Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  “What are we to do?” Ada whispered.

  Isabelle stared at the rim of her juice glass, her finger rubbing the edge. So, she was the latest victim of London’s vicious gossip. She snorted air from her nose and sat back down. So what. “Not much we can do.”

  Ada twisted her napkin around her fingers, her forehead creased. She sighed. “I suppose you are correct. We have no recourse whatsoever. Only pray my mother does not see this. I know Mrs. Somerville will not. She cannot abide the gossip section and does not befriend those who do.”

  They both stared sullenly at the paper. Isabelle bit her lip. “What will Lord Montagu say?”

  Ada waved her hand. “I would not worry about him. He pays no mind to gossip, either. After all, he is usually on the receiving end of a rather pernicious variety. He is also too much of a gentleman and too intelligent to listen to gossip. To him it will sound ridiculous and unbelievable, and so he will dismiss it out of hand. He already knows part of it is not true, so he will easily discount the rest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, that you and he were seen—” Isabelle must have blushed, because Ada finished with, “oh... well, never mind.”

  “It was nothing, Ada. He was upstairs snooping again. I went looking for him and we were in danger of being caught, so we, uh, gave a plausible excuse for our presence upstairs, is all.” Ada might be confident of Lord Montagu’s dismissal, but Isabelle was not. “Ada, what am I going to do when we go out again?”

  Ada drew her shoulders back. “You will pretend as though nothing happened. Sensible people shall pay it no heed, and the others shall have no fuel with which to keep the rumors aflame if you do not provide them with any.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She’d have to wait to gauge Lord Montagu’s reaction until the afternoon when he came for his bandage change.

  “You know, Ada, this gossip in the paper has given me an idea.” Isabelle was sitting at the escritoire in her room, transcribing notes on Mrs. Somerville’s next article. Ada worked on mathematical problems in a chair by the unlit fireplace. Isabelle set her nib pen down. “We could use this as an excuse to go to the Royal Society of London and see if anyone is researching time travel. We could say we saw this article and were curious.”

  She must be desperate to even think of doing this. Was she crazy?

  An hour later, the Somerville carriage pulled up on the Strand in front of the Neo-classical façade of Somerset House, home of the Royal Society. Isabelle and Ada entered the hushed interior, their footfalls and skirts whispering across the marble-tiled floor. A squirrelly-faced clerk greeted them, his body as pinched as his face. Isabelle put on her best demure-but-fascinated expression and floated her rehearsed question about the article and time travel.

  “Ladies are not allowed, I am sorry.” The clerk returned to reading his book.

  Isabelle kept her expression wide-eyed and gripped her parasol’s handle. “Sir, please, this is important.”

  “Not likely, now is it?” The clerk angled his head and spit into a brass pot.

  Eeew. Isabelle took a deep breath.

  Honey catches more flies. She counted to ten. “Could you make an exception for us? We would not ask if it were not important. A matter of life and death, actually.” A bit of a stretch, but playing the sweet female had put her on a melodramatic bent.

  “Now, why would I wish to do that? Be gone. Can you not see I am busy?”

  Actually, his nose was buried in a book. Isabelle counted to twenty.

  “It is of no use, Isabelle.” Ada tugged on her arm. “Perhaps instead, we can visit the shops nearby for the items Mrs. Somerville asked for.”

  No freaking way was she going to give up that easily. What other tactic could she use? Bribe him with some money? She reached for her purse.

  “Mrs. Somerville.” The clerk’s eyes narrowed. “Would that be Dr. Somerville’s wife?”

  They both frowned and answered, “Yes.”

  “You are friends of hers?” the clerk asked.

  “Miss Byron is. I am her assistant.”

  He stood, his face less squirrelly. His hand clutched over his heart. “Oh, I am such an avid follower of her work. Such a refined mind.” He dipped his head, his gaze darting. “For Mrs. Somerville, I shall let you enter. You will wish to see Mr. Podbury. He is in the basement.” He gave them detailed instructions to the office.

