Lady Rogue

by Theresa Romain

Fox shuffled his papers together into a single stack. “So I would reprimand you?”

  “So you’d understand why I’m resigning.”

  Papers scattered. In the golden lamplight, Fox goggled at him; then his heavy black brows slammed down. “But this job is your life.”

  Like a gear clicking into place, a memory popped into his mind. Old Morrison, the tea seller, looking over the shop he’d owned for years. I’ve loved the work, he said.

  If a man loved his work, then it was a good job. Anything from being a grocer to guarding the Royal Mint. Selling tea. Painting as beautifully as an Italian genius from centuries before.

  And if a man didn’t love his work, then it didn’t hold any meaning. Not even if he removed a dangerous criminal from the streets. Not even if he wrung a confession from the man behind his brother’s murder.

  Maybe Callum had loved the work once. It had been a longtime infatuation, heady stuff: indulging in the power of his position, the knowledge of his own rightness.

  But law and justice weren’t always the same. There was always more work. The streets of London would never be clear of crime, and a man could grind himself to nothing trying. Callum wasn’t a man of half-measures, but there was no life for someone who did nothing but work. When the streets of London crushed him and spit him out, no one would care.

  He’d fallen out of love with the work as his life tipped out of balance—or maybe into it. As Lady Isabel Morrow filled up more and more space in his heart, his mind, his day, there was less time for work.

  His mistake had been in thinking that was a bad thing.

  “The job has been my life,” Callum agreed. “And what does that mean for me? I’ve not had much of a life, have I?”

  “I’d never have said that,” Fox replied. “You’ve been a hell of an investigator.”

  “Maybe I still will be,” Callum said. “Just not in the same way. I want the freedom to solve cases in my own way. I’ve a good bit of money saved up, and . . . I’ll see, won’t I?”

  Finally, he knew for what he’d been saving his money all these years. Not for shiny boots or a high-crowned hat, no. His savings weren’t enough to get him a place in high society, not that a person could buy a spot in the ton. But he had enough to be his own master. To take his own cases. To investigate as he saw fit.

  To get a place of his own. Wherever he decided that might be.

  “I wish you the best,” said Fox. He extended a hand. Their clasp was firm, the sort of shake a proud father might give a son leaving home.

  “I’ll give it my all,” Callum said.

  And he would. There was just one more stop to make first.

  * * *

  The bell over the door of Jenks and Sons announced him with a cheerful jingle. “Hullo, Mum,” Callum greeted his mother behind the counter.

  “It’s not your usual time!” said Davina. “I don’t have my list ready.” She fumbled for a pencil.

  It was time for a conversation that had been too long in coming. “Do you only want to see me if you have a list ready?”

  She shoved the pencil into her knot of hair. “Of course not. Only since you’re here—”

  “Mum. You have two shop assistants. Give them your lists.”

  She looked bewildered. “But, Callum! They can’t get the deals on pork that you can.”

  “Then have them save the life of a butcher’s daughter. Or simply pay tuppence more the pound.”

  Davina turned to bid a cheerful farewell to a man who, helped by Jamie, bought three of the long, braided ropes of onions. As soon as she turned back, the smile slid off her face. “Don’t you want to help me?”

  “Of course I do. But I’m not only your helper. I’m your son.”

  “What’s going on?” Jamie sidled behind the counter, put his arm around their mother’s shoulders.

  Callum looked around the shop, familiar as the Bow Street courtroom. “We might as well gather everyone. What I wish to say affects you all.”

  From the back room, the upstairs, atop the flour barrel, the employees and family members collected. Davina noted a sale or two as they gathered, and when the shop was empty, she said, “What’s all this about, Callum?”

  “I’m leaving Bow Street.”

  Alun Jenks clapped his blocky hands together. “Yes! I’ve been waiting for this day. Welcome to Jenks and Sons. Running a grocery is the best job in the world! Let the greengrocer worry about fruits and vegetables that spoil quickly. Let the fishmonger deal with the stench of old shellfish, and the butcher have his blood and flies. A man who works in a grocery will never go hungry!”

