Damnation. Where was he? Who had done this to him? The air smelled stale—empty—except for a faint whiff of decay. A mouse dead in the walls, most likely. Obviously, the place was uninhabited. Judging by the architectural features, he was in a townhouse, presumably in one of the affluent neighborhoods in the West End.
A board creaked in the hallway. Phineas turned his head upward. The brass handle rattled and the heavy oak door flew open, banging against the wall. Several pairs of legs strode into the room, one elegant, the rest of the ruffian variety.
“Well, what happened here, guvna?” a rough voice said, as his legs passed through one of the light patches.
Phineas craned his head and glared at the speaker and the rest of his captors. Glaring was all he could manage, since the putrid gag stuffed in his mouth prevented speech. Before him, four ruffians, plus one person dressed like a gentleman, positioned themselves in a ragged line. Unfortunately, Phineas could not identify the gentleman; he disguised his features with a wooden mask in the shape of Tragedy. The mask’s exaggerated frown and sad eyes added to the sense of unreality.
The gentleman’s wooden face turned to the ruffian who had spoken. “I do not employ you to provide fatuous commentary.”
Phineas’s pulse quickened. The cultured tones of the mysterious visitor in Edgerton’s study, he would recognize them anywhere. So, they had discovered Phineas’s desire to destroy their group. It had been inevitable, but he had fooled himself into believing it would be later rather than sooner. He had been so close.
“Well, well, your lady is a right smart chit. You will soon be at liberty to depart.” The leader nodded to the ruffian closest to Phineas. The gag fell away.
Phineas blew out the second rag in his mouth and spat to remove its fetid taste. Confusion clouded his mind. If they had kidnapped him because they had discovered his role in the thefts, why free him? Furthermore, what did the leader mean to imply about Isabelle?
Good Lord, she had not surrendered to them, had she? Phineas fought the mix of bile and panic constricting his throat. “What, this is it?”
The leader cocked his head, the wooden mask now at a drunken angle. “I have what I desire.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved a silver object.
Isabelle’s silver case.
Phineas hoped he masked his momentary confusion; this had nothing to do with him and his schemes.
Oh, Isabelle, what have you done?
She had sacrificed the case? For him? A selfish, traitorous thread of hope spiked through his grief for her, for what she had been forced to relinquish.
Right now, however, he must focus. “What have you done with Miss Rochon?”
“What have I done with her? Why, I have done nothing with her, my friend.”
Phineas ground his teeth and struggled against his bonds. “You bloody bastard, if you have harmed her in the slightest, I swear I will come after you.”
The ruffian nearby kicked Phineas hard in the ribs. Pain radiated through him. “Mind your bone box, ya bloody cove.”
“My, my, my. Such concern,” the leader responded simultaneously. “Fret not, she has followed my instructions to the letter, and so is quite unharmed.”
Phineas closed his eyes. Thank Christ for his prone position—he doubted his legs would have held him upright, his relief was so poignant. His immediate fear allayed, he concentrated on his next priority: deflect the villain. After all, a slim possibility existed that the bastard remained ignorant of the object’s power.
“Why that particular case? You may purchase similar ones from any jeweler.”
The leader swung the case by its silver chain, catching the rays of light from the window in its arc. “I am privy to the interesting secret about this little case.”
Bloody hell. “I know not what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. When I read about Miss Rochon in The Times, I scoffed at first, like everyone else, I imagine. However, it was so outrageous I could not help but wonder—could it be true? I consulted Mr. Podbury, you see, and he told me about her visit with him and how he was not fooled by her dissembling. He was convinced beyond doubt she traveled here from the future. It peeved him when she refused to conduct tests, so when I dangled a generous investment in his experiments, he was more than willing to talk to me.” He swung the case higher and caught it in his hand. He put it back inside his coat. “I also learned of your search for the case, so I had her followed, as well as yourself. I knew sooner or later you would locate it.”
“What could you possibly want with it?”
The leader paced back and forth. “Can you not imagine? I do not wish to live there, naturally, but to drop in from time to time to check for sound investments, disaster timelines, and such, and return here and invest my money in a fool-proof way. Yes, I wanted this case.” He stopped and stroked his hand over his coat where the case lay. “Now, I have it.”
Damnation, a new investment scheme for the Cadre Cads. Could it be possible the scoundrel remained ignorant of Phineas’s efforts to ruin his group’s members? At least, that was something for which to be thankful.
“But why kidnap me?”
“You had Miss Rochon too well protected and yet left yourself vulnerable.” The leader resumed his pacing, his hands punctuating his speech. “Then again, we thought it prudent to hold the male. It was but the work of a moment to replace your driver and hit you over the head when you exited your carriage.”
Luckily, like all egotistical men, he reveled in explaining his actions, confident of his success and desirous of a witness.
The bastard continued, “If we had taken her, no doubt you would have done something foolish, like try to free her without complying with my instructions. I felt certain Miss Rochon would deliver the case with a minimum of bother in exchange for your safety. A few graphic descriptions of your mortality I surmised would do the trick.” Phineas sensed the scoundrel smiled behind the frowning mask. “And it did.”
