They discussed the timing of her attempted departure. She wished to have a chance to say goodbye to Mother and Mrs. Somerville, so they agreed on tomorrow evening. He checked on the Bow Street Runners to ensure they remained in place and to inquire whether they had anything to report. All was quiet.
“I shall take my leave of you ladies, then. Miss Rochon, I am happy to relate as well that I was successful in my mission at Barclay’s on your behalf.”
“Oh, thank you, Lord Montagu. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to add a final letter to it before I leave, so she’ll know when I’m returning. That way she can tell my boss from the start how long I will be gone.”
“Of course.” Phineas bowed but stood a moment longer. He tugged in a deep breath. “May I call on you tomorrow afternoon for one last ride through Hyde Park?” Why he tortured himself by seeking to spend more time with her, he could not conceive, but part of him felt a selfish need to plead his case, their case. To be honest, his thoughts warred with each other. Above all else, he desired her happiness, so how could he ask her to remain for the sake of his own?
She nodded solemnly. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
“May I speak to you in private?” Ada said from Isabelle’s bedroom door.
For the second time that day, Isabelle shoved her letter to Katy under the blotter. What was up with people wanting serious talks with her today? Though why she was hiding the letter, she didn’t know. Ada knew about them. Shaking her head, she turned to Ada.
“Sure. Something wrong?”
Ada shuffled over to the bed and flopped down. “Everything.”
Isabelle smiled; Ada still had some teenager left in her. “Come on, it can’t be that bad.” Had Ada already heard about her mother’s objections? Had Mrs. Somerville already asked her to return to Fordhook? That must be it.
“The Three Furies are after me.”
Huh? Okay, that had her puzzled. “The Three Furies?”
Ada propped herself on an elbow, despair in her eyes. “My nickname for three lady friends of my mother’s. They have plagued me ever since I can remember. Always writing letters chastising me, saying I must improve myself, and pointing out all of my faults and transgressions.” Ada sighed. “They have written my mother, and I just received letters from them and my mother by this afternoon’s post.”
“Uh-oh. Yes, Mrs. Somerville had a little visit with me this morning. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to you about it, and honestly I didn’t want to upset you. Especially now that I’m able to leave. My leaving will solve everything.”
When Phineas had given her the case earlier that day, a storm of emotions had raged through her. She couldn’t begin to analyze them, but one practical thought popped into her head: at least it solved her situation with Mrs. Somerville.
For the first time in their acquaintance, a new emotion washed over Ada’s face: bitterness. “For you, yes. But for me, no. I must return to Fordhook straightaway.”
“I’m so sorry, Ada. I wish there was something I could do. When do you have to leave?”
“That is the question, is it not, my friend? In fact, you can do something for me. Please, you must take me with you when you leave. I cannot suffer my mother’s domination, and that of her friends, any longer.”
Uneasiness rippled through her. “Um, Ada―”
Ada jumped up and ran to her, falling at her feet. “Please. You cannot conceive of what I endure. I used to think it was my own doing. All of my life I felt inadequate, tainted. That somehow it was my fault I did not love my mother as I should. That I came up wanting in her eyes. I would chastise myself and strive for the perfection she demanded.” Ada took a deep breath and gripped Isabelle’s hands. “However, lately, I have cast off her dark cloud of oppression and have come to believe it is she who is lacking in the proper sensibilities a mother should have.” Ada gasped. “Oh, this is so horrid to be saying this aloud. You must think I am positively wicked!”
Ada sobbed in huge gulps, her eyes wild. She was near to hysteria. Alarmed, Isabelle pulled her close and held her, letting Ada cry out her grief, guilt, and frustration.
This was one disturbed girl. Why couldn’t she have read a biography of Ada and not just the short bits she’d come across? How to handle all this emotion?
Arms stiff, she patted Ada’s back until the sobs subsided into sniffles. Isabelle pulled away. “Ada, I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were so miserable.”
“I feel so wicked.”
“You must stop thinking that way. If you don’t mind me being completely honest, from what little I’ve seen of your mother, I agree with you. In my time, she would’ve definitely been classified as having mental issues.”
“So you understand? That is why I must go back with you. This is not my time. I belong in your future, I just know it. You have helped me see that. Oh, thank you!”
Isabelle sighed. Ada probably did belong in Isabelle’s time. She’d been born way too early. But no way could Isabelle bring her back. “Ada, I can’t.”
“Whyever not? I thought you understood? I have listened to your stories, and I know I will manage. I will be able to pursue my own intellectual interests, free from my mother’s oppression and society’s demands.”
“Ada, it has nothing to do with that. I do believe you could manage. But you belong here.”
Ada threw up her hands and paced. “But, I do not. I can feel it in my bones.”
Oh, God. How to convince her? “Ada, remember when we first met, and you asked about your father and whether he was still famous in my time?”
She stopped pacing. “Yes.”
“And I said you were not famous, but that you were in our history books.”
“Yes.”
“Well, the things you do that put you in the history books...”
“Yes?”
“Ada, you haven’t done those things yet. And you must. I can’t tell you how it might affect history if you don’t.”
