Must Love Breeches (19 page)

Scratch Roanoke behind the ears for me—hopefully I’ll see you both
soon
!

Ciao,

Belle

The events in the carriage last night still shook Isabelle. His kiss on her wrist. Whoa. And his wound. That had scared her. Still scared her. She hoped to find a place along Bond Street to buy medical supplies before she headed to the area near Marylebone Lane to find the items Mrs. Somerville had tasked her to find, and hopefully investigate her silver case. But first, Lord Montagu’s wound.

Isabelle hopped from the Somerville carriage onto Bond Street, their footman jumping dutifully off to follow. She spotted the apothecary Mrs. Somerville had told her about and went inside. The bell tinkled on the door, announcing her entrance.

“Can I help you, miss?”

Isabelle peered through the dark gloom. The sharp odor of unguents and herbs assaulted her nose. The light eking through the grimy window illuminated a guy in his thirties with glasses and a hooked nose. She walked toward the counter. Shelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with jars of who knew what, some dusty, others not so much. Certainly not like her time’s brightly lit pharmacies, with products perfectly packaged and labeled.

Had they heard of antiseptics yet? She knew they didn’t have antibiotics.

“Yes, sir. I have a friend who suffered a cut. I do not want it to become infected. Do you have anything that can be used as an antiseptic?” A mortar and pestle lay on the counter near the shopkeeper. Was that a spider web up in the corner?

He frowned. “An antiseptic?” he asked, pronouncing the word carefully.

Great. Nope, they didn’t know about it yet. Shit. What items presently around had antiseptic properties besides good old liquor?

“Antiseptic...” repeated the apothecary. He tapped his finger on his lip. Isabelle felt a surge of hope. “From Greek—
against decay
. Yes, yes.”

Isabelle blessed the nineteenth-century educational system that believed in teaching Greek and Latin.

“There’s a treatise by a Scotchman named Pringle, written last century about that subject,” he continued. “Around here somewhere. Remember reading it with great interest. Recommended using distilled spirits and acid.”

Yikes. No on the acid. “Has anyone else researched antiseptics since?”

“Mrs. D’Arconville, I think was her name, a French chemist, you see. Recommended using chloride of mercury.”

Mercury? “No, thank you. Anything else?”

“No, miss, that is all I know of.”

Isabelle paced the store. If only she could look up stuff on her phone, dammit; she could easily find out what substances existed in this time that would work best.

Think, Isabelle.

“What about witch hazel?” Her old roommate had used it as an astringent, and it sounded as if it could have been around a while, a natural herb or something.

“Witch hazel? Never heard of it.”

Isabelle groaned. What else? She felt sure she was missing something.

“Rubbing alcohol?”

“No.”

“Hydrogen peroxide?”

“No.” He crossed his arms. “Excuse me, miss, but where have you heard of these medicines? I try to stay current with the latest discoveries.”

“I, uh, my father is an apothecary back in America, and these are items he used. Maybe you call them by different names?” She knew they didn’t, but it was a way to divert his questions.

“Perhaps so. Now I think on it, I do recall some folks saying tincture of iodine worked for such a thing.”

Oh, right, how could she have forgotten? “Great, can I get some?”

He poured a portion into a pear-shaped glass bottle and corked it. She thanked him profusely and left the shop for her next errand. Her footman lounged against the shop window. She nodded her head in the direction she was heading and strode down Bond Street toward Marylebone Lane.

At breakfast this morning, Mrs. Somerville had given her a mission. A simple one: find and buy the Geological Map of England made by William Smith, published in 1815; buy the three volumes of Charles Lyell’s book,
Principles of Geology;
and pick up any geological specimens she found in shops along the way (with no duplicates). Mrs. Somerville’s fascination with geology, and the new theories of dating the earth by stratification, had grown. The list of rocks to find was extensive.

Now, in the first book store, Isabelle found volume three of Lyell’s book, since it had been published only the year before.

Please let that be an indicator of how the rest of the errands will go
.

To have a chance to investigate her case afterward, made her whole body thrum. Marylebone Lane, where her case had been stolen, was nearby. She’d had a better glimpse of the thief than Lord Montagu, perhaps she could find a spot to sit and watch the neighborhood, pretending to read. Worth a shot. At least she’d be doing something proactive about her situation.

However, after two hours of walking all the main streets and lanes around Bond Street, the items eluded her and she’d given up on the Marylebone plan. At least for today. Now, she just wanted to find the first two volumes and the map for Mrs. Somerville and return home. And her new walking boots pinched her feet.

She did have a rapidly filling basket of rocks, though. She’d found chunks of granite, chert, quartz, and other samples whose names she’d already forgotten (but had written on the paper wrapped around each). The types of odd shops in this part of London boggled the mind.

She stepped into the fifth frigging bookstore she’d visited in one day. The owner sported a large glass eye piece strapped on with a leather thong, which he used to inspect the inside of a calf-bound book. He pushed the eye piece to his forehead. “May I help you, miss?”

“Hello, I was hoping you had these books and this map in stock?” She pushed the list across the counter.

He squinted, shook his head, and returned to the book he’d been inspecting.

What a jerk.
He’d barely looked at it, how could he know?

“Please, this is important. Can you look to see if you have them?”

He set the leather book carefully on the counter and stared at Isabelle. “I do not have these. You would do well to check another establishment.”

“Are you sure you do not have it?” Isabelle pleaded.

The door to the shop tinkled open and a well-dressed lady in her fifties entered with a younger woman. They walked past and nodded to the bookstore owner.

