Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  However, after two hours of walking all the main streets and lanes around Bond Street, the items eluded her and she’d given up on the Marylebone plan. At least for today. Now, she just wanted to find the first two volumes and the map for Mrs. Somerville and return home. And her new walking boots pinched her feet.

  She did have a rapidly filling basket of rocks, though. She’d found chunks of granite, chert, quartz, and other samples whose names she’d already forgotten (but had written on the paper wrapped around each). The types of odd shops in this part of London boggled the mind.

  She stepped into the fifth frigging bookstore she’d visited in one day. The owner sported a large glass eye piece strapped on with a leather thong, which he used to inspect the inside of a calf-bound book. He pushed the eye piece to his forehead. “May I help you, miss?”

  “Hello, I was hoping you had these books and this map in stock?” She pushed the list across the counter.

  He squinted, shook his head, and returned to the book he’d been inspecting.

  What a jerk. He’d barely looked at it, how could he know?

  “Please, this is important. Can you look to see if you have them?”

  He set the leather book carefully on the counter and stared at Isabelle. “I do not have these. You would do well to check another establishment.”

  “Are you sure you do not have it?” Isabelle pleaded.

  The door to the shop tinkled open and a well-dressed lady in her fifties entered with a younger woman. They walked past and nodded to the bookstore owner.

  He returned their nod, and glared at Isabelle. “I am sorry, but for the last time, I do not have either the map or those two volumes.”

  She gritted her teeth. The first bookstore had given her a list of others to try and this was the last. “Do you know of another place that might? I’ve tried so many already.”

  He sighed. “Have you tried Edwards?”

  “Yes.” Isabelle switched the basket of rocks to her other hand and flexed the fingers of the first, cramped from holding the heavy basket.

  “Butler’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Swaine’s on Marylebone Lane?”

  A surge of hope swished through her; maybe she’d get to check out Marylebone Lane after all. “No, I haven’t. Thank you. Can you let me know if you do get these in?”

  The man grumbled, but he pulled out a scrap of paper and pencil, licked the tip, and looked at her. She cleared her throat. “Send word to Miss Rochon, Dr. Somerville’s residence, Chelsea.”

  She turned to exit the store. A feminine voice behind her said, “Miss Rochon? Are you Miss Rochon of Mobile?”

  Isabelle frowned. The two women who had entered moments before approached. Who were they? Definitely not anyone she knew in Mobile. She almost laughed aloud at that.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Please forgive my forwardness. I could not help overhearing the shopkeeper say your name, and when I heard you speak, I knew it must be you. I am Lady Montagu, and this is my daughter, Miss Montagu.”

  Wait—What? Lady and Miss... Sweat anointed her skin. Holy cow. Lord Montagu’s mother and sister. What to do or say?

  The cool drops of sweat suffusing her skin warmed with her flush of embarrassment. Lord Montagu had a family? Well, of course he did. She just hadn’t thought the situation through. Why hadn’t he mentioned them? Did they know about her engagement?

  “I had to make your acquaintance, given that we are soon to be family.”

  Yep, they knew. Did they also know it was pretend? Hard to tell; she could just be keeping up appearances.

  Isabelle fell back on her mantra and smiled, curtseying. “So pleased to meet you, my lady.”

  Lady Montagu stepped closer, a smile animating her patrician features. “How fortunate we chanced upon you. You simply must come to tea this afternoon, I insist. It is now noon. Any hour after one in the afternoon would suit us.”

  Oh, great.

  Later that afternoon, the Somerville carriage clambered to a stop at the Montagu townhouse. Isabelle wiped her palms on the carriage seat one last time and donned her gloves. It was bad enough she had to pretend she lived in their time period, now she had to pretend to be engaged to someone. And to his family, no less. She nodded her head once. Yep, until she could determine how much they knew, she’d keep up the pretense. Could she soldier through a social call without Ada?

