with her back to the horses.

  “You realize you do not have to do that.” His eyes searched hers, then roamed down her body and back up. However, his gaze didn’t seem threatening, more like he looked at her out of curiosity. Didn’t matter though, heat coursed through her veins anyway.

  “Do what?”

  “Speak to me like that.”

  Blood rushed into her head, and she forgot to count to ten. “I’m so sorry, mister high and mighty Viscount, but you really think you’re just The Thing, don’t you?” She punctuated this question with a punch on his arm. “I’ll speak however I want. It was rude of you, admit it.”

  He winced at her punch, but his playacting didn’t fool her. In leaning over to punch him, however, she’d heard a slight ripping sound. Shit.

  She sat back, surreptitiously feeling behind her to see what might have torn.

  “That is much better,” he intoned.

  Her hand stopped its searching and her head whipped up. “What?”

  He smiled in the dim lamp light, shadows undulating across his sharp jaw and cheekbones. “I was rude.”

  Come again? “I’m totally confused now. You get mad at me because you didn’t like that I pointed out your rudeness, and now you’re admitting you were rude?” She shifted on the seat and faced him fully, the better to glare and hide the rip.