Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  “Sorry to ruin your designs on the Dalton chit, my man, but I am having increasing doubts about this business. A damnable affair. Are you entirely certain no one outside our group knows?”

  Phineas tensed. It would be providential indeed if they discussed the affairs that concerned him most.

  “Of course no one knows. You are worrying about nothing, as usual.” A scrape of a match, a flare of light, and a pungent smell evidenced a pipe had been lit. Must be the stranger, as Edgerton partook of snuff exclusively.

  “But what about the items found missing at the Huxtables?”

  His companion snorted. “Huxtable is a sap skull. Most likely he misplaced them, that is all. You are letting your fancy run too free. It will soon be over, never fear. Chin up, and all that.”

  Edgerton grumbled something, however, Phineas could not make it out.

  “Leave Miss Rochon to me,” the companion said. “I have a perfectly splendid plan on how to exploit that bit of news. My interview with Mr. Podbury proved very enlightening, to be sure.”

  Phineas nearly gasped but caught himself in time. Miss Rochon? Isabelle? His heart felt as if someone squeezed it, his skin grew clammy. How could she be involved in this? Did they suspect his scheme and therefore seek to control him through her? His muscles bunched, automatically wanting to spring away and seek out and protect her. He had to find her. Fast. Before these two did. He had promised her she would not be in danger when they embarked on this scheme.

  Unfortunately, he had to wait through thirty minutes of their insipid chit chat, which descended to ribald accounts of their most recent exploits. While they chatted, he consoled himself that she was safe. When they finally left, he indulged in a huge sigh of relief.

  Again, he desired to spring into action. They had a head start. Did they know she was in attendance? Though it took every shred of his self-control, he resolved to wait five minutes to ensure they had indeed departed.

  Devil take it, close enough. Phineas swung open the window, peeked outside, crawled out, and sought purchase on the large granite blocks comprising the house’s structure. He descended several feet, his fingers gripping each granite-block edge. He risked a peek. Far enough. He pushed away from the wall and landed, a trifle awkwardly, but all in all, a successful escape. He brushed his hands together. Now to find Isabelle.

  “I see you still prefer exiting from second story windows. At least this time you didn’t meet with the business end of a sharp, metal object.”

  Phineas jumped at hearing a voice, but sagged against the wall upon recognizing it. Isabelle. The next instant, he snaked an arm out and pulled her against him, tucking her head under his chin, inhaling her unique scent. She was safe.

  “How did you know I was here?” he managed to say between breaths. Scaling the wall and being surprised in that manner had rendered him breathless.

  “I didn’t. Though I was wondering where you were and whether I’d see you emerge from a window. I came out for some fresh air and heard a noise. Proved to be you. Quite an impressive feat, seeing you come down like that. Had a lot of practice?”

  He gently eased her away from his body. Her smile warmed him. “Heaps.” He folded her arm under his. “We ought to leave. Now.” He dragged her across the terrace and the side lawn.

  “Can’t we go out the front?” Isabelle stumbled beside him.

  “No,” not sparing her a glance.

  Phineas expected a debate, but thankfully she remained silent and complied with his demand. When he had her safely inside his carriage, then he could allow himself to relax. He squeezed her through a break in the hedge and out the side gate. They walked down the mews with all due haste. At the cross street, he paid a willing lad a bob to fetch his coachman.

  Ten minutes later, he had her tucked inside his carriage and on their way to Somerville House.

  “What’s happened? You look rattled. Did you find something?”

  “I am uncertain as yet. I took a journal from a locked drawer right before Lord Edgerton entered the study.” She gasped. “Worry not, I managed to hide in time. However, I overheard his discussion with a gentleman whose voice I did not recognize. Let us just say, I did not care for the direction the conversation took.”

  He studied her. His instincts counseled him not to tell her, but a normal lady she was not. From what he had discerned in the brief time they had had to discuss her own time period, ladies were different, more independent, more in control of their lives. She would wish to know what transpired. Indeed, she would expect it.