  “But, I warn you ladies, he is a lunatic. No such ability as time travel. We humor him only because his uncle bequeathed us a rather large endowment, you understand.”

  “Perfectly. Thank you so much for your time, sir.” They curtseyed and followed his directions, the Somerville footman following at a discreet distance.

  They took a wrong turn a couple of times as they wound their way through the dark and dusty labyrinth of the building. In one long, dark hall, a low male voice and a scratching noise sounded from the only open door. They quickened their pace and peeked into the room. A guy in his thirties scribbled furiously on a chalkboard, filling the last free area with wacky symbols. He whipped around and consulted something on his desk.

  His peripheral vision must have caught sight of them, though, for he straightened and exclaimed, “Oh, I say!”

  “Mr. Podbury?” Ada asked.

  “I am he. How may I be of service, ladies?” He smoothed his shock of black hair and pushed his glasses up his nose. Unfortunately, he spread chalk dust in his hair and on his face.

  Ada made introductions and instructed the footman to wait in the hall for them.

  Mr. Podbury seemed quite fascinated to be meeting Lord Byron’s daughter, but had no idea who Isabelle was, so obviously he didn’t read scandal sheets. But why did his name sound familiar?

  “We recently read Rip Van Winkle and are intrigued with the idea of traveling forward in time,” Isabelle said. “We heard you have been researching this concept, and we wished to talk to you about it. Is it possible?”

  Good Lord, what was she doing? Had she gone nuts? She’d traveled back in time, sure, but if people in her own time hadn’t figured out how to do it, how could she expect someone from the 1800s to know?

  She had no choice, though. She knew it was possible, and maybe scientists unhampered by the straitjacket of What Was Acceptable to Research could stumble onto it. Possibly. Maybe. It was worth a shot. Heck, it was worth more than a shot.

  Mr. Podbury glared at them. “Fitzwilliam put you up to this, did he not? Tell him I am not amused. I have no time to waste.” He spun back and scribbled more arcane-looking symbols on his chalkboard and scratched the crown of his head.

  Isabelle quirked a smile at Ada, who shrugged.

  “No, sir,” Ada said. “We are not acquainted with Mr. Fitzwilliam. We are in earnest.”

  Mr. Podbury pivoted slowly, his head lowered. He raised his head and a brief flare of hope sparked in his eyes.

  “Yes, we are truly interested in what you can tell us,” Isabelle added.

  Mr. Podbury fiddled with his piece of chalk and stared at each of them in turn. A wide grin split his face. He tossed the chalk onto his desk and rubbed his hands, causing more chalk dust to spread around and on him. Obviously, most people didn’t let him go on and on about his obsession, for obsession it clearly was. He rambled on about a substance called aether and about puzzling concepts, concepts that Isabelle had never heard of.

  “You simply must attend my lecture the day after tomorrow—The Wonders of Aether and its Ineluctable Properties in Relation to the Fabric of Space and Time.”

  “Wow, sounds intriguing, Mr. Podbury, we will do our best to attend,” Isabelle said. Fascinating as it all was, none of it helped; it was all conceptual. They got up to leave.

  He hastily stood, shifting from foot to foot, while Ada and Isabelle said their goodbyes. They turned, and he blurted, “Oh, I say, Miss Rochon, you know what I am talking about, do you not?”

  Isabelle stopped, spun about, and stared. Surely he couldn’t mean—


  “Do you mind?” He unearthed a strange brass object from under a pile of papers on the table and moved it in front of Isabelle and Ada. “This is an Aether Meter. It can discern irregular fluctuation patterns.” He fiddled with several large knobs and a tiny brass vane spun in a glass enclosure on top. “It is spiking in your vicinity, Miss Rochon.” His eyes widened and he looked as if he might jump up and down. “How did you do it? When are you from?”

  Oh, God. Isabelle sank down in the chair.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,

  Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.

  Lord Byron, Beppo, 1818

  Isabelle stared at Mr. Podbury and sweat bloomed across her skin. Could he—how—no.

