Must Love Breeches (38 page)

Isabelle’s legs gave way and she slumped against the doorframe.

And if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong.
Lord Byron,
Mazeppa
, 1819

“Bloody hell.” Isabelle watched Lord Montagu curse, mutter and pace the Somerville parlor as he sipped a glass of brandy. “Who was that gentleman?” he asked.

Ada’s eyes grew round, but she wisely remained silent.

“He’s not one of the men you’re investigating?” Isabelle asked. She’d assumed that was what he’d been doing.

“No. Or rather, I thought I knew all of them, but obviously he is a part, as well. Only at the Edgerton’s did I become aware of his existence.” He paced some more. “Actually, now I think on it, I had not credited that bunch with a surfeit of understanding. For years, they—” he stopped and looked at them, his face flushing. “I, uh, they—” His left hand balled into a fist, and his brandy glass in the other was in danger of shattering.

Isabelle approached and took his hand. “Phineas, you haven’t told us what this is about, your ‘project’, but I have an idea.” She searched his eyes. “It’s about your sister, isn’t it?”

He whirled away from her, pulling his fist from her grasp. He strode to the window and downed the last of his brandy. Had she been right to push?

He spun around, glanced at Isabelle and Ada, then away, his hand rubbing the back of his head.

Ada gave a discreet cough. “I find I am a trifle fatigued. Will you excuse me?”

Lord Montagu bowed, but Isabelle turned an inquiring eye to her friend. Ada walked past and whispered, “Tell me later?”

“Of course,” Isabelle whispered back. She settled into the couch and waited for Lord Montagu to come to a decision. She wouldn’t push him further; he had to decide on his own to confide in her.

“Why did you do it, Isabelle?” he asked, his normally lovely voice sounding as if it tumbled across painful shards of rock. He refilled his glass.

Isabelle frowned and cocked her head to the side. “Do what?”

“Why did you give him the case? Now you cannot return to your time, to your home.”

Fresh tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them. She would
not
cry. “He would’ve killed you. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“We will retrieve it.”

“How?”

“I know not, but not withstanding your need for it, he cannot be allowed to possess it. It is too dangerous.” He filled her in on the kidnapper’s plans for the case.

She doubted she’d ever see it again; she couldn’t afford to hope. She remained silent.

“I will discover who that man is, trust in me. I shall go to Scotland Yard tomorrow and deliver my evidence and report this. They can pursue what leads we have even as I do so.”

“What leads?” She couldn’t help it. “The only lead we have is the house where you were held, and it looked vacant.”

“It is worth pursuing. In addition, I shall give the ruffians’ descriptions to Bow Street. Do you have the initial note?”

Isabelle sighed. “No, part of the instructions stipulated I was to leave that note with the silver case. The second and third notes were made of letters cut from a newspaper.”

“Do you have them?”

“Yes.” She retrieved her purse from the hallway and handed him the notes.

Frowning, he took them, brought them to the nearest candle and held them up, keeping the flame behind. “Drat, this is common bond paper you can purchase by the sheet at any stationer’s shop.”

“Whoever this guy is, he’s very intelligent.”

He tossed the notes onto a nearby table. “Yes, now I think upon it, it makes much more sense. As I said earlier, these people were nothing more than a mindless group of n’er-do-wells bent on only one pursuit—cruelly seducing innocent girls. It does not require brains to do that, unfortunately. They call themselves the Muslin Makers.”

“Muslin Makers?”

Lord Montagu looked at his boots and cleared his throat. He caught her gaze and the muscles in his jaw flexed. “Muslin Company is our society’s euphemism for courtesans. Many are of good family, but were forced to the lifestyle due to circumstances, the most common of which is being compromised.”

“Oh, whoa. Muslin Makers. What a cruel name for their group.”

“Yes.” His hand formed into a tight fist again. He came over and sat beside her. “My sister, Letitia, she was—”

Isabelle’s stomach disappeared. Oh, no. She grabbed his arm. “You don’t have to tell me, I think I know. Oh, Phineas, I’m so sorry.”

He stood abruptly and marched across the room, his back to her, tension rolling off him in waves. “I was abroad at the time, working for the Crown. Letitia was under my father’s protection. Unbeknownst to me, he had fallen gravely ill during her first Season. My mother’s anxiety over my father’s health prevented her from being as attentive a chaperone as she usually is in such matters.” He swigged the rest of his brandy. “Consequently, there was no male protector to do what was required when my mother learned Letitia had been cruelly seduced and was with child.”

“What could someone...” her voice trailed off.

“Discover the bastard and either force him to marry her,” his words came out clipped, “or put a bullet through his heart on a field of honor.”

Good Lord, he was talking about a duel.

“As it was, whoever did this, our family was not powerful enough to pressure him.”

“What happened to her?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“She died at nineteen from a fever she caught after miscarrying the bastard’s child.”

Isabelle gasped. “I’m sorry.” She went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind.

