Must Love Breeches (15 page)

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl—songs or the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, I told you so.
Lord Byron,
Don Juan
, Canto XIV

The next day, Isabelle peered out the carriage window as they headed into the City of London—specifically Lombard Street and the offices of Barclay’s Bank. A part of London vastly different from her own unfolded. Sights and insights assaulted her with increasing rapidity: children thronged the streets and sidewalks, greatly outnumbering adults; these children roamed in packs unsupervised; scrawny kids swept crosswalks for passersby for tips; wooden shop signs plastered everywhere; and the noise and acrid smell infused everything. No order reigned anywhere, no relief to the siege on her senses. All was cruddy, chaotic, and cobbled together.

They pulled up at Barclay’s, and Isabelle let out a light giggle—the name of the nearest cross street had caught her eye: Gracechurch Street, the location of Elizabeth Bennet’s fictional aunt and uncle in
Pride and Prejudice
. So, this must be Cheapside?

Isabelle clutched the packet of letters and ventured inside, Ada alongside as her sidekick for moral, and possible etiquette, support.
Oh, please work.

“I do not think this will work, Isabelle,” Ada said for the bazillionth time. “Women are not permitted to have bank accounts, so I highly doubt they will allow you to deposit these in their vault, much less hold them for so long.”

Nope. Not listening.

The first couple of clerks turned her down, but Isabelle persisted and generally did her best to be such a pest about it, she was finally put before one of the managers.

“I understand you wish to place something in our care?” The kindly looking man squinted at her over his desk.

Isabelle tried to sound polite and demure. “Yes, sir.”

“Where is your husband?”

“My husband?”

He spoke slowly as if explaining something to a child. “Yes, your husband. He should handle such matters.”

Isabelle counted to ten. “I am not married.”

“Brother? Uncle?... Guardian?”

“Are you telling me you cannot deal with me directly?”

Ada squirmed in the seat beside her.

“Surely you have a gentleman within your family who can assist you, advise you.”

“I do not.”

He clasped his hands. “Then it pains me to inform you that we cannot oblige.”

Erg
. “Look, this is really important, and I am the only one left in my family. I have no male family member to help me. So you will have to deal with me.”

“A man of affairs, perhaps?”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? This is unbelievable.” She didn’t dare look at Ada for the I-told-you-so look.

The man remained silent, his lips set into a thin line.

Yikes, she’d gone a bit mental on him.
Cool it.
“Is there no other way?”

“No, you will need to find a gentleman to transact this business for you.”

Gah! So much for her grand idea to save her job via Katy. A thought struck her. “I have a fiancé, it was announced in the paper this morning. Can I deposit it in his name?”

“Fiancé? Ah, you are betrothed, excellent. Then that changes the matter.”

“Oh, good, okay, here’s what I need―”

“I am sorry, miss, but you misunderstand. If you are engaged, your betrothed may do this for you. That should solve your problem.” He smiled as if he’d done Isabelle a huge favor, moving his arms wide, magnanimous.

Isabelle stalked out of the office without saying goodbye. “Don’t say it, Ada.”

“I am so sorry, Isabelle.”

They returned to the Somerville carriage, Isabelle working hard not to slam things as she passed. However, she didn’t have the option of forbearing to slam the carriage door, since a footman shut it, which, illogical as it was, upset her even more.

Her breathing calmed. She stared out the window, unseeing, and chewed her lower lip. How to get these letters to Katy? Unfortunately, her only other confidante was a woman. And Isabelle didn’t dare confide in Lord Montagu. He had his secrets, true, but the risk was too great. Could she ask his man of affairs? Maybe not tell him why, have him think it a silly whim to bequeath something to a random someone in the future?

This was getting complicated. She jerked back against the seat and glanced at Ada sitting opposite. “I think it’s finally hitting me how much control women give over to men in this time. It’s as if I have no identity.”