  “Where am I from? America, a small town in Alabama.”

  He frowned at her. “No. When. I know you are not from this time.” He waved his Aether Meter. “This says so.”

  So she had heard correctly. But she needed to handle this carefully—not give herself away until she knew he could help her, and that she could trust him. She laughed. “Another time? Interesting. So, you are saying you know how to time travel?”

  He scrubbed his face and blew out a breath. “Not yet, but I am close. Now with you here as proof, I know ‘tis possible. Tell me, how did you accomplish this feat?”

  The flicker of hope she had died. He couldn’t help. “I know not what you mean.” She widened her eyes, kept her face blank. “We simply came here to learn what you know out of curiosity. I certainly―”

  A knock behind interrupted her. A nondescript gentleman with a receding hairline stood at the door. “Mr. Podbury? I have need of you.”

  Mr. Podbury appeared flustered to have two visits within a day, and Isabelle and Ada capitalized on his confusion to escape. On their way to the carriage, Isabelle asked Ada, “Do you trust him?”

  “I know not what to make of him, to be honest. He appears earnest, but that does not necessarily aid you in your quest.”

  “No, it does not.” Her quest. She needed to keep looking herself, plus, she still needed to find those items for Mrs. Somerville. Determination filled her: she would find them. Her hostess had not said anything about her failure, but this was her job right now, and she had to do it well if she wanted to stay in London and find her case.

  “Do you mind going with me to Marylebone Lane? I need to collect more items for Mrs. Somerville, and I thought to investigate the area for my calling card case while there.”

  “Actually, I need to see my modiste nearby. We have two footmen, so we could split up. Do you mind terribly?”

  “Not at all.”

  Ada directed the coachman to stop at Ada’s modiste and, after coordinating when to meet, Isabelle had the driver bring her to the shop on Marylebone Lane recommended by the bookstore guy from the other day.

  Her luck won out: he had the books and the map, and twenty minutes later she stepped back onto the street, free to investigate.

  Now, how to proceed? She had time before Lord Montagu arrived at the Somerville’s for his bandage change. She looked around. Hmm. No place for her to sit and watch the passersby. She certainly couldn’t stand without attracting notice. She returned to the carriage and told the driver to park at the entrance of the lane so she could watch anyone coming down the street.

  After an hour of watching, she formed a tight fist and hit her knee. Nothing. And she needed to collect Ada shortly and head back to the house for her appointment with Lord Montagu. However, she could do one more thing, and she wished she’d thought of it earlier.

  She stepped out of the carriage and to the bookstore. “Excuse me, sir. Have you seen a boy, about eight years old, blond hair, rather dirty, and wearing a ragged blue coat?”

  “Let me think. Yes, I believe I have at that.”

  Hope flared through her. Finally, a break. “You have? Where can I find him? What’s his name? This is very important to me.”

  “Where can you find him? Why, miss, only go to any street in London and you can find a dozen urchins who fit that description. Take your pick.”

  Bastard. Isabelle stomped from the store.

  He was right, though. What was she thinking? How did she hope to find one child thief, probably an orphan, among the thousands swarming London?

  Phineas leaped into his carriage. Time to collect Miss Rochon. He settled back into the cushions and struggled to compose his thoughts, to not dwell on Saturday night’s events, but to no avail. Just the idea of her, the image of her, above him, pressed along his length, passionately responding to him, and then beneath him blushing—well, the idea, the image, returned to his mind’s eye over and over, again and again, and each blessed, confounded time, heat spiked through him.

  No lady had ever responded to him in that manner. In fact, it was one more aspect of her character that puzzled him: her experience. He was not the first to kiss her thoroughly, that much was evident. Who was she? Who was she hiding from? A former lover? At that notion, a bolt of jealousy shot through him, as well as an inexplicable desire to protect her.

  Moreover, having to be near her earlier today while she attended his wound, the agonizing physical closeness and the agonizing emotional distance...

