However, no place existed where she felt comfortable, where she could surround herself with the familiar and think.
She groaned, remembering her disastrous trip to Guildford, hoping to find that sense of place she craved to focus her thoughts. Perhaps the British Museum this time? Even though the building was not the same as the one she’d worked in, she’d been there once before. Maybe the familiarity of being surrounded by artifacts would be enough.
The footmen were otherwise engaged, so she asked a maid to accompany her and set out in a hack she hired a block away. The maid sat in the seat opposite, hands clasped in her lap. This society wouldn’t even let Isabelle do a simple thing like this alone. She tapped her heel against the floor and glared out the window. This particular maid was laxer than the others, so maybe she would stay far enough behind to give Isabelle a simulated sense of freedom.
At the museum, Isabelle wandered the rooms. The spot where she’d shared that searing kiss with Lord Montagu pulled like a magnet. A fresh wave of heat swept through her. Not helping.
She spun around. Why was she freaking out about this? She’d said she’d marry him. To calm her mind, she sought pieces she remembered from her own time working at the museum. She made it into a game and meandered the echoing halls on her quest. It succeeded in calming her, though so far she’d found only a handful on display that were familiar.
“Quite an interesting piece, is it not?” a gravelly voice said behind her.
Isabelle jumped. She’d been so absorbed in looking at the pre-Columbian ceremonial mask that she’d not heard anyone approach. She peered around to see the kind and elderly face of Mr. Mendley. “Oh, you scared me.”
Mr. Mendley bowed politely and murmured his apologies. The nickname she and Ada had for him sprang to mind: Mr. Mumbley. Always kind, he suffered from a case of the mumbles. It certainly forced his listeners to lean closer to try to make out what he said. Unfortunately, leaning closer came with a cost: Mr. Mendley had a sharp and distinct odor that reminded her of the unpleasantness of growing old and feeble.
Isabelle felt sorry for him. “Yes, I love pre-Columbian artifacts. Pretty much anything that has to do with the Americas.”
He smiled. “Certainly, that makes sense. Have you seen the ones in the gallery upstairs?”
She hadn’t, and so she enjoyed a pleasant hour or so strolling through the museum with her new guide. He proved to be knowledgeable and quietly shared his expertise.
When they left the museum, she thanked him for her pleasant afternoon. He bowed and mumbled something in reply.
He stepped away, but turned back, hesitant. “My dear Miss Rochon. I wonder. Have you seen the items in Mr. Stern’s shop? Oh, I’m sure you have. Of course, mumble mumble silly.” He turned away.
“Wait.” Isabelle grabbed his coat sleeve. “Actually, I haven’t. I didn’t know about it.”
Mr. Mendley’s blue eyes lit up. “Oh, well then, dear, we simply must visit. That is, of course, mumble mumble want to.”
Assuming it was an invitation, Isabelle said, “I would love to, let’s go.” This friend of Babbage’s posed no threat, plus the danger had passed—the men after her had gotten what they wanted.
“Excellent, my carriage is right here, if you want to mumble with me?”
“Where’s the shop?”
Upon learning it was on the way to Somerville House, Isabelle thought it easiest to send her maid back and have Mr. Mendley drop her off after their visit.
Phineas ran a hand through his hair. He had been watching Lord Edgerton’s townhouse for a better part of two hours, and so far nothing of interest had occurred. At least in relation to where his interests lay. Several ladies had called for Lady Edgerton, but that was all.
He drummed his fingers on the top of his beaver hat. Dash it all, he had hoped to discover the mysterious man’s identity. Phineas had been banking on the notion that when Edgerton discovered the theft, he would sweat. Sweat and panic. Therefore, Phineas had kept a close eye on him since that night—mainly at their club—and so far, Edgerton had not exhibited any distress.
However, today at White’s, his manner had changed; his eyes darted everywhere and he could not sit still. Phineas followed him back to his townhouse and had been sitting here since. Surely, Edgerton would seek out the leader of their little group to relieve his anxiety.