He returned their nod, and glared at Isabelle. “I am sorry, but for the last time, I do not have either the map or those two volumes.”

She gritted her teeth. The first bookstore had given her a list of others to try and this was the last. “Do you know of another place that might? I’ve tried so many already.”

He sighed. “Have you tried Edwards?”

“Yes.” Isabelle switched the basket of rocks to her other hand and flexed the fingers of the first, cramped from holding the heavy basket.

“Butler’s?”

“Yes.”

“What about Swaine’s on Marylebone Lane?”

A surge of hope swished through her; maybe she’d get to check out Marylebone Lane after all. “No, I haven’t. Thank you. Can you let me know if you do get these in?”

The man grumbled, but he pulled out a scrap of paper and pencil, licked the tip, and looked at her. She cleared her throat. “Send word to Miss Rochon, Dr. Somerville’s residence, Chelsea.”

She turned to exit the store. A feminine voice behind her said, “Miss Rochon? Are you Miss Rochon of Mobile?”

Isabelle frowned. The two women who had entered moments before approached. Who were they? Definitely not anyone she knew in Mobile. She almost laughed aloud at that.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Please forgive my forwardness. I could not help overhearing the shopkeeper say your name, and when I heard you speak, I knew it must be you. I am Lady Montagu, and this is my daughter, Miss Montagu.”

Wait—What? Lady and Miss... Sweat anointed her skin. Holy cow. Lord Montagu’s mother and sister. What to do or say?

The cool drops of sweat suffusing her skin warmed with her flush of embarrassment. Lord Montagu had a family? Well, of course he did. She just hadn’t thought the situation through. Why hadn’t he mentioned them? Did they know about her engagement?

“I had to make your acquaintance, given that we are soon to be family.”

Yep, they knew. Did they also know it was pretend? Hard to tell; she could just be keeping up appearances.

Isabelle fell back on her mantra and smiled, curtseying. “So pleased to meet you, my lady.”

Lady Montagu stepped closer, a smile animating her patrician features. “How fortunate we chanced upon you. You simply must come to tea this afternoon, I insist. It is now noon. Any hour after one in the afternoon would suit us.”

Oh, great.

Later that afternoon, the Somerville carriage clambered to a stop at the Montagu townhouse. Isabelle wiped her palms on the carriage seat one last time and donned her gloves. It was bad enough she had to pretend she lived in their time period, now she had to pretend to be engaged to someone. And to his family, no less. She nodded her head once. Yep, until she could determine how much they knew, she’d keep up the pretense. Could she soldier through a social call without Ada?

She’d been so floored meeting the mother and sister that she’d mumbled some courtesy and fled back to the Somerville’s with her rocks and the one volume she’d found. She hadn’t had the energy to finish her errands or check out Marylebone Lane for clues.

During their midday meal, she told Mrs. Somerville of her encounter with the Viscountess. “I had no idea he had a family.”

“Well, of course, dear, how do you think he came to be?” Mrs. Somerville’s forehead wrinkled.

The eldest Somerville daughter, Martha, snorted and earned a reproving glare from her mother. Isabelle couldn’t blame her—it
had
been a stupid question. She had just met Martha and her sister Mary, who had been away visiting their Fairfax cousins when Isabelle first arrived.

“I only meant, well, I thought, he seemed so alone
,
I assumed his family had all died, I mean, passed on...” She took a small bite of some kind of fish. What she would give for a heaping plate of creamy macaroni and cheese.

“His father has gone on to his reward, two years past, I believe. However, his mother is as healthy as an ox, and he has two younger brothers in the 11th Light Dragoons, and three sisters still living.”

“Still living? He had more than three sisters?”

“Yes, poor dear. His sister Letitia departed this life under mysterious circumstances only a couple of years past. Quite upsetting to everyone in the family and those close to her. Such a joyful creature.” Mrs. Somerville paused a moment, her silver fork poised midair. “I am of the firm opinion her loss was what pushed Lord Montagu into being, well, indiscreet.”

Now Isabelle followed the Montagu’s butler into a sunny drawing room on the second floor and stopped at the threshold. Her breath caught. What an amazing space, a delightful mixture of Chinese, Greek, and Hindu art.

Lady Montagu rose from a settee with carved Egyptian motifs. “Miss Rochon. So good of you to come. You remember Miss Montagu? And this is my youngest, Miss Gwendolyn.”

Isabelle curtseyed to all three. Gwendolyn appeared to be around sixteen. Weren’t there three sisters? The other must be married. The girls’ eyes were round and tracked her every move.

The sisters sat back down, and Isabelle perched on a dark green settee. The Viscountess pulled a bell rope and ordered tea. She dismissed Gwendolyn, but allowed the oldest to remain.

“I love your room, Lady Montagu,” Isabelle ventured. “It is very elegant.” What inadequate words to describe the discreet pieces of art combined with tastefully chosen pieces of furniture and tapestries, all contained in a room of vibrant earth tones.

“Why, thank you, dear. It is my retreat. Not everyone appreciates it. Most belabor the fact that it is not stylish.”

No, she hadn’t conformed to whatever interior design fad was prevalent at the time, but the eclectic room felt inviting, lived in. The opposite of sterile.

Isabelle swallowed a snort. How painstakingly she and her co-workers strove to recreate rooms in historic homes for visitors. Researching exactly what was in style and getting it accurate for the paying visitors, so folks could see How People Lived Back Then.