  He took a deep breath. “Who is Mr. Podbury?”

  She frowned. “Mr. Podbury?”

  “His name surfaced in their discussion, and it was implied he had a connection with you.”

  “Mr. Podbury,” she repeated in a whisper. “He was that funny fellow Ada and I went to see at the Royal Society. He believes in time travel and is researching it. He somehow knew I had traveled back in time, but I made up some stuff to get him off track.”

  “I wonder...”

  “What? What did you hear?”

  “Isabelle, I believe you may be in danger. Indeed, I am certain you are. I do not know what they have planned, but it appears you may be a target. They mentioned your name, and that they had spoken to Mr. Podbury. I do not like it.” He paused, thinking furiously of his options. “I shall stay at Mrs. Somerville’s in a guest chamber until the morrow, at which time I shall hire several Bow Street Runners to protect you, propriety be damned.” It would torture him to sleep so near her when she was unobtainable, but he could not think of his own needs at the moment.

  “Is that really necessary? I’m sure I’m not in any danger.”

  “I am not so sanguine. Isabelle, these people are ruthless. I have witnessed the devastation they leave behind. They also hold prominent positions in Polite Society and will do whatever it takes to remain there, including disposing of a bothersome female, a foreigner at that. I do not know how you fit into their schemes, however, and that is what concerns me.”

  Isabelle took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  His hand lifted—to touch her?—but he let it drop. She could not be his. He cleared his throat. “We must be vigilant.”

  May 22

  Katy!

  Lord Montagu believes me! We had a long talk last night, and I was finally able to convince him. Uh...by the way, I slept with him, and it was pretty hot!

  ...File this under weird: I found out that my house in Guildford actually belongs to Lord Montagu! We searched under the floorboards in the study on the slim chance my case was already hidden there, since his mother’s name is Elizabeth, but no such luck...

  “Miss Rochon, may I speak to you in private?”

  Isabelle shoved the letter she’d been writing to Katy under the blotter on her escritoire and faced Mrs. Somerville.

  Mrs. Somerville’s lips were set in a grim line. What in the world?

  “Of course. Please, come in.”

  The older woman stepped into Isabelle’s bedroom and paced for a minute. “I will be frank with you, Miss Rochon. I received a letter from Lady Byron in this morning’s post that has put me in a rather uncomfortable position.”

  This couldn’t be good. “Uh, Lady Byron? Has she returned from Bath?”

  “Yes. According to her, she has been beset by letters from her friends anxious for Ada’s welfare. In short, she has requested I terminate our association and turn you out. She also demands Ada’s immediate return to Fordhook. She is concerned about your influence on her daughter.”

  Isabelle’s stomach disappeared. What was she going to do? Maybe she could salvage the situation—she’d gotten along well with Mrs. Somerville up until now.

  “I have to say,” Mrs. Somerville continued, “I am somewhat concerned myself. Lord Montagu insisting on staying here last night, your two day’s absence, and now the place crawling with Bow Street Runners—”

  “But they are for my protection. That was also why Lord Montagu stayed last
night. He explained it to you.”

  “Yes, yes, he impressed upon me the situation’s urgency. Unfortunately, I am not privy to your history and your need for this protection.” She paced to the room’s other side.

  “But, Mrs. Somerville...” Isabelle trailed off. Short of confiding in her, she had no argument to make.

  “It pains me to be in this position. Lady Byron I tolerate, for she is Ada’s mother, but I find her to be a bit of a tyrant and prone to grandstanding. On the other hand, I do need to think of my eldest daughter, for she makes her debut next year.”

  Bubbles of panic tickled her chest. “You’re turning me out?”

  Mrs. Somerville paused and heaved a sigh. “No. However, if you could find another establishment, that might be for the best.”

  Great. What now?

  “In the meanwhile, I have more notes for you to transcribe and a small errand. It should keep you occupied for the rest of the week.”