  Callum waited out his father’s speech. “There are a lot of ways not to go hungry,” he finally said. “I don’t seek to be a greengrocer or a fishmonger. Or—what else did you say?”

  “A butcher,” chimed in Celia.

  “Right. Not that either. I plan to become a private investigator. I’ve savings to tide me over until I make a go of it.”

  “But Jenks and Sons . . .” Alun’s mouth closed. Opened. Closed again. “I hoped someday you’d want to join Jamie and work here.”

  Callum lifted a brow, regarding his brother. Jamie had turned as red as his beard. “You haven’t told them yet?”

  “Told us what?” Davina asked.

  Jamie shook free of his mother. Glared at Callum. He muttered something below his breath.

  “Told us what, Jamie?” asked Celia. Her eyes were wide and startled.

  “Nothing, nothing. Nothing major. It’s only . . .” Jamie took a deep breath, then blurted in a rush, “I want to leave the grocery and buy the shop next door and become a tea-seller.”

  “Just . . . tea?” Davina looked blank.

  Jamie stuck out his jaw. “Morrison made a go of it for years. I think I can do even better.”

  Young Edward, one of the shop assistants, waved a hand in the air. “I want to work for you!”

  Jamie looked dubious. Mrs. Jenks looked even more dubious.

  Alun rubbed at his grizzled chin. “He does love tea. Has a good eye for quality.”

  “Not for negotiating the price,” muttered Jamie.

  “So? You can do that,” said Alun.

  “Wait! You’re not all right with this, are you?” said Davina. “What about Jenks and Sons? You already have only one son helping you, and we canna—”

  “Never you mind about that,” Alun cut in. “I was the only son helping my father, and the name went up on the shop window just the same. Callum and Harry, they never were cut out for keeping shop. S’pose I always knew that, though I wouldn’t be bothered if ye changed your mind someday.” He winked at Callum.

  “But Jamie . . .” Davina said faintly.

  Her husband patted her shoulder. “Jamie’s old enough to know his own mind. Besides . . .” He eyed Lionel. “A man who marries a Jenks daughter becomes a Jenks son.”

  Lionel and Anna looked at each other. Blushed. Kept on looking at each other.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Jamie rolled his eyes. “Lionel! Propose already!”

  “You’re one to talk,” Anna retorted, with a meaningful glance at Celia.

  Callum cleared his throat. This conversation was veering away from the point. “You’ll do well, Jamie. You’ll love the work.”

  Helping people find tea, which was more than just a drink. It was comfort in a cup. The lubrication for every social interaction. The beginning and end of the day.

  “You could come work for me,” said his gruff brother. “If you ever got tired of chasing criminals and wanted a job with hours that ended sometimes.”

  Jamie cut a glance toward Celia. A job that allowed a family, he clearly meant but didn’t say.

  “That’s not the job for me,” said Callum. “But thanks.”

  “We’ll make the best of these changes.” Davina fished around in her knot of hair for the pencil, then drew a piece of paper across the counter toward herself. “Callum, now that you’re away from Bow Street, you can stop by for a l
ist more often.”

  “No.”

  Everyone went quiet. Stilled. Looked at him.

  “I ran your errands once, when I lived here and worked for you,” Callum said. “Now I don’t. I’m not your errand boy.”

  As one, his parents protested.

  “Why, we never—”

  “But honestly, it’s no skin off your back to—”

  Callum held up his hands. “If you won’t listen to me, I can’t help you. If you do listen to me, I’ll help you when I can. That’s what family does. We don’t use each other.”

  Person after person, he looked them in the eye. “We don’t use each other,” he repeated. “Now. I’m going to the Boar’s Head for a pint. It’s almost time to close the store, so if anyone wants to join me, I’d be glad for the company.”

  The jingle as he left the grocery seemed a mockery of cheer. But he wasn’t unhappy. It felt right—thank God, something did—to say what he had.

  Inside the Boar’s Head, he took a chair at his favorite table. He ordered a pint of porter, nursed it alone, then thought about ordering another. He still hadn’t had dinner, and the drink was going to his head. Best not.