Hell and damnation. Phineas growled and struggled with his bonds. They had threatened to kill him? Poor Isabelle. He had to get to her, make sure she was truly safe. The enormity of her sacrifice humbled him.
His captor snapped his fingers and sauntered to the door, the ruffians following. Over his shoulder he called, “You will be freed soon. Remain patient.”
He halted and spun around. “Oh, and it will be to no avail to search for me. I have been careful. You cannot trace this location back to me. You cannot trace anything back to me.”
The rotten scoundrel laughed. “Likewise, tracing one of them will be useless.” He waved his hand to indicate the knaves in his employ. “They have seen me only like this. They know not my name, and I pay them handsomely. In gold.”
With that, they departed.
Isabelle’s carriage rumbled through the West End streets on its way to the third address. This one was back in fashionable Mayfair, close to where she’d dropped off her silver case.
She had to hand it to whomever had masterminded this. It had taken her an hour to travel to the East End address and back to this one, which address had been revealed at the East End location. It had given the kidnappers time enough to verify her compliance. If she’d left something else, they’d have had plenty of time to get rid of Lord Montagu while she chased notes in coal chutes. She shuddered and silently recited another Hail Mary.
When the carriage slowed, she threw open the door and hopped out before it came to a complete stop. She raced up the steps. The note said she’d find the door unlocked. She held her breath, twisted the door handle, and pushed the door open.
The Bow Street Runners plunged ahead into the dark hallway. She followed them into the first room on the right, presumably the dining room, if the house had been occupied. Lord Montagu lay on the floor toward the back, bound to a chair. His eyes held a mixture of frustration and relief.
Isabelle’s legs gave way and she slumped against the doorframe.
Chapter Twenty-Six
And if we do
but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong.
Lord Byron, Mazeppa, 1819
“Bloody hell.” Isabelle watched Lord Montagu curse, mutter and pace the Somerville parlor as he sipped a glass of brandy. “Who was that gentleman?” he asked.
Ada’s eyes grew round, but she wisely remained silent.
“He’s not one of the men you’re investigating?” Isabelle asked. She’d assumed that was what he’d been doing.
“No. Or rather, I thought I knew all of them, but obviously he is a part, as well. Only at the Edgerton’s did I become aware of his existence.” He paced some more. “Actually, now I think on it, I had not credited that bunch with a surfeit of understanding. For years, they—” he stopped and looked at them, his face flushing. “I, uh, they—” His left hand balled into a fist, and his brandy glass in the other was in danger of shattering.
Isabelle approached and took his hand. “Phineas, you haven’t told us what this is about, your ‘project’, but I have an idea.” She searched his eyes. “It’s about your sister, isn’t it?”
He whirled away from her, pulling his fist from her grasp. He strode to the window and downed the last of his brandy. Had she been right to push?
He spun around, glanced at Isabelle and Ada, then away, his hand rubbing the back of his head.
Ada gave a discreet cough. “I find I am a trifle fatigued. Will you excuse me?”
Lord Montagu bowed, but Isabelle turned an inquiring eye to her friend. Ada walked past and whispered, “Tell me later?”
“Of course,” Isabelle whispered back. She settled into the couch and waited for Lord Montagu to come to a decision. She wouldn’t push him further; he had to decide on his own to confide in her.
“Why did you do it, Isabelle?” he asked, his normally lovely voice sounding as if it tumbled across painful shards of rock. He refilled his glass.
Isabelle frowned and cocked her head to the side. “Do what?”
“Why did you give him the case? Now you cannot return to your time, to your home.”
Fresh tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them. She would not cry. “He would’ve killed you. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“We will retrieve it.”
“How?”
“I know not, but not withstanding your need for it, he cannot be allowed to possess it. It is too dangerous.” He filled her in on the kidnapper’s plans for the case.
She doubted she’d ever see it again; she couldn’t afford to hope. She remained silent.
“I will discover who that man is, trust in me. I shall go to Scotland Yard tomorrow and deliver my evidence and report this. They can pursue what leads we have even as I do so.”
“What leads?” She couldn’t help it. “The only lead we have is the house where you were held, and it looked vacant.”
“It is worth pursuing. In addition, I shall give the ruffians’ descriptions to Bow Street. Do you have the initial note?”
Isabelle sighed. “No, part of the instructions stipulated I was to leave that note with the silver case. The second and third notes were made of letters cut from a newspaper.”
“Do you have them?”
“Yes.” She retrieved her purse from the hallway and handed him the notes.
Frowning, he took them, brought them to the nearest candle and held them up, keeping the flame behind. “Drat, this is common bond paper you can purchase by the sheet at any stationer’s shop.”
“Whoever this guy is, he’s very intelligent.”
He tossed the notes onto a nearby table. “Yes, now I think upon it, it makes much more sense. As I said earlier, these people were nothing more than a mindless group of n’er-do-wells bent on only one pursuit—cruelly seducing innocent girls. It does not require brains to do that, unfortunately. They call themselves the Muslin Makers.”
“Muslin Makers?”