  She’d been so floored meeting the mother and sister that she’d mumbled some courtesy and fled back to the Somerville’s with her rocks and the one volume she’d found. She hadn’t had the energy to finish her errands or check out Marylebone Lane for clues.

  During their midday meal, she told Mrs. Somerville of her encounter with the Viscountess. “I had no idea he had a family.”

  “Well, of course, dear, how do you think he came to be?” Mrs. Somerville’s forehead wrinkled.

  The eldest Somerville daughter, Martha, snorted and earned a reproving glare from her mother. Isabelle couldn’t blame her—it had been a stupid question. She had just met Martha and her sister Mary, who had been away visiting their Fairfax cousins when Isabelle first arrived.

  “I only meant, well, I thought, he seemed so alone, I assumed his family had all died, I mean, passed on...” She took a small bite of some kind of fish. What she would give for a heaping plate of creamy macaroni and cheese.

  “His father has gone on to his reward, two years past, I believe. However, his mother is as healthy as an ox, and he has two younger brothers in the 11th Light Dragoons, and three sisters still living.”

  “Still living? He had more than three sisters?”

  “Yes, poor dear. His sister Letitia departed this life under mysterious circumstances only a couple of years past. Quite upsetting to everyone in the family and those close to her. Such a joyful creature.” Mrs. Somerville paused a moment, her silver fork poised midair. “I am of the firm opinion her loss was what pushed Lord Montagu into being, well, indiscreet.”

  Now Isabelle followed the Montagu’s butler into a sunny drawing room on the second floor and stopped at the threshold. Her breath caught. What an amazing space, a delightful mixture of Chinese, Greek, and Hindu art.

  Lady Montagu rose from a settee with carved Egyptian motifs. “Miss Rochon. So good of you to come. You remember Miss Montagu? And this is my youngest, Miss Gwendolyn.”

  Isabelle curtseyed to all three. Gwendolyn appeared to be around sixteen. Weren’t there three sisters? The other must be married. The girls’ eyes were round and tracked her every move.

  The sisters sat back down, and Isabelle perched on a dark green settee. The Viscountess pulled a bell rope and ordered tea. She dismissed Gwendolyn, but allowed the oldest to remain.

  “I love your room, Lady Montagu,” Isabelle ventured. “It is very elegant.” What inadequate words to describe the discreet pieces of art combined with tastefully chosen pieces of furniture and tapestries, all contained in a room of vibrant earth tones.

  “Why, thank you, dear. It is my retreat. Not everyone appreciates it. Most belabor the fact that it is not stylish.”

  No, she hadn’t conformed to whatever interior design fad was prevalent at the time, but the eclectic room felt inviting, lived in. The opposite of sterile.

  Isabelle swallowed a snort. How painstakingly she and her co-workers strove to recreate rooms in historic homes for visitors. Researching exactly what was in style and getting it accurate for the paying visitors, so folks could see How People Lived Back Then.

  The butler arrived with the tea tray, and Isabelle took in more of the room as Lady Montagu poured. Her gaze lingered on an Abyssinian statue tucked in a far corner. This would never be how a room would be “restored” to the 1830 time period.

  But how silly. Probably in the year 2255, future historians would try to recreate an authentic living room from her own time, get all the details exact, and bomb. Just like the museum rooms she’d helped with, they would fail to capture what made
a place a home.

  “How do you take your tea, Miss Rochon?” Lady Montagu asked.

  “Oh, cream and a little sugar, thank you.”

  They talked and the sister soon thawed. Though she still stared at Isabelle with big, saucer eyes, she asked questions about what it was like to live in America. “You speak English very well,” she blurted at one point.

  Isabelle cocked her head. “Er, thank you.”

  Lady Montagu tried to dampen her daughter’s enthusiasm, but it was obvious she preferred to indulge her inquisitive children, and so Isabelle patiently answered all of her questions.

  “Oh, and you can sponsor my come-out next Season!”