  How stiff and formal had been their interaction. He winced. Every gesture, every word of hers acting to describe and fortify the wall around her, shutting him out, creating the illusion that he had never been privileged to be within them. He dared not take the requisite step to clear the air between them. Was she offended by the liberty he had taken? He tried to pass it off as an expedient against detection, but obviously she was not fooled. His aroused state during the kiss had certainly been in evidence. Could he have been mistaken about her reaction to his embrace? Furthermore, how the devil was he to manage an evening at the theatre in her company? What had he been thinking?

  Actually, he had not been.

  He had resolved on asking her before the kiss transpired. Without stopping to think, he followed through with it when taking his leave. Damnation, she was distracting.

  Unbidden, the scene in the room at the ball played again in his memory. A surge of heat pulsed through him. His fist pounded once against the empty seat beside him. Bloody hell.

  He forced his mind to concentrate on the next stages of his ‘project’, as he had termed it with Miss Rochon.

  His flesh fought, but his mind prevailed. It would have been disastrous to pick her up in such an aroused state.

  One thing he could ill afford at this juncture was allowing his passions to rule him. After all, his project owed its birth to that damnable emotion. Cause and effect. To become what he despised most about his enemies—unthinkable. No, he would be the master of his passion; he would not permit it to rule another’s will. He was not that kind of man.

  All the evidence he required to bring down the group of men—he refused to honor them by the term gentlemen—who had caused his sister’s ruination was almost within his grasp. His hands curled into tight fists. The choking impotency he always felt, the guilt, nearly overpowered him. He had been powerless to save her.

  He forced his hands to relax and wiped them on his trousers.

  It mattered not he had been serving his king—more specifically, Lord Palmerston—hopping around the Continent from the newly minted Kingdom of Belgium, to Portugal, to Spain, to the Ottoman Empire, and south to Egypt. It had been essential to maintain the balance of power established after the Napoleonic Wars. He knew that. The information he had gathered and forwarded had assisted Lord Palmerston in his machinations for peace and stability. It also allowed him to travel parts of the world he had not visited on his Grand Tour.

  But, oh, that day in Constantinople. The letter from his mother informing him his father had died and his eldest sister required his protection. He had extricated himself from his duties and hastened home as swiftly as the travel arrangements and modes of transportation allowed.

  He had been too late.
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  Where had Sir Raphael been? That was a question that still boiled his blood.

  The carriage slowed, pulling him from his morbid thoughts. He donned his gloves and jumped out before it stopped, eager to stretch his limbs and disperse the gloominess that possessed his mind.

  He was determined to stay focused and act the gentleman tonight.

  Isabelle sat back against the seat of Lord Montagu’s carriage. The man himself vaulted inside and took the seat across from her.

  “How are you this evening, Miss Rochon?” His voice sounded even, almost detached. He inclined his head in her direction.

  So, still going with the Stiff and Formal routine? Fine.

  “Very well, thank you for asking.” There. She studied the streetscape passing outside her window. That oppressive silence settled between them, as if it had lain in wait in the carriage since Saturday night. Her hands tightened in her lap, and she made herself relax them. Man, was this going to be a long evening. As Ada would probably say, it would be insufferable. Perhaps even vexing.

  She’d watched him closely when she changed his bandage yesterday to see if he’d read the article in the paper, but he treated her the same as before, which, unfortunately, was rather distant because of the kiss.

  Her edginess hadn’t been helped by her visit to Mr. Podbury either. She needed time to think, dammit, about his stunning announcement. And whether to trust him with her secret. Not be distracted by a certain yummy specimen.

  Said specimen adjusted position, and a waft of his masculine scent enfolded her.

  How was she going to pretend Saturday night hadn’t curled her toes and every other curlable part? Every time she reviewed The Incident, her own forwardness loomed large—she sifted and dug for evidence of his attraction for her during that kiss, but she always pulled a blank. She would try, then the evidence of her own brazenness would seep into that blank spot, like an ink stain, obscuring it, coloring it, preventing her from being objective.