Must Love Breeches (37 page)

Her chest tightened, constricting her breath. She looked up at Ada, tears now welling in her own eyes, fragmenting her friend’s face. “So you see, I have no choice. Not really.”

Pacing again, she took deep breaths and mentally reviewed the instructions. Hopefully, what she’d seen in movies about kidnappings would prove true—comply, deliver the goods, and leave with the hostage. In the movies, they only went awry for the plot’s sake.

She pulled the bell rope. The butler appeared instantly.

“Can you ask the lead officer of the Bow Street Runners to come inside?”

Five minutes later, Isabelle set off in the Somerville carriage for the address given in the note. Two Runners rode as footmen in the back, and the leader sat with her inside. Ada stayed behind to be safe. Isabelle’s stomach tied in knots ever more intricate.

Stay calm, Isabelle. It’s the only way to get through this.

Every time an image from her real life paraded through her mind, she shoved it aside. She must not think about what this meant, what she sacrificed. She kept telling herself she couldn’t think about it for the rest of the short ride to the address. It was like playing whack-a-mole with her memories. No more brushing her hand across a new-found artifact, the joyful anticipation of research animating her.
Whack
. No more early morning breakfasts in her garden, the morning mist the herald of a new day’s promise.
Whack
. No more cocktails and bad-taste movie nights with Katy.
Whack
.

Whack
.
Whack
.
Whack
.

When the carriage halted, she stepped out and hauled her skirt-bedecked butt to the coal chute. The three Runners flanked her. One pulled the lid open, the creak of the hinges sounding overloud to her ears. She deposited her precious package inside and let her fingers linger on the soft satin. An elegant ivory envelope with her name on it lay inside. Blinking back tears, she snatched it and scurried back to the carriage.

Once inside, she let out a huge breath. She’d expected trouble, and its absence unnerved her; she shook with unspent adrenaline. At least this stage was over. Now, to find out where they held Lord Montagu—she tore open the envelope.

“Dammit.” She glared out the window. Their machinations were not over.

It was as if she were in the middle of some dang spy movie, albeit set in the nineteenth century. When the scene outside her window finally registered, she flung herself back against the seat: a stream of street urchins approached the chute, grabbed an item—or pretended to—and veered off in different directions. No way could her Runners have followed them all.

The note told her to go to another address for additional instructions. She handed it to the leader of the Runners. “What do you make of this?”

He took the note. “’Tis a seedy part of the East End.” He banged on the carriage’s trap door and instructed the driver.

Damn and blast, he was well and truly in a bind, literally and figuratively. Phineas yanked on the ropes fettering his wrists behind his back and his legs to the chair. No give whatsoever. A blinding headache had awakened him perhaps five minutes before, followed by a moment’s panic when he realized he had no conception of his whereabouts. Finding himself gagged and bound to a chair in the middle of a bare room, he felt anger and frustration surge through him, replacing the panic.

What the devil?

He thought back to his last distinct memory. That did not elucidate matters. He had stepped into his carriage after leaving White’s and later it had stopped, presumably at Mrs. Somerville’s. How had he ended up here? Wherever here
was.

Phineas jerked his head and flicked a lock of hair from his eyes. No furnishings relieved the room’s expanse, except for the chair holding him. The walls were painted the color of port wine, and late afternoon sun shone through uncurtained windows, punctuating the room with three clusters of dappled light. One of which shone directly on him. The strand of hair fell back over his right eye. His nose itched. Phineas blew on his errant hair lock to no avail, irritating him further.

His headache intensifying, he indulged in a fit of rage by agitating his chair in an attempt to loosen his bonds. He managed only to knock himself and the chair sideways, a flash of pain signaling he had been unfortunate enough to land on his wounded arm. Moreover, he still lay in the block of light, the warmth making him itch further.

Damnation. Where was he? Who had done this to him? The air smelled stale—empty—except for a faint whiff of decay. A mouse dead in the walls, most likely. Obviously, the place was uninhabited. Judging by the architectural features, he was in a townhouse, presumably in one of the affluent neighborhoods in the West End.

A board creaked in the hallway. Phineas turned his head upward. The brass handle rattled and the heavy oak door flew open, banging against the wall. Several pairs of legs strode into the room, one elegant, the rest of the ruffian variety.

“Well, what happened here, guvna?” a rough voice said, as his legs passed through one of the light patches.

Phineas craned his head and glared at the speaker and the rest of his captors. Glaring was all he could manage, since the putrid gag stuffed in his mouth prevented speech. Before him, four ruffians, plus one person dressed like a gentleman, positioned themselves in a ragged line. Unfortunately, Phineas could not identify the gentleman; he disguised his features with a wooden mask in the shape of Tragedy. The mask’s exaggerated frown and sad eyes added to the sense of unreality.

The gentleman’s wooden face turned to the ruffian who had spoken. “I do not employ you to provide fatuous commentary.”

Phineas’s pulse quickened. The cultured tones of the mysterious visitor in Edgerton’s study, he would recognize them anywhere. So, they had discovered Phineas’s desire to destroy their group. It had been inevitable, but he had fooled himself into believing it would be later rather than sooner. He had been so close.

“Well, well, your lady is a right smart chit. You will soon be at liberty to depart.” The leader nodded to the ruffian closest to Phineas. The gag fell away.