Ada grunted and paced the room again. “I cannot credit it. I must remain, suffer through living in this time, so your future can stay intact?”
“To be honest, Ada, I don’t know if you’d be able to go forward in time. There’s probably a force that would prevent you from doing it.”
“I thought you were my friend—?”
Shit. “Ada, please. This is hard for me, too. I can’t do this. There’s more than you and me to consider.”
Ada paced the room some more, her skirts swishing angrily as she moved. She whipped around. “So this is your final answer? You will not aid me? After all I have done for you?”
Isabelle groaned. “No, I can’t.”
Ada choked on a sob, stormed to the door, and slammed it behind her.
So, still a teenager. Only nineteen. Isabelle couldn’t blame her for being so upset. But now she had Mrs. Somerville, Lady Byron, and Ada against her? Thank God for Lord Mon—Phineas.
She also better make sure she kept the calling card case with her at all times, out of Ada’s reach.
The ormolu clock on the mantel in the drawing room chimed forty-five minutes past the hour—forty-five minutes past the appointed time for her ride in Hyde Park with Lord Montagu.
Isabelle stopped her pacing and stared at the ornate clock. “Where the heck is he?”
Ada shrugged. “It is not like him, to be sure, though it must be something urgent to keep him away. He knows you leave tonight.”
The clamp squishing her heart and stomach tightened another fraction. Yes, he does. What’s keeping him?
“How went your visit with Lady Montagu? Was she at home?” Ada asked.
Relations between them were still strained from last night. Thankfully, Ada had not asked to go with her to the future again, but a slight pout marred her lips, and she avoided Isabelle’s gaze. “Yes, though part of me wished she hadn’t been.” The scene with Lady Montagu replayed in her mind for the zillionth time. “I told her I had to leave.”
Isabelle hunche
d her shoulders. Lady Montagu had said nothing, but her eyes, everything: pity, disappointment, sadness. She’d expected not only a different outcome, but better judgment from Isabelle. If only she could have confided in her—if she could have explained, a strong woman like her would understand why she had to do this.
She drifted to the side table. On it lay the small bundle she planned to take back with her when she left that evening. On top perched the silver case and the final letter to Katy for Lord Montagu to deposit at Barclay’s.
She’d made the right choice—she had to return to her normal life. To her job, her house. Provided the case worked its magic again. Ada’s outburst had given her further strength—she’d already influenced events enough. She couldn’t risk messing up the timeline further. So why had a snake of unease taken up residence in her stomach and continued to coil?
Her only regret was leaving the potential that was Lord Montagu. No, there was no question about what to do. She had to remain strong. To stay would be weak. She’d done the idiotic follow-the-boyfriend move once before, to disastrous results. She’d not make that mistake again.
She’d been dreading the carriage ride all day—in a way, she wished she could leave without seeing him again. It would be easier. The ride would only make it all the more painful. And now waiting for him to finally show made it that much worse.
She threw her hands up when she noticed she’d been pacing in time to the ticks of the mantel clock.
Ada put down her book and clasped her hands. “Isabelle, I should like to apologize―”
A throat cleared in the doorway. “A note has arrived for Miss Rochon,” the butler announced.
“What’s this, who left this? Lord Montagu? Why didn’t he come in?” Isabelle grabbed the note from the butler.
He shrugged. “A messenger dropped it off. He did not wait for a reply.”
Isabelle looked to Ada and broke the wax seal. “Perhaps this solves the mystery of Lord Montagu’s absence.” She read it quickly. The coiling snake inside turned to a block of ice.
“Oh my God, Ada.” She reached behind her and found a seat. “He’s been kidnapped.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed farewell!
Lord Byron, The Corsair, Canto I
“Wh-Wha-What?” Ada’s face drained of color.
Isabelle’s fingers shook as she held the note detailing Lord Montagu’s kidnapping. The elegant handwriting looping across the ivory stock stood at odds with the contents and swam before her eyes. She hastened to the front window, angled the note toward the late afternoon light, and read the rest.
The blood in her veins flashed hot, then chilled as it gripped her heart. Her stomach roiled. What they described they’d do to him—
She gripped the note tighter. “Apparently, they want me to go to a certain address and leave my silver case in the coal chute.”
Ada stood and stepped toward the table with her case. “The silver case?” She looked at it and frowned. “Why would they want it?”
Did it matter? “I have no idea. I’m to deliver it by six p.m. to an address in Mayfair. They know about the Bow Street Runners and they must accompany me, all three. Also, they are watching the house and will know if I request additional help.” She took a shaky breath. “They do not want me, only the case. In exchange, they will release Lord Montagu.”
“Is it that simple? They will release him?” Ada waved her hands. “How? Where?”
“It only says further instructions will be waiting for me at the drop-off spot.” Isabelle plopped onto a couch and bounced back up. She marched to the window and back. The kidnapper had left detailed instructions, but was there a way around it? “Do you have a silver calling card case I could use instead?”
“I do not. And since they are watching the house―”
“—I can’t stop and purchase one.” Isabelle blew out her breath. God damn it. “Well, at least they didn’t take me for an idiot and ask me to come alone. However, it means I can’t have one of the Runners watch that location while I make the drop to see what happens.” She strode forward enough to glimpse the mantel clock. A few minutes before five p.m. “Shit, they didn’t leave me much time to think about this.”