How much longer could he wait? Soon he would be obliged to visit the Necessary. Phineas stretched his long legs, cracking his ankle joints.
He pulled out his pocket watch. Eight minutes before three in the afternoon.
He stood to open the trap of the hack and tell the driver to return him to his lodgings when he glimpsed Lord Edgerton emerging.
Finally.
“Driver, circle the block until this man departs.” Lord Edgerton must be desperate to leave; his carriage had not yet been brought around, and it was evident he awaited it. “Better yet, circle behind to the mews. When you see his carriage emerge, follow it. But be discreet.”
The hack lurched forward and Phineas fell back against the squabs. He squelched the flicker of anticipation. He must not depend too much on this excursion’s outcome.
Fifteen minutes later, the hack pulled up at The Albany, the bachelor apartments containing his own lodgings.
Perfect. He would have an excuse to be entering on Edgerton’s heels.
He strode into the lobby, careful to keep out of the other man’s sight. Edgerton approached the porter, and his voice carried to Phineas. “Inform Mr. Mendley Lord Edgerton is here.”
Mr. Mendley?
His anticipation soured. The eccentric elderly gentleman was not his quarry.
“Montagu, a moment, if you please.”
Damnation. Phineas recognized that voice, and he was not in the mood to tolerate this particular fool. He whipped around and pinned Sir Raphael with his best glare.
Ten minutes after leaving the museum, Isabelle stepped from Mr. Mendley’s carriage into a lane off Bond Street. He escorted her into a brightly lit antiquities shop. She chuckled. She’d pictured a grim, dust-ridden hole in the wall straight from a period novel. The light, however, allowed her to fully appreciate the items in the shop.
Mr. Mendley bristled with pride as if it were his own shop and showed her his favorite pieces. She smiled—most belonged in a museum, and in her own time, not something she’d have found in an antique shop. “I should purchase a wedding gift for Lord Montagu.”
“Excellent idea, my dear. I shall assist you.”
They scoured the shop. He would pick up artifacts, mumble, shake his head, and put them back. “How about this Greek amphora? A wondrous example of the Red Figure period.”
Isabelle stepped closer and squinted, running her fingers along its cool surface. “No. Something... primitive.”
They continued inspecting the pieces for sale. Moments later, his eyes lit up. “I know just the thing, my dear. Follow me.” His hunched form trudged to a back room separated from the main room by a red curtain. “The owner knows me.” He held the curtain aside and motioned her in.
Eager to see the new room, she swept inside. The small space brimmed with more items than the main showroom. She couldn’t decide where to focus her attention, there were so many amazing artifacts piled on tables and shelves. She wandered halfway down the room, admiring.
Wait. The owner? Where was the owner? She turned to ask Mr. Mendley.
What in the—?
Before her, kindly old Mr. Mendley was metamorphosing into a younger man—his back straightened and the wrinkles seemed to smooth from his face as his hand passed over it, wiping away thick makeup.
Oh, shit. They were quite alone and he blocked the only exit.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
Lord Byron, The Corsair, Canto I
“Give me a good reason why I should not call you out, Sir Raphael.” Phineas kept his voice low, his face inches from the other man’s.
So far they had escaped attracting notice in the public entry hall at The Albany. He noted Edgerton exiting the building. Damnation.
“Montagu, believe me, I have longed for such an encounter these two years―”
“Name your seconds, then.” Phineas tugged on his gloves to remove them.
“—however, I have come to a different view of late. I have reason to believe we share something in common.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“Revenge.”
Phineas fought to control the fury boiling within, seeking release. What was Sir Raphael blathering about? He gripped his gloves tight.
“Montagu, shall we continue this in private? I believe when you hear what I have to relate, you shall change your mind about certain things.”
Edgerton was gone. He’d have to pick that trail up again. He looked his immediate adversary up and down. “My sitting room will suffice.”