He stiffened.

Great.
She shouldn’t have tried to comfort him. Just when she resolved to drop her arms, his body relaxed and large hands covered hers.

“I got—” he stopped, and she felt him swallow. “I received a letter from my mother requesting my presence. I was in Constantinople. I returned as quickly as possible, but my father had already passed, and I found my sister languishing in bed.” He swallowed again. “She slipped away days later.” His voice came out choked.

Isabelle sensed his emotions still churned and she needed to give him time; she kept holding him. It felt comforting to have him in her arms again, despite his turmoil. She’d missed him.

Finally, after several minutes passed and his emotions seemed under control, she asked, “How did you find out about this group?”

He eased away and poured another brandy at the sideboard.

Isabelle felt stupid standing where he’d left her, so she returned to the settee.

He took a sip. “She never confessed which scoundrel was responsible, so I was denied the satisfaction of a challenge. She did reveal enough details to determine it was a member of that notorious circle. She herself was ignorant of their existence.”

He stalked to the window. “Afterward, I cultivated the rakish persona, spread the rumors about myself. I hoped to get closer to their circle, the better to know how to exact my revenge. I was never part of their inner circle.” He held his brandy glass up and stared inside, swirling it. “However, one by one, they all married respectably and were obliged to drop my acquaintance, per society’s unspoken rule. Last year, their activities changed.” He ran a hand through his hair. “This must be when this new leader took over, for they became focused, more ambitious, smarter. They crafted intricate financial schemes that appeared quite legal, but in reality fleeced many prominent members of the
ton
. I realized this was the way to avenge her, I lacked only the proof.”

“So, you’ve been using the cover of the parties to search their rooms...”

“Yes, and I believe I have enough proof. The journal I found contains incriminating details. Unfortunately, each person is referred to only by his initials. The ring leader’s identity eludes me. He is the key. I suppose I should be satisfied with ruining the ones responsible for my sister, but now this man has your case. My purpose has expanded.”

He stepped toward her. “At any rate, I shall visit Scotland Yard tomorrow and deliver what I have found and follow the few leads we have to find this villain.” He downed the last swallow of brandy and approached her. “I should be going. May I call on you tomorrow?”

Isabelle stood. That was it? Good night, I’ll see you tomorrow? She couldn’t understand why he’d become so withdrawn, and she had no idea how to recapture the closeness they’d shared.

She took her cue from his manner and curtseyed. “Of course.”

The following afternoon, Phineas guided his curricle through Hyde Park, Isabelle perched beside him. The activity and the distraction helped combat the restlessness and frustration percolating within. Aside from discussing the kidnapping incident, he had another topic to broach. A question, to be more precise, and that question eclipsed all. He very much feared he presented as fretful an appearance as the high-strung, perfectly matched grays pulling his curricle.

“So how did it go at Scotland Yard?” asked Isabelle, pulling him from his thoughts.

He sighed, but endeavored to prevent his emotions from transmitting to the horses via the ribbons he held. “I set out first thing to deliver my evidence and to report my abduction. I left after relating as much detail as I could and matching names to the initials in the journal. They sent a note in the early afternoon to White’s, requesting I visit for a report on their progress. They ought to have said ‘lack of progress’.”

“But, it’s only been an afternoon. Surely, they’ll be able to find out more in time.”

“Scotland Yard checked the address where I had been held—no owner. The previous occupant had vacated the premises in order to satisfy his mounting debts. Unfortunately, he passed away before a sale could be effected. It has sat vacant since December. Of the ruffians’ identities or whereabouts, nothing.” He adjusted the reins and eased the curricle past a slow-moving couple in their landau.

“What else can we do?”

A surge of well-being at her usage of ‘we’ caught him by surprise—to be her partner in all things felt
right.
“I have some ideas in that direction. I intend to keep a close eye on Lord Edgerton. Of the lot, he has the weakest resolve and may slip.”

“Let me know if you need me to distract his wife.”

They rode in companionable silence, though the knot in his stomach took on ballast. Now was the time to broach his question, but it stuck in his throat, scared to be brought to life. He braced himself.

“Miss Rochon. Isabelle. About how circumstances between us stand. I am fully aware that in your era, such an action on my part is unnecessary. However, since you find yourself stranded here, I feel it incumbent upon me to do so. Particularly, since it is my fault you find yourself in these distressed circumstances.” The guilt of her sacrifice still overwhelmed and humbled him. “Lacking someone to ask leave to pay my addresses, I hope you will forgive me for approaching you without it.” He took a tremulous breath. “In short, Isabelle, will you do me the great honor of accepting my hand and becoming my wife?”

“You’re—You—” Isabelle shifted in her seat to look at him better. His convoluted sentence structure had taken her a moment to unravel, but she finally understood his full meaning. “Let me make sure I understand. You’re asking me to marry you, for real this time, and it’s out of a sense of obligation?” She didn’t mean for her voice to pitch quite so high at the end. Too late.