She mulled over this problem and, too soon, their carriage pulled up near Ada’s modiste on Bond Street.

Isabelle stepped out and merged into the throng. Holy cow, were they much into advertising? Everywhere, wooden signs touted everything from shoe repair to cosmetics. A surprising number of them moved, too, men wearing sandwich boards ambling the streets. One fellow stepped around her wearing a tall hat made of some kind of heavy, stiff paper that towered over the crowd and declared in big letters: “Kid gloves at fourteen shillings a pair, warranted.” No shop name accompanied the ad. Were you supposed to follow him, or stop and ask where?

On the left, a stout woman sold oyster pies from her wooden cart. She held one up and barked her price, the hand with the pie following Isabelle as she passed. A man in serious need of a new set of teeth and some manscaping sold apples from a wooden wheelbarrow. A grubby kid sat beside him, munching on the mealy ones, tossing the worms to a dog.

Keep moving your feet, Isabelle
.

Ada, however, maintained her moderate pace, hardly noticing the chaos. But, of course she wouldn’t; this was familiar to her. They worked their way along the sidewalk, and guys approaching from the other direction stepped aside to let them pass. Isabelle felt like royalty.

After an hour spent with the modiste, they stopped in a bookstore. Isabelle had to get the Bentley edition of Jane Austen’s novels so she could bring them back to her own time. She also bought any and all etiquette books she could get her paws on. The way she figured, she couldn’t learn
too
much.

Next stop, an apothecary so she could get peppermint drops for her tooth powder; the stuff Ada had given her tasted vile. While there, she bought her own toothbrush with a carved ivory handle. At a stationer’s, she bought a leather journal. On leaving, she saw a jeweler across the way. Just the place she hoped to run across.

They visited three different jewelers, but none had her silver case. Isabelle wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but by the fourth, she was desperate enough to try a new tactic.

“Have you sold a silver card case recently?” Isabelle asked.

The elderly gentleman behind the counter smiled and waved his hand. “I’ve sold several in the last week alone, but I still possess excellent choices in this case.”

“No, these are not what I am looking for precisely. It is quite plain, with the initials EDA inscribed on the outside. Have you sold anything like that lately?”

He scratched his head, his powdered wig shifting back and forth. “Not already inscribed, no. But we do that on occasion. I cannot recall anyone asking to have those initials, though.”

“This would already have them. I am looking for a case that was recently stolen.”

The relic turned red in the face. His lips worked silently, spittle flying from his mouth. Finally, he marched around the counter, grabbed her by the elbow and marched her out to the sidewalk. He stormed back inside and shut his shop door with a resounding bang.

“Clearly, I’m not going about this correctly,” Isabelle said to Ada as they slunk away.

“I do not know how you should proceed with such an investigation. It appears to me we do not know the right people to ask.”

“No, we don’t. I don’t know anyone really, other than you and Lord Montagu, and neither of you would have connections with the criminal world. And that’s what I need.”

“Lord Montagu has a Runner investigating on your behalf. You should leave it to him. It is his trade, after all.”

“I know, but Ada, this is so frustrating—no offense—to be stuck here and not do anything myself to fix it. You’ve been so kind, I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t taken me in.” Isabelle shuddered. “From what I remember of history, there’s a good chance I would’ve ended up in a brothel.”

On Wednesday, Isabelle received a veritable mountain of invitations printed on heavy stock. People must really want to meet the lady marrying the Vicious Viscount. She lugged them to a table in the drawing room and ordered them by date, since she knew nothing about the hostesses to organize them by priority or any other criteria.

She placed the last one in its spot.

A throat cleared. The footman stood at the door and intoned, “Lord Montagu.” She checked that her hair was tidy and twisted around in her chair to watch the entrance.

Lord Montagu strode into the drawing room. “I see I was correct.” His eyes swept over the invitations, then over her, and swept her equilibrium bye-bye. His appreciative gaze set off an internal chain reaction—erratic heartbeat, rush of heat—like all her cells collectively blushed, sighed, and propped their chins in their hands to stare. Well, if cells had chins and hands.

