Must Love Breeches (13 page)

He flinched and stiffened his back, the muscles of his clenched jaw rippling.

Maybe she’d been a bit harsh?

Oh, you deserved that
. Phineas almost let her rejoinder be his answer, almost flicked his reins to take her back to Mrs. Somerville’s townhouse without another word. Except, he detected a slight flash of panic and fear in her eyes when he dared look. It went against his nature to be the cause of such distress. Especially to her.

He suspected her retort to be born of those emotions. If she were truly to be a party to this, she deserved to know some of the truth. Devil take it, he needed her. Now that he had hit upon this answer to his problem, he could envision no other. His goal was too close to suffer delay. It had nothing to do with needing to be near her.

“
Touché
, Miss Rochon. I am inordinately proud of that nickname, though I find it trying of late.”

She shifted in her seat and faced him fully. “You are proud of being the Vicious Viscount?”

“I admit to being proud of the nickname. As I should, since I am its creator.” He studied Miss Rochon to gauge her reaction, but her lovely face registered only confusion. She now wore spectacles. For some odd reason, the fact pleased him.

He continued, “You see, I have taken great pains to make the
ton
believe all manner of nasty tales about me.”

Strangely, he
wanted
—he was
relieved—
to tell her; his carefully-crafted façade sat uncomfortably on his skin in her presence. It itched, irritated; it obscured where he desired clarity. Bloody hell, was it possible it rankled that she might believe the “Vicious Viscount” to be a true reflection of his character?

“Are you telling me none of the tales are true?”

“Indeed.” He risked another glance at her and saw amazement layered atop the puzzlement. An improvement, at least.

She adjusted her spectacles, revealing little red indents where they had pinched her nose. He found he wanted to rub his finger and thumb there to help ease the pressure. Her voice brought him back to his senses. “You spread the rumors yourself?”

He rubbed a hand on his thigh and accidentally brushed against her skirts—that was
not
her firm thigh he felt. He gritted his teeth. He was in control. He
had
to be. “Not personally, but I outlaid a significant sum to certain persons to put these rumors in general circulation, yes.”

“Why?”

“Ah, that is the question, is it not?” He hesitated. No, this was the right thing to do. He could not say why, but he trusted her. “I had reason to, as a sort of... foil... to ingratiate myself with a certain segment of society, and thereby secure the access I required to achieve certain goals of my... project.”

Feeling Miss Rochon’s gaze on him, he shifted in his seat. He spied a slight opening in the crush of carriages and swung onto a less-traveled path in the lane. He snapped the reins, urging his horses into a brisk trot. Though the ruse’s exposure to Miss Rochon was what he desired, it left him feeling vulnerable.

Strange. He had moved among Polite Society so long with that false shell, it had melded into an odd shield. It had come to define him, so now he felt bare—hollow—without it.

“I have noticed others seem to avoid you.” She paused a moment. “Was it worth it?”

Yes, it was, damn it.
He responded aloud with a terse, “Yes.”

“This... project must be very important to you, then.”

He looked at her again, searching her eyes. For what? He chided himself for being ridiculous and said, “Yes.”

He concentrated on directing his grays down the lane. The feel of the leather ribbons grasped lightly in his gloved fingers, each slight adjustment instantly communicated and obeyed, helped to center him.

“And you are not going to tell me what this project is, are you? Is it illegal?”

His hands tightened on the reins. “No, I cannot elaborate. It is too dangerous. However, I am nearing the end now. You will not be required to do anything illegal. As I stated, I feel this reputation I have saddled myself with is now a hindrance to my goals.” He kept his gaze on the path, on the backs of his grays, on the ribbons.

Her silence alerted him to his error in disclosing his project as dangerous.
Stupid man.
“However, I assure you, if you do accept my offer, there will be no danger to you whatsoever. I promise you that much.” He looked to her now and tried to catch her gaze to impart the earnestness of his promise.

“I appreciate you telling me this,” she replied, though her gaze eluded him. “But I will need to think about it. Do you understand?”

“Certainly. I await your answer with anticipation,” he replied, while he fought the disappointment of his present hopes. Had he expected instant acceptance?

“I hate to ask you this, but I have my reasons. Is it all right with you if I discuss this with Ada?”

He looked at her sharply, but she appeared sincere. He nodded.

With that, he drove her back to Mrs. Somerville’s townhouse, studiously ignoring the closeness of her body, of her, as she swayed against him with the motion of the carriage. He also resisted further discourse. That she come to this decision on her own was important to him. To push her was out of the question; he required a willing accomplice.

Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
Lord Byron,
Childe Harolde
, Canto III

An hour later, Isabelle brushed aside the carriage window curtain: premature darkness from the storm cloaked the road. Lightning cracked, and she flinched. The sharp smell of ozone tickled her nose. Ada and Isabelle had jumped into the Somerville carriage on her return so they could have a private chat while walking around Hyde Park, but the skies had opened up right before they’d arrived. Now they were having the driver take the long way back, though Isabelle felt sorry for him and the footmen on back.

Isabelle had finished telling Ada of her weird conversation with Lord Montagu. She made sure to tell her his reputation as the Vicious Viscount was all manufactured by the man himself. The proposal shocked Ada, but the revelation about his reputation had not.

“I knew it had to be a nasty rumor. However, I had no idea he was the author of it. Whatever can he be about?”