  Phineas sat in his favorite armchair at White’s, smoking a pungent cigar. He had been there only a short time, most of the morning having been spent talking over plans with Miss Rochon and Miss Byron, allaying Mrs. Somerville’s fears, as well as hiring three Bow Street Runners. He had stayed long enough to ensure they patrolled Mrs. Somerville’s townhouse to his satisfaction.

  Perusing The Times financial section, he grimly noted an advertisement for the latest investment scheme set up by the consortium he had infiltrated and derisively termed the Cadre Cads. They had their own nickname, known only to their tight circle: The Muslin Makers.

  The name’s meaning was no idle boast, and a rather crude pun. So fitting of that ilk. Phineas gritted his teeth contemplating it. The journal he had found last night proved to be all he required to finally bring them to justice. He meant to ruin them. Thoroughly.

  A footman approached and stood, awaiting his notice. Phineas glanced up and nodded.

  “My lord, this note was left for you by a tradesman.”

  “Thank you.” He took the cheap paper and scanned its contents. It proved to be from one of the jewelers he had approached over a week ago.

  I believe I have the item you seek—Mr. Tindal, Jeweler, Bond Street.

  He stared at the note for some time, afraid of its import, the weight of it seemingly increasing.

  “For Isabelle,” he whispered. He stood, tucked the note inside his coat, retrieved his hat and gloves from the porter, and headed to the jeweler’s establishment.

  Early on, he had lost confidence in the investigative abilities of the Bow Street Runner hired for the purpose. Phineas had requested the drawing from Isabelle for himself, not the Runner, in hopes he might have better luck quizzing the shop keepers. After all, his title alone ought to be enough to encourage people to talk. Moreover, he could be persuasive, if he put his mind to it. Besides, a shop keeper would be more willing to assist a potential customer, a wealthy one, than one who could land them in prison. At least, that was how he reasoned it when he dismissed the Runner.

  However, he had subsequently canvassed every shop near where Isabelle’s case had been stolen and naught had surfaced. He had shown the proprietors the drawing and left his card, in the event they came across it afterward.

  Expecting this excursion to end as previous excursions, he nevertheless headed straight for the shop. Knowing now the real reason that necessitated its recovery, it was more imperative than ever.

  A bell over the shop door announced his entrance. He now remembered the shop and its proprietor, a personage with an unfortunate tendency to sweat profusely. Phineas had ranked him in his mind as the one least likely to work out. He could not help but regard the outcome in a less hopeful light than when he had left White’s.

  “Ah, my lord, so gracious of you to come. And so quickly.” The jeweler bowed a fraction too low for the occasion.

  Phineas cursed himself for showing too much interest. No doubt he had added another couple of shillings to the asking price, if, despite all, the errand proved successful. No matter. If it was indeed what Isabelle sought, he would acquire it, no matter the cost or inconvenience. “Do you have what I seek?”

  “Yes, yes, I believe so. Arrived this morning.” The pudgy man disappeared into the back and returned shortly, carrying something small inside a shabby linen cloth. He set it on the wooden counter and flicked the cloth folds aside, revealing the silver case within.

  Heart racing, Phineas reached into his inner coat pocket and retrieved Isabelle’s drawing. He unfolded it carefully and laid it beside the silver case.

  Yes. He could scarcely credit it. Desirous of being certain, he brought both to a nearby lamp and scrutinized the initials in the drawing and those on the case. They matched.

  A mixture of emotions flooded Phineas, but with a will, prominent above all was resolve. Hands shaking, he refolded the drawing and replaced it in his coat.

  He looked at the shop keeper. “Indeed. How much?”

  Phineas trudged up the steps of the Somervilles’ townhouse. In his possession he had the one item that would secure Isabelle’s happiness, but would dispel his own.

  Before his resolve could dissipate in the face of selfish reflection, he knocked and handed his card to the butler, who immediately ushered him upstairs to the drawing room.

  “Miss Byron, Miss Rochon.” He bowed. His pulse quickened. How would she react? Would she leave forthwith?