  He pushed back his chair, ready to leave—and then Jamie plumped into the chair opposite him. “Shame to have you drink alone,” he said. “What are you having?”

  And then came Anna. Lionel. Alun. Davina. Edward. Celia. All surrounding him. With each person seated, Callum’s smile grew, until there was no more room at the table or on his face.

  “Glad to see you all,” he said. “Let’s have dinner, shall we? And your first round’s on me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  At last, Isabel and Lucy were settled in the Bedford Square house, and the huge one on Lombard Street was for sale.

  The shape of the new town house felt right around Isabel, as if everything too big and fussy were gone. Like the fashions she preferred, with furbelows stripped away, the house was designed to her tastes. Andrew’s furniture, sold. The paintings on the walls, ditto. Isabel had kept a few pieces, items bought since their marriage.

  She had brought nothing to it but money and manners, but Andrew had considered her taste when choosing a settee for her dressing room, and he had consulted her in the choice of a console table for the entrance hall. Oh, now!—to have the freedom to order one’s walls painted in blues and greens, the plaster and wood whiter than ever snow was in London. No more silk paper on the walls, rich-looking for the sake of looking rich. No more gruesome figural paintings. The world was landscapes, blessed landscapes, blessedly free of fleshy, hairless nudes.

  The garden outside was everything she’d hoped for, an elegant confusion of trees and a riotous arrangement of flowers. Blooms of all colors, her skirts trailing over them when she stepped from the path. And in the evening, when stars struggled through the smoke and fog, and the new gas lamps were lit, she always wandered from the path.

  She wore color here, blues and greens the colors of sky and ocean and springtime leaves. She wore no rings, no jewelry save for a strand of pearls that had belonged to her mother.

  Satisfying though it was to settle into the house, she was not happy. She had never held happiness as essential, growing up educated to become a lady of society. Better influence than happiness, better charm than education.

  What was it all for, though? Making other people like her . . . why? For the sake of the liking itself? If that was the case, she’d failed to keep the liking of the one person whose esteem she truly coveted. Callum Jenks could not be charmed or tricked into thinking better of her than she deserved, or returning her love.

  She’d seen him once, when her carriage happened—just happened—to be driving along James Street. She’d requested a different route when Jacoby drove her back home. Not because she didn’t want to look upon him; because her eyes got spoiled for the sight of anything else.

  After that, she’d gone to Kent for a short visit. It was long overdue; she had not visited her father’s estate in more than a year.

  Lord Greenfield, elderly and frail, hadn’t known Isabel the last time she visited him. She hadn’t expected he would this time either. But she had gone for herself: to see the home in which she’d grown up, the father who had approved her too-young marriage to a man who was no good.

  Ultimately, marrying Andrew had been her own choice. And that choice had brought her here.

  “It’s good to see you, Papa.” She had taken her father’s thin fingers in one hand.

  The old marquess had smiled, greeting Isabel by her mother’s name. He’d scrabbled at his lap robe, growing agitated, and Isabel had helped him pull it back into place. He’d sat often before the fire in the library, Martin had told her. Even as the earth warmed for summer, their father was always cold.

  Martin had peered in every so often—making sure Isabel wasn’t being disruptive, she’d assumed. She hadn’t been. Plucking a book from the library shelves, she’d pulled an ottoman over beside her father’s chair. She’d sat on it and read to him while he gazed off, contentment taking the place of agitation.

  When he began to doze, she’d closed the book and sneaked out. Eager for a bit of country air, she’d stepped outside. At the base of the stone steps, Martin had been surrounded by a swirling, yapping mass of beagles and foxhounds.

  “I should have kept Brinley,” Martin had called over the noise. “He’d have grown up to fit right in.”

  She’d clipped down the steps, laughing. “That’s why you should have kept him? Not the fact that he was a mischievous little ball of fur that was completely full of devotion?” And urine, she had not added. And endless noise.

  Martin had looked sheepish. “He’s happy with you, though, isn’t he?”