When they reached Phineas’s set, he poured himself a brandy and rounded on Sir Raphael. “I am warning you. My patience, where you are concerned, is paper thin. Talk.”
“Tsk, tsk. Manners, Montagu.”
“I owe you nothing. Talk.”
“Not even a brandy?”
Phineas did not trust himself with a reply and settled for a quelling stare.
“Very well.” Sir Raphael flopped onto the settee, one ankle over a knee. “I never forgave you for Letitia’s death, you know.”
“What?” Phineas slammed his glass on a sideboard, the glass smacking on the marble surface. His hands balled into tight fists.
Sir Raphael held up a casual hand. “Poorly worded. My apologies. More precisely, I should have said that I held you responsible for a long time.”
“You held me responsible? Just where the bloody hell were you when she was being seduced, you scoundrel?”
Sir Raphael winced and shadows filled his eyes. “You never did ask me that. Why not?”
Phineas had picked up his glass to take another sip, but set it down with another crack. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Only, it has occurred to me that if you had, we could have been spared a great deal of misery.”
“I do not have time for riddles.” Phineas tossed back a swig of brandy, grateful for the smooth, familiar burn.
“Very well. Here was my reason—Cholera Morbus.”
“Explain.”
Sir Raphael stood, his eyes sparking. “Damn and blast. I just did.” He paced before the settee. “On my return from Paris that winter, the ship I was on had several victims. Captain was forced to run up the yellow flag and we were stuck on board for thirty days at Dover.” He stopped pacing and faced Phineas, hands fisted. “Thirty bloody days. It was the longest thirty days of my life, let me tell you. Watching as other passengers died. Fearing the reaper would claim me next. I was determined the Burkers would not have a chance to experiment on my body, though. The only way I managed to endure was the thought of Letitia waiting for me. By the time...” He stared mutely out the window.
Phineas took a deep breath and glared at his former friend. “Why the devil did you not tell me this when I returned?”
“Why did you presume I had abandoned her? I wanted to make her my wife, damn your eyes. You know how I felt about her.”
Phineas’s chest constricted. Yes, he thought he had known. Hence why the betrayal had cut so deeply. He had assumed Sir Raphael had reacted like any other man to his love’s ruination and abandoned her. Phineas had to admit that perhaps he had wronged Sir Raphael.
It would take a long time for him to fully integrate this change in perspective, though. Sir Raphael’s tone of voice, his mannerisms, his essence, had mocked Phineas these two years past, precisely because they evoked poignant memories of happier times when they had been as close as two brothers. Now, was he expected to shed his disgust at the sight of the man in the space of a moment? On Sir Raphael’s assurance alone? No, not without further inquiry.
He poured Sir Raphael a brandy. “Why the anger with me, then?”
Sir Raphael sat back down. “When you returned and not only took no course to avenge her, but fell in with the same crowd that had spelled her ruin, what did you expect?” He held his brandy glass on his bent knee, rotating the glass in short spurts.
“But, I—” Phineas was not sure he was ready to disclose the reason for his deception.
“Yes. But. If only you had asked me why I was not in London, and if only I had questioned your sudden change in character.” Sir Raphael gave a rueful laugh. “We make a fine pair. From what I have been able to discern of late, we have each been on the same path since that fateful day, each thinking the other the scoundrel.”
Phineas did not dare speak of his own plan. He must hear first from Sir Raphael, learn the extent of his knowledge, the direction of his activities.
Sir Raphael took a careful sip. “In short, my quondam friend—revenge. I have been out to take down the Muslin Makers. I have learned many details in the last two years concerning their operation, but some aspects elude me still.”
“Why the sudden change in your opinion of me? And what was your game with Miss Rochon?”
“She is the reason for my reevaluation of your character.”
“Explain.”
“Initially, I wished to provoke you. I wished to learn precisely what she meant to you, and if it was a love match, by Jove, I wished to thwart it. You did not deserve happiness. However, her obvious intelligence and sense puzzled me.”
“How so?”