Isabelle motioned him to a chair on the other side of the card table she was using as her base of operations. She busied her hands so he wouldn’t notice their shaking. They were betrothed, it was okay to see him alone. She was strong willed—she could resist him. She thought. Maybe.

“Yep, you were. It’s amazing.” Isabelle cringed; she’d lapsed into her regular speech. She cleared her throat. “Yes, it is astounding, I mean.”

Lord Montagu tilted his head, eyebrow cocked. “It
is
amazing, as well as astounding, but to be expected.” He sat beside her. “Forgive me, I cannot help notice your speech and manner are markedly different from the night we first became acquainted. Then, well...”

“You can say it. You could scarce understand me, correct?”

He set his hat on the table and tugged on his shirt cuff. “Indeed, often you sounded as though you were speaking gibberish.” He lost a little color. “You were not, that is to say, you, uh, were not... in your cups, were you?”

“Intoxicated? No, that was not the issue.” Isabelle laughed and straightened the stacks of invitations.

His face relaxed a little. “If not that...”

Oh, man, how to answer? “Well, let me just say, something occurred that upset me and I-I forgot myself.” A bit of an understatement if there ever was one. Pretty lame, too. Oh well.

Lord Montagu’s hand covered hers. “Is it anything you are still distressed about? Anything I can do to help?”

At his touch, warmth shot up Isabelle’s hand and arm, whooshing through the rest of her body, straight to her toes. And to her lady parts. Oh, man. Her heart beat grew loud and distorted in her ear.
Honestly Isabelle, it’s just a hand. No need to get all hot and bothered.

She took a deep breath and fought her attraction. Seriously. The guy was from another time period. She couldn’t get carried away here. But her other half chimed in—she could count on one hand how many men had caused such a reaction.

Actually, less than one whole hand: three fingers. Only three men so far in her life. Tony, the scholarly but goofy co-worker back at the Atlanta History Museum. Sitting at a staff meeting, he had to turn a page on a report—he licked a finger and she’d clenched. And he hadn’t even touched her. Never would, either. A married man was a no-go zone for her. And number two, an illegal Irish immigrant named Niall whom she met at an Irish Pub in Atlanta’s Buckhead neighborhood. They moved on to a club afterward, he grabbed her hand to dance and a jolt of electricity shot up her arm. Unfortunately, he was deported a week later.

More guys than that, of course, had made her stomach do flips, like Billy. But, Lord Drool-Worthy here was only the third man in her life who could make her spark with desire by only a touch or a look. And, dammit, he fell into the no-go zone, too.

Couldn’t get any more no-go than living in the past.

Ugh, life wasn’t fair, was it?

And why did she still ask herself that?

And his hand still covered hers, and he stared at where they joined. She had no gloves on. Shit. His Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow.

He’d asked her a question, hadn’t he? Oh God, she was such a dork. “Sorry, my lord, what did you ask?”

He cleared his throat and his eyes met hers. “Are you in trouble? Do you need help?” His thumb rubbed the back of her hand.

“Oh, that’s right.” Could she ask him to deliver the letters? Too risky. “No. Well, yes, I am desperate to get my silver case back.”

“But, that transpired at evening’s end. Your distress originated before.”

“Well, yes, but, uh, they are both related, connected.”

Lord Montagu looked at her a little longer. He straightened and removed his hand, thank God. “As to your silver case, the Runner has not had any luck thus far. I gave him your drawing, of course.”

“Is he checking with his contacts in the criminal underworld? With any known fencing kens to see if any will blow the gab?” Damn, the lingo was tripping off her tongue; not for the first time since this bizarre time-jump happened did she thank her frivolous side for reading all those romantic suspense novels set in the Regency era. Though she knew she was babbling to cover her discomfort.