Phineas blew out the second rag in his mouth and spat to remove its fetid taste. Confusion clouded his mind. If they had kidnapped him because they had discovered his role in the thefts, why free him? Furthermore, what did the leader mean to imply about Isabelle?

Good Lord, she had not surrendered to them, had she? Phineas fought the mix of bile and panic constricting his throat. “What, this is it?”

The leader cocked his head, the wooden mask now at a drunken angle. “I have what I desire.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved a silver object.

Isabelle’s silver case.

Phineas hoped he masked his momentary confusion; this had nothing to do with him and his schemes.

Oh, Isabelle, what have you done?

She had sacrificed the case? For him? A selfish, traitorous thread of hope spiked through his grief for her, for what she had been forced to relinquish.

Right now, however, he must focus. “What have you done with Miss Rochon?”

“What have I done with her? Why, I have done nothing
with
her, my friend.”

Phineas ground his teeth and struggled against his bonds. “You bloody bastard, if you have harmed her in the slightest, I swear I will come after you.”

The ruffian nearby kicked Phineas hard in the ribs. Pain radiated through him. “Mind your bone box, ya bloody cove.”

“My, my, my. Such concern,” the leader responded simultaneously. “Fret not, she has followed my instructions to the letter, and so is quite unharmed.”

Phineas closed his eyes. Thank Christ for his prone position—he doubted his legs would have held him upright, his relief was so poignant. His immediate fear allayed, he concentrated on his next priority: deflect the villain. After all, a slim possibility existed that the bastard remained ignorant of the object’s power.

“Why that particular case? You may purchase similar ones from any jeweler.”

The leader swung the case by its silver chain, catching the rays of light from the window in its arc. “I am privy to the interesting secret about this little case.”

Bloody hell.
“I know not what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. When I read about Miss Rochon in
The Times,
I scoffed at first, like everyone else, I imagine. However, it was
so
outrageous I could not help but wonder—could it be true? I consulted Mr. Podbury, you see, and he told me about her visit with him and how he was not fooled by her dissembling. He was convinced beyond doubt she traveled here from the future. It peeved him when she refused to conduct tests, so when I dangled a generous investment in his experiments, he was more than willing to talk to me.” He swung the case higher and caught it in his hand. He put it back inside his coat. “I also learned of your search for the case, so I had her followed, as well as yourself. I knew sooner or later you would locate it.”

“What could you possibly want with it?”

The leader paced back and forth. “Can you not imagine? I do not wish to live there, naturally, but to drop in from time to time to check for sound investments, disaster timelines, and such, and return here and invest my money in a fool-proof way. Yes, I wanted this case.” He stopped and stroked his hand over his coat where the case lay. “Now, I have it.”

Damnation, a new investment scheme for the Cadre Cads. Could it be possible the scoundrel remained ignorant of Phineas’s efforts to ruin his group’s members? At least, that was something for which to be thankful.

“But why kidnap me?”

“You had Miss Rochon too well protected and yet left yourself vulnerable.” The leader resumed his pacing, his hands punctuating his speech. “Then again, we thought it prudent to hold the male. It was but the work of a moment to replace your driver and hit you over the head when you exited your carriage.”

Luckily, like all egotistical men, he reveled in explaining his actions, confident of his success and desirous of a witness.

The bastard continued, “If we had taken her, no doubt you would have done something foolish, like try to free her without complying with my instructions. I felt certain Miss Rochon would deliver the case with a minimum of bother in exchange for your safety. A few graphic descriptions of your mortality I surmised would do the trick.” Phineas sensed the scoundrel smiled behind the frowning mask. “And it did.”

Hell and damnation
. Phineas growled and struggled with his bonds. They had threatened to kill him? Poor Isabelle. He had to get to her, make sure she was truly safe. The enormity of her sacrifice humbled him.

His captor snapped his fingers and sauntered to the door, the ruffians following. Over his shoulder he called, “You will be freed soon. Remain patient.”

He halted and spun around. “Oh, and it will be to no avail to search for me. I have been careful. You cannot trace this location back to me. You cannot trace anything back to me.”

The rotten scoundrel laughed. “Likewise, tracing one of them will be useless.” He waved his hand to indicate the knaves in his employ. “They have seen me only like this. They know not my name, and I pay them handsomely. In gold.”

With that, they departed.

Isabelle’s carriage rumbled through the West End streets on its way to the third address. This one was back in fashionable Mayfair, close to where she’d dropped off her silver case.

She had to hand it to whomever had masterminded this. It had taken her an hour to travel to the East End address and back to this one, which address had been revealed at the East End location. It had given the kidnappers time enough to verify her compliance. If she’d left something else, they’d have had plenty of time to get rid of Lord Montagu while she chased notes in coal chutes. She shuddered and silently recited another Hail Mary.

When the carriage slowed, she threw open the door and hopped out before it came to a complete stop. She raced up the steps. The note said she’d find the door unlocked. She held her breath, twisted the door handle, and pushed the door open.

The Bow Street Runners plunged ahead into the dark hallway. She followed them into the first room on the right, presumably the dining room, if the house had been occupied. Lord Montagu lay on the floor toward the back, bound to a chair. His eyes held a mixture of frustration and relief.