Lord Montagu looked at his boots and cleared his throat. He caught her gaze and the muscles in his jaw flexed. “Muslin Company is our society’s euphemism for courtesans. Many are of good family, but were forced to the lifestyle due to circumstances, the most common of which is being compromised.”
“Oh, whoa. Muslin Makers. What a cruel name for their group.”
“Yes.” His hand formed into a tight fist again. He came over and sat beside her. “My sister, Letitia, she was—”
Isabelle’s stomach disappeared. Oh, no. She grabbed his arm. “You don’t have to tell me, I think I know. Oh, Phineas, I’m so sorry.”
He stood abruptly and marched across the room, his back to her, tension rolling off him in waves. “I was abroad at the time, working for the Crown. Letitia was under my father’s protection. Unbeknownst to me, he had fallen gravely ill during her first Season. My mother’s anxiety over my father’s health prevented her from being as attentive a chaperone as she usually is in such matters.” He swigged the rest of his brandy. “Consequently, there was no male protector to do what was required when my mother learned Letitia had been cruelly seduced and was with child.”
“What could someone...” her voice trailed off.
“Discover the bastard and either force him to marry her,” his words came out clipped, “or put a bullet through his heart on a field of honor.”
Good Lord, he was talking about a duel.
“As it was, whoever did this, our family was not powerful enough to pressure him.”
“What happened to her?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“She died at nineteen from a fever she caught after miscarrying the bastard’s child.”
Isabelle gasped. “I’m sorry.” She went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind.
He stiffened.
Great. She shouldn’t have tried to comfort him. Just when she resolved to drop her arms, his body relaxed and large hands covered hers.
“I got—” he stopped, and she felt him swallow. “I received a letter from my mother requesting my presence. I was in Constantinople. I returned as quickly as possible, but my father had already passed, and I found my sister languishing in bed.” He swallowed again. “She slipped away days later.” His voice came out choked.
Isabelle sensed his emotions still churned and she needed to give him time; she kept holding him. It felt comforting to have him in her arms again, despite his turmoil. She’d missed him.
Finally, after several minutes passed and his emotions seemed under control, she asked, “How did you find out about this group?”
He eased away and poured another brandy at the sideboard.
Isabelle felt stupid standing where he’d left her, so she returned to the settee.
He took a sip. “She never confessed which scoundrel was responsible, so I was denied the satisfaction of a challenge. She did reveal enough details to determine it was a member of that notorious circle. She herself was ignorant of their existence.”
He stalked to the window. “Afterward, I cultivated the rakish persona, spread the rumors about myself. I hoped to get closer to their circle, the better to know how to exact my revenge. I was never part of their inner circle.” He held his brandy glass up and stared inside, swirling it. “However, one by one, they all married respectably and were obliged to drop my acquaintance, per society’s unspoken rule. Last year, their activities changed.” He ran a hand through his hair. “This must be when this new leader took over, for they became focused, more ambitious, smarter. They crafted intricate financial schemes that appeared quite legal, but in reality fleeced many prominent members of the ton. I realized this was the way to avenge her, I lacked only the proof.”
“So, you’ve been using the cover of the parties to search their rooms...”
“Yes, and I believe I have enough proof. The journal I found contains incriminating details. Unfortunately, each person is referred to only by his initials. The ring l
eader’s identity eludes me. He is the key. I suppose I should be satisfied with ruining the ones responsible for my sister, but now this man has your case. My purpose has expanded.”
He stepped toward her. “At any rate, I shall visit Scotland Yard tomorrow and deliver what I have found and follow the few leads we have to find this villain.” He downed the last swallow of brandy and approached her. “I should be going. May I call on you tomorrow?”
Isabelle stood. That was it? Good night, I’ll see you tomorrow? She couldn’t understand why he’d become so withdrawn, and she had no idea how to recapture the closeness they’d shared.
She took her cue from his manner and curtseyed. “Of course.”
The following afternoon, Phineas guided his curricle through Hyde Park, Isabelle perched beside him. The activity and the distraction helped combat the restlessness and frustration percolating within. Aside from discussing the kidnapping incident, he had another topic to broach. A question, to be more precise, and that question eclipsed all. He very much feared he presented as fretful an appearance as the high-strung, perfectly matched grays pulling his curricle.
“So how did it go at Scotland Yard?” asked Isabelle, pulling him from his thoughts.
He sighed, but endeavored to prevent his emotions from transmitting to the horses via the ribbons he held. “I set out first thing to deliver my evidence and to report my abduction. I left after relating as much detail as I could and matching names to the initials in the journal. They sent a note in the early afternoon to White’s, requesting I visit for a report on their progress. They ought to have said ‘lack of progress’.”
“But, it’s only been an afternoon. Surely, they’ll be able to find out more in time.”
“Scotland Yard checked the address where I had been held—no owner. The previous occupant had vacated the premises in order to satisfy his mounting debts. Unfortunately, he passed away before a sale could be effected. It has sat vacant since December. Of the ruffians’ identities or whereabouts, nothing.” He adjusted the reins and eased the curricle past a slow-moving couple in their landau.
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