“He wouldn’t say,” Isabelle replied, speaking loud enough to be heard above the pelting rain.

“What will you do?”

Isabelle shifted in her seat and let the curtain drop. “He does have a point. I am a burden to you.”

Ada waved a hand in dismissal. “Please, do not say so.”

“Well, it’s true. Besides, it would give me a certain freedom as well. I do need to find my way back to my own time. I don’t belong here. You know that.”

“I know you are from another time, but you could belong here. This could be your home.”

Hell, no.
“No, I need to find my way back, and if I accept his proposal, I’ll have money if I need to buy the silver case back, or hire more investigators.” Isabelle pulled her Montagu coat, as she now called it, tighter and lapsed into silence. She listened to the thunderstorm rage outside. After a moment, she asked, “How well do you know him? Do you trust him?”

“Oh, yes, I have known him all of my life. Whenever he visited, he would sneak me a natural or scientific curiosity, or rare book, as a present, listen to my schemes and dreams. He did not tease me like the other boys. He is one of the few people I do trust, in point of fact.”

“Hmmm...”

“What will you do?”

“I’m not sure. I need some time to mull this over. It still feels so weird.”

Isabelle took another peek outside. A rivulet of water elongated on the window glass, touched another, jerked sideways, rolled slower—the carriage’s motion spawning smaller, spiky tendrils. With a finger, she followed one of the trails, the glass cool to the touch. Her emotions and thoughts converged, twisted—a jumbled mess dependent for its shape on the unseen forces that surrounded her, brought her to this place and time.

When Lord Montagu had explained his situation, Isabelle’s initial shock and sense of unreality had morphed into curiosity.

Whatever his project, it drove him, defined him. He’d endured public censure for it. Self-imposed at that. So, just what was his project?

But the danger he represented. Not a physical danger, but an emotional one. She couldn’t afford to fall in love with the guy. And how easy that would be. She’d promised herself after the horrible break-up with Billy she’d never again sacrifice so much of herself for another man. She’d let too many of her own interests slide—his interests had become hers. She’d left her friends and family in Mobile and moved to Atlanta to be near the jerk. She’d been such a fool.

No, falling in love was out of the question—that would be the ultimate follow-the-boyfriend move.

If she accepted his outrageous proposal, could she trust herself to keep it a strict business arrangement? She had a trick for major decisions. She’d sift through the pros and cons and come to a rational decision based on available evidence. She’d then tell herself
that
was her decision and go to bed. Then, in the morning, before she would fully wake, she’d do a gut check. If she was happy, it was the right choice. If, however, she felt the least bit of dread, she knew it was the wrong one.

She always believed she should do what would make her happy. Well, obviously if it didn’t affect anyone else. So, she mentally went through her options now. She also tried to do a gut check on Lord Montagu, the person. Her sense told her Lord Montagu was one of the good ones; he wouldn’t harm her.
Vicious Viscount, my ass.

Besides, she had her Hop Gar Kung Fu skills if he got out of hand, right? She should start doing her routines again in the mornings to keep in shape. But then, knowing Kung Fu didn’t always help.

She forced her mind to relax, but more thoughts kept popping up—the guilt about the help she’d received from Ada, the need to find her case.

And to do that, she’d need money to investigate, to buy it back if she were lucky enough to find it in this time’s equivalent of a pawn shop.

Lord Montagu said he’d give her an allowance.

Lord Montagu also made her toes curl. Okay, can’t make rational decisions based on that. Though it would be a perk, hmmm.

Erg, no. She was supposed to stay away from him, right?

But Lord Montagu was trustworthy, she just knew it. Or was that her Guy Gullibility talking again?

Bigger than that, she needed to find a way to stay in London to find her case so she could return home. She couldn’t go with Ada to her home an hour away. The money could help with that, too.

Lord, if she couldn’t find the case, she’d be stuck in the past where they hadn’t heard of toilet paper or women’s lib.

“Ada, I haven’t had a chance to tell you, as things have been so busy, but I think I’ve figured out how I got here.” Isabelle filled her in on her theory and the new urgency for finding her stolen case. “But, this will be harder if I go to Fordhook with you. How often do you go into town?”

“Usually, every Saturday I stay at Mrs. Somerville’s and attend Charles Babbage’s Saturday night soiree.”

“Oh, wow, he has parties every Saturday?”

“Yes, it is an opportunity for him to find new benefactors for his Difference Engine. He demonstrates a model, which is quite fascinating. Many of our foremost thinkers are in attendance.”

“Are you going this Saturday?”

“Yes, I thought we could both attend, if you would like?”

“Foremost thinkers of your time? Party at Charles Babbage’s? No...”

“Oh, well, I imagine we are not―”

“Ada, I’m joking. This is so exciting for me. I get to meet people, in person, whom I’ve read about only in history books. I would not miss this, even if I find my case before then.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. It’ll put me a week behind at work, which will be difficult to make up, but this is worth it.” She wanted to ask if Lord Montagu would be there, but resisted.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, it’s that while I’m here, Andrew, my arch rival at the museum, is no doubt hobnobbing with the Board of Directors. We’re both up for the same position. For him, it’s only another step on the ladder, but for me, it means I get to stay permanently in London, working for the British Museum. Right now, my job’s only temporary. I can’t tell you how important it is for me to stay in London.”