  A knot formed in Isabelle’s stomach. She swallowed. Oh, man, so they didn’t know.

  “Caroline, that is not something you ask of someone. Besides, your sister shall come to town for that honor.”

  “But, Mama—” Caroline lapsed into silence upon seeing the quelling stare of her mother.

  Lady Montagu asked Isabelle a series of polite questions about her stay in London and life in America, and Isabelle answered to the best of her ability. She started to relax. Perhaps she could get through this visit after all.

  “Miss Rochon, we are, of course, delighted by your betrothal to my son.”

  Blood rushed to Isabelle’s face. She looked to an embroidered pillow for inspiration and ran a finger along the stitches. “Indeed?”

  “Caroline, go check on your sister, please?”

  An uncomfortable silence grew to fill the room while the sister left.

  When the door shut, Lady Montagu said, “I can see you are uncomfortable. I apologize. My girls do not know, but Phineas has informed me of the deception.”

  So she would be spared having to lie to his mother; one less thing to worry about. The knot in her stomach eased again. Then the name Lady Montagu used registered in her brain. Her pretend fiancé’s first name was Phineas? Well, better than Egbert, or something.

  Lady Montagu looked her up and down. Isabelle opened her mouth to express her relief aloud when Lady Montagu said, “However, I do hope I can persuade you from crying off.”

  Isabelle snapped her mouth shut and her stomach knotted right back up. They hadn’t invented Pepto Bismol or Alka Seltzer yet, had they?

  “You see,” continued his mother, “we have quite despaired of―”

  The door to the drawing room banged open, and Lord Montagu stood there, the planes of his handsome face pulled into a scowl.

  The knot in Isabelle’s stomach flipped backwards, tied back on itself and took up permanent residence.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Tis strange,—but true; for truth is always strange;

  Stranger than fiction.

  Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIV

  “Phineas, dear, what a surprise. I did not expect you.” His mother smiled.

  “Clearly.” Phineas stood at the door, trying to calm his breathing without betraying his harried state. He had sprinted from his club as soon as he had received the hasty note sent by his sister Gwendolyn.

  “Well, come inside and join us. Do desist from looking like a riled bear.”

  Why had he labored under the delusion his mother would follow his instructions in this? He had been quite clear: no interaction—an engagement in name only. He must endeavor to salvage this situation as best he could, get the two separated, their connection severed. Plus, he had little faith in his mother to constrain herself to the role in play. She was desperate for him to marry. Hence the precaution of asking Gwendolyn to keep him informed.

  He had been a fool, obviously. But, why such anger? He finally looked to Miss Rochon. She sat in a corner of a settee, as far away from his mother as she could manage.

  It struck him with blinding clarity: his anger was on her behalf. This put her in an uncomfortable position, and it was unfair she should suffer further in this for his sake. She already had to play a role with the public, and now she was no doubt being importuned by his mother.

  He stalked to the settee and sat on the opposite end from Miss Rochon.

  “That is better, dear. I was only becoming further acquainted with Miss Rochon. We happened across each other at a bookstore this morning, and I invited her for tea. Caroline and I had...”

  His mother rambled on, which she did when Phineas was upset with her. Somehow, she knew it gave him time to calm down. However, he was not confident he could regain his composure this time.

  His mother finally ceased her explanations, and a long silence settled over the room.

  Miss Rochon cleared her throat, stood, and smiled, though it did not reach her eyes.

  He jumped to his feet. What was she about?

  “Well, this has been nice. Lady Montagu, thank you for tea.” Her voice sounded strained.

  “Miss Rochon, do not leave.” He sounded gruffer than he intended. Wait, not leave? But, was that not what he desired?

  She drew herself straighter. “Since you did not bother to tell me you had a family, it is obvious my presence is not wanted.”

  She was upset with him? He glanced at his mother, who contemplated him with pity in her eyes. Pity.

  “Miss Rochon, you do not understand.” He took a step toward her. His hand reached forward. He made a tight fist and returned it to his side.