“Why would someone possessing both a charming figure and mind take up with the Vicious Viscount? Your reputation was no secret. And then, the last time I spoke with her, she started to say something, but stopped. Coupled with Miss Byron’s unflagging loyalty, it was enough to give me pause as to the true nature of your reputation. I investigated your ‘transgressions’ and found them all to be baseless.”
Sir Raphael leaned forward. “So. Are you willing to combine our knowledge?”
Phineas pulled in a deep breath and all the muscles in his body felt lighter. They spent the next fifteen minutes sharing information.
“One thing puzzles me,” said Sir Raphael. “A certain gentleman’s name frequently surfaces in any side tangents I explore—Mr. Mendley.”
“He’s innocuous. I checked into him myself. A harmless old man.”
“I thought so as well, but I have discovered something interesting—he might in fact be a young actor named Mr. Robert Stern.”
“Stern?” Phineas’s blood flashed cold and chills tightened the back of his neck. The only initials in the journal he had not been able to match to a name were “R.S.”
“You’ve made things quite difficult for me, Miss Rochon. I was loathe to make myself known to you, but I find it is indeed necessary.”
Isabelle stared at the transformation that had taken place. Even Mr. Mendley’s voice sounded smoother and more forceful. “Who are you?”
He waved his hand, “Mr. Mendley, when it suits me. My real name, of course, I will not reveal. Once you have told me what I need to know, Mr. Mendley will disappear and reemerge as someone else entirely. I rarely reveal my true self.”
But she had seen his true self once before. She never forgot a face and it finally clicked—this was the “gentleman” who’d interrupted her visit with Mr. Podbury.
“What do you want from me?” Isabelle fought panic and cycled through her options. On the plus side, he appeared to have no weapon. But he was too far away to catch off guard and make her escape. And he blocked the only door. He needed to move closer.
Isabelle hunched her shoulders and schooled her face to look meek and helpless. It seemed to work; a slow smile curved across his face and he stalked toward her. She needed to keep space behind her, however, so she held her ground, trying to appear too frightened to move.
He stopped and reached into his inner coat pocket.
Her lips and fingers went numb. No. Not a gun. I can’t handle a
gun again.
His hand came out. Her silver card case. Relief replaced the bones in her knees.
He shook it. “I know this works. Your presence here is proof. Show me how it works, and I will permit you to leave.”
A heavy weight scooped out her insides and fresh chills pimpled her skin. He was the kidnapper. She couldn’t allow this man to travel freely through time. She had to stall. Besides, she wasn’t sure what made it work. Just a simple wish?
“I, uh, don’t know what you mean.” Move closer. She shrank back, hoping like hell she projected fear.
“You know very well what I mean. Show me how this works, or else.”
Isabelle tried to look as if she’d found a shred of courage. “Or else, what?”
“I have no qualms in harming a lady, I assure you.” He stepped closer, now only an arm’s length away.
Perfect. She took a calming breath, forcing herself to be in the moment. Relax and react. She pictured her old Shifu drilling her over and over, and drew on her old master’s quiet power.
“I’m not scared of you.” Isabelle worked up as much saliva as she could muster and spat in his face.
Her ploy worked: rage streaked across his face, along with the spittle. His right arm swung back and came forward.
She was ready for him, though. In her calm state, his fist seemed to come toward her in slow motion. She whipped her right arm up across her body, waist-level, her hand straight and stiff, and deflected his blow with the back of her hand. She twisted her wrist, slid her hand down his arm to his wrist and yanked, her force and his momentum propelling him forward. She smashed his elbow with her left hand and kicked hard into the side of his knee.
The satisfying crunch of his dislocated knee and elbow, coupled with his cry of pain, gave her a momentary rush, which was quickly snuffed when her foot became entangled in her stupid skirts. He crumpled to the floor cradling his leg, and she fell next to him. She knew the next move. Run.
Disable someone in three moves or less, and run, her Shifu had taught her.
Must Love Breeches Page 29