  “He would be happy anywhere. It’s a gift of his. But yes, he’s been happy with us.” Isabel and Lucy. They made a fine household of two.

  After spoiling her nieces and nephews, praising her sister-in-law’s latest changes to the estate, and throwing more sticks for Martin’s dogs than she could calculate, she’d returned to London. Again, James Street called to her.

  To distract herself, she kept her Tuesday afternoon at-homes. She always enjoyed the company of Lady Teasdale. Happily betrothed, Lady Selina Godwin was a cheerful visitor. Even anxious young Mrs. Gadolin, eager to ascend the ranks of society, called a few times. When she did, she confided to Isabel that her dear Gadolin was very interested in the Lombard Street house, because their current home was too small and the neighbors were not the right sort.

  Neither was the former master of the house, Isabel thought, but she only smiled and told Mrs. Gadolin she hoped they would be happy in the house if they chose to buy it. All the servants who stayed behind to maintain the place, she provided her highest recommendation.

  Finally, she cleared out the hidden room. She took the paintings from it by night, with Butler’s help, and stowed them in a bedchamber of the new house. Inside a locked wardrobe, within the mattress, beneath a sofa. All covered, preserved, hidden. And then all the furniture went under Holland covers, and she locked the room and did not give the key to the housekeeper.

  It was not as secure as having a hidden room, but it would have to do. She and Butler had not done badly, considering that they hadn’t the help of someone with a deep understanding of stealth and criminality.

  Although maybe Isabel had learned more from Callum than she realized.

  In the past few years, her life had become a puzzle, and it was almost solved. It did not look quite like anything she’d ever imagined when the pieces were all scattered and the solution was in the future. But it was a fine picture, one she’d put together herself. There was only one piece missing: love.

  She had tried for it. The less said about that, the better. Now she would try to find it for Lucy.

  But the coveted invitation to Lady Selina’s engagement ball—which, rumor had it, would be the greatest, grandest crush of the Season—did not arrive by the morning post on the expected day. N
or did it come in the afternoon, or the evening. A widow with money and a maiden without: neither was an attractive guest for a matron seeking all the attention for her daughter.

  Lucy kept peeping into the entry hall, looking for new post on the silver tray Selby kept for the purpose on the console table. Isabel hated to see her look away disappointed, time after time.

  “I am sorry I failed you,” she said after the last post of the day was delivered.

  “Not at all!” Lucy pasted a bright smile onto her face. “There are lots of balls, every week. And if I don’t marry, I’ll live with you and teach art lessons, and it’ll be fine.”

  Ever since they had found the pearl brooch, unspoken worries were like a wall between them. How had it come to be in Morrow’s desk? Isabel didn’t know. She didn’t know if she ever would know, or if she wanted to. Lucy said she did not; she didn’t want to think about it anymore. She had taken the brooch, put it in her jewel box, but she never wore it.

  The following morning, the invitation arrived, just late enough to make clear that they hadn’t been on the first list. Or the second. But there it was.

  Naturally, they would attend, and they both had new gowns for the occasion. Lucy was a copy of a fashion plate from Ackermann’s Repository, wearing white muslin trimmed in pale pink, and with a complicated truss of plaits and fillets atop her head.

  Isabel wore a gown of gold satin overlaid in gauze, the waist right beneath her bust so the skirt draped in a long, sleek column. The sleeves were short and full, but the dress was otherwise unornamented by the epaulettes, the rouleaux and braids and trims and loops favored by other women. She was apart from fashion. She wore the gown rather than the reverse, and she loved it.

  If only Callum Jenks could have seen her in it. The gold really was most becoming.

  When they arrived at the rooms rented for the ball, a crush of carriages blocked the road, so they descended and walked the rest of the way. As they drew near the steps, a hubbub spilled forth from the rooms. Inside, where guests were announced, the enormous space was suffocatingly hot. They could hardly squeeze into the crowd, could hardly look around the room. What Isabel could see of it was decorated with frescoes of classical scenes. Any woman who was scantily draped was hairless, docile-looking, dazed.