  “I believe I do, actually.”

  “On the contrary―”

  “Children, please. Sit.” Mother waved her fingers at them.

  Miss Rochon obeyed and Phineas reluctantly followed suit. Did he just see a corner of her mouth quirk?

  “Mother, I believe I asked for you not to contact Miss Rochon.” He could feel Miss Rochon bristle next to him.

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I really think I should leave,” said Miss Rochon.

  “No,” he replied at the same time as his mother.

  “Miss Rochon,” continued his mother, “please remain. My son is correct. He did request I refrain from contacting you, but I believe he is in error.”

  “Mother―”

  “Hear me out, Phin. Am I correct that this scheme has been concocted to lend you respectability?”

  His hands formed fists against his knees. “Yes.”

  “Then you are making a tactical error. How will it appear to society if I do not receive her?”

  Tactical error? Clearly his mother had been reading about the Duke of Wellington’s campaigns again. He lifted his chin. “But―”

  “Consider it, Phin. If I do not receive her and take a friendly interest, the ton will assume I do not approve. Is that what you wish?”

  When she expressed it in that way... But it still worried him. Miss Rochon had not bargained on this additional charade, this additional burden. If it encompassed only a few social calls between the two, that would be acceptable.

  “How about a betrothal ball, would that not be wonderful?” his mother continued.

  Damn and blast. What part of pretend engagement did she not comprehend? “Betrothal ball? That cannot be wise.”

  “Oh, pish, pish. I had been contemplating holding a ball this Season anyway, and this provides a perfect reason. It will allow Caroline the opportunity to watch from the balcony with her governess, so she is better prepared for her launch next year.”

  Phineas took a calming breath. “But we will likely have ended this charade by the time the ball could be planned.”

  A sharp tug of disappointment in his gut was quickly shoved aside. He refused to analyze it.

  “I will address that possibility when it transpires. I am confident I can make it into a positive event, regardless. Leave it all to me.”

  Precisely what he feared. However, Phineas knew from experience it did no good to pit himself against his mother when her mind was set. They had that stubbornness in common.

  Miss Rochon spoke. “A ball? Lady Montagu, Lord Montagu is right, that seems too elaborate, too wasteful for something that is only a temporary thing.”

  “Is i
t, dear?”

  Time to depart. Phineas stood and kissed his mother’s hand. He held out his arm for Miss Rochon. “It is to no avail to argue with my mother, I assure you. May I escort you home? I will see you later for our appointment.”

  Miss Rochon arose and said her goodbyes. When they reached the door, his mother said, “Miss Rochon, please think on what I said. We shall talk again.”

  Now, what the devil was that about?

  Though skeptical about Miss Rochon’s ministrations and restless over their earlier encounter at his mother’s, Phineas kept his appointment. He walked up the steps of the Somerville townhouse and let the heavy brass knocker drop. He schooled himself to act with better control in Miss Rochon’s presence. An affair of the heart he absolutely could not indulge. He must resist her charms, his project too important. However, her concern touched him in a peculiar way. He rubbed his arm while he waited for the butler to answer the door. Last night had been a restless night for him. Not only had he battled his imagination where Miss Rochon was concerned, but also it had proved difficult to find a position that was tolerable, that would not aggravate the throbbing pain in his arm.

  And deuce it if he did not keep abusing it the whole blessed day.

  First, he managed to bang it against his four poster bed upon awakening. It suffered further abuse when his valet came to dress him. Since Phineas deemed it important to appear uninjured to his acquaintances, Chandler had been obliged to retie the bandage so it lay flatter and he could squeeze his arm into the tight-fitting, tailored coat.

  Then later, as he wrote letters in his library, he dropped his nib pen on the floor. When he leaned over to retrieve it, he banged his sore arm on the desk.

  To compound his grievances further, he found the simple task of writing painful, so he wrote one letter deemed absolutely essential and only signed the documents his secretary had given him.