“What are you going to do, Isabelle? If you give them that case, you cannot go back.”
Isabelle gritted her teeth. “I know. They said—” Isabelle forced herself to breathe; the note had been overly graphic on this point. “They said they’d have no qualms throwing his lordship’s body into the Thames. I have no choice.”
Ada teared up. “Yes, you do. You can go back. Think about it. When you return, Lord Montagu and I, we—we shall have been dead for over a hundred years. We do not know when, but we do know we shall be before your time.”
Hearing something she knew on an intellectual level stated so baldly hit her like a sucker punch in the gut. All true, but... Isabelle stared at Ada. She picked up the case on top of her bundle of belongings. She fingered it. So close. She could do it now.
Leave.
But she couldn’t. Not like this.
The whole situation seemed outrageous, except the proof of their intent lay in the note clutched in her hand. What choice did she have, really? She couldn’t risk affecting the timeline either, by not complying.
A hot wetness compressed her throat. She swallowed hard, placed the case back inside the satin cloth, and wrapped it. “I can’t do that to him, Ada. You’re right, you don’t know when or how either of you will die, but I can’t be the cause of Lord Montagu dying earlier than he would have if they carry out their threat. Who knows what kind of life I would be denying him. He has a right to it. Besides, he wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for me.”
Her chest tightened, constricting her breath. She looked up at Ada, tears now welling in her own eyes, fragmenting her friend’s face. “So you see, I have no choice. Not really.”
Pacing again, she took deep breaths and mentally reviewed the instructions. Hopefully, what she’d seen in movies about kidnappings would prove true—comply, deliver the goods, and leave with the hostage. In the movies, they only went awry for the plot’s sake.
She pulled the bell rope. The butler appeared instantly.
“Can you ask the lead officer of the Bow Street Runners to come inside?”
Five minutes later, Isabelle set off in the Somerville carriage for the address given in the note. Two Runners rode as footmen in the back, and the leader sat with her inside. Ada stayed behind to be safe. Isabelle’s stomach tied in knots ever more intricate.
Stay calm, Isabelle. It’s the only way to get through this.
Every time an image from her real life paraded through her mind, she shoved it aside. She must not think about what this meant, what she sacrificed. She kept telling herself she couldn’t think about it for the rest of the short ride to the address. It was like playing whack-a-mole with her memories. No more brushing her hand across a new-found artifact, the joyful anticipation of research animating her. Whack. No more early morning breakfasts in her garden, the morning mist the herald of a new day’s promise. Whack. No more cocktails and bad-taste movie nights with Katy. Whack.
Whack. Whack. Whack.
When the carriage halted, she stepped out and hauled her skirt-bedecked butt to the coal chute. The three Runners flanked her. One pulled the lid open, the creak of the hinges sounding overloud to her ears. She deposited her precious package inside and let her fingers linger on the soft satin. An elegant ivory envelope with her name on it lay inside. Blinking back tears, she snatched it and scurried back to the carriage.
Once inside, she let out a huge breath. She’d expected trouble, and its absence unnerved her; she shook with unspent adrenaline. At least this stage was over. Now, to find out where they held Lord Montagu—she tore open the envelope.
“Dammit.” She glared out the window. Their machinations were not over.
It was as if she were in the middle of some dan
g spy movie, albeit set in the nineteenth century. When the scene outside her window finally registered, she flung herself back against the seat: a stream of street urchins approached the chute, grabbed an item—or pretended to—and veered off in different directions. No way could her Runners have followed them all.
The note told her to go to another address for additional instructions. She handed it to the leader of the Runners. “What do you make of this?”
He took the note. “’Tis a seedy part of the East End.” He banged on the carriage’s trap door and instructed the driver.
Damn and blast, he was well and truly in a bind, literally and figuratively. Phineas yanked on the ropes fettering his wrists behind his back and his legs to the chair. No give whatsoever. A blinding headache had awakened him perhaps five minutes before, followed by a moment’s panic when he realized he had no conception of his whereabouts. Finding himself gagged and bound to a chair in the middle of a bare room, he felt anger and frustration surge through him, replacing the panic.
What the devil?
He thought back to his last distinct memory. That did not elucidate matters. He had stepped into his carriage after leaving White’s and later it had stopped, presumably at Mrs. Somerville’s. How had he ended up here? Wherever here was.
Phineas jerked his head and flicked a lock of hair from his eyes. No furnishings relieved the room’s expanse, except for the chair holding him. The walls were painted the color of port wine, and late afternoon sun shone through uncurtained windows, punctuating the room with three clusters of dappled light. One of which shone directly on him. The strand of hair fell back over his right eye. His nose itched. Phineas blew on his errant hair lock to no avail, irritating him further.
His headache intensifying, he indulged in a fit of rage by agitating his chair in an attempt to loosen his bonds. He managed only to knock himself and the chair sideways, a flash of pain signaling he had been unfortunate enough to land on his wounded arm. Moreover, he still lay in the block of light, the warmth making him itch further.
Must Love Breeches Page 25