  “Cousin, Isabelle told me of her adventures when she left London. She also informed me you know of her secret. Incredible, is it not?”

  “Indeed. Quite difficult to comprehend.” Phineas settled in the chair Miss Byron indicated.

  “Did she show you her tiny Analytical Engine? That was the evidence that convinced me in the end.”

  Phineas looked to Isabelle, whose eyes darted away. She looked so beautiful, the fading afternoon light gilding her face and hair. He swallowed hard. “No.”

  “No, I didn’t have it with me. It no longer works, anyway,” Isabelle said.

  “What? Did it break?” asked Miss Byron.

  “No, but that kind of machine runs on a power that, uh, that runs out with time, unless it gets recharged.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Byron, sounding disappointed. “But, Lord Montagu might wish to see it. The outside is different enough from machines today.”

  “Indeed I would. I am intrigued.”

  Isabelle rose to quit the room and he stood, waiting.

  She returned shortly with a wooden bowl and placed it on a table between them. “These are the items that were with me when I came here. Normally, I would’ve had much more in my purse, but since I was going to a ball, my purse was small and I had only the essentials.” She held up a clump of clinking metal objects and passed it to Miss Byron. “These are my keys. Much different than the keys you’re used to, but they open my house—your house, Phineas—another opens my office in the British Museum, another goes to my car.”

  Of course, they questioned the meaning of the last item named, and Isabelle went into a lengthy discussion of the automobile, its usage and ubiquity in her time. Next, she retrieved a hard, flat disk, calling it her money chip, and explained it; showed her ‘U.K. driver’s license,’ the bank notes she had, her tube of lipstick—which Miss Byron kept spiraling open and closed, eyes wide—and then she produced a thin, brown object.

  “Is that... I do believe that is the device you had the first night we became acquainted, is it not?” asked Phineas.

  “Yes, but it’s lost its power. Kind of like how you use gas to power the lights on the street, this takes a different kind of power to work, and it’s run out. But we use it to talk to people who are in a different place, read news as it happens. That night I tried to contact my friends with it. Remember I wanted to meet some friends at a place nearby?”

  He suspected the device did much more and she held back for his sake. A chasm opened in his mind’s eye, Isabelle occupying the other side and retreating. How could he hope to bridge the gap?

&nbs
p; Miss Byron interjected, relating other wonders it performed, confirming his suspicion. “And that is not all. She captured my likeness at the ball, and I saw myself in there, in my dress. Moreover, it can perform mathematical calculations, as I told you Mr. Babbage is attempting.”

  Isabelle gave a half shrug. His stomach in turmoil, he cleared his throat. “Miss Rochon, I believe I have found the means for your return to this wondrous future.” He retrieved the silver case from inside his pocket, wrapped now in satin cloth.

  She gasped and Phineas looked up. She held herself perfectly still. Setting the object on the table, he pulled back the cloth.

  “Oh my God, you found it! I can’t believe it, now I can go home. Oh, you’re amazing!” She hurried to his side, the chair edging back from the force of her hug.

  Her intoxicating scent washed over him. He gripped the chair’s arms, not trusting himself to touch her, and briefly closed his eyes. His nerves coiled and frayed. “Well, now you may return. I imagine you can go now, if you desire,” his voice catching only slightly, he thought.

  Isabelle’s arms fell away. She returned to her chair and sat back, rather ungracefully. She looked away, not meeting his eye. “I can’t—” She cleared her throat and ran her palms over her knees. She blew out a breath and stood, walking to the window. She faced him. “I can’t just leave now. I need. I need to say goodbye to your family, and to Mrs. Somerville. There’s the engagement ball. That’s next week, so I can’t, oh man, I don’t know what to do. I feel bad your mother and sisters are going to all this trouble, only to have me call our engagement off. Would it be better for me to end it now, or after?”

  Can you conceive of not ending it at all? Phineas refrained from expressing this and took a moment to compose himself and reflect on the options. “I think it would be better for all concerned if we staged our estrangement before—however, it means I shall not have one last waltz with you.”