Must Love Breeches (7 page)

Phineas wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. He took scant notice of what he had consumed. As was his wont most mornings, he breakfasted at Montagu House with his mother and youngest sisters, the short distance from his apartments at the Albany a convenient, brisk walk. More an opportunity to spend time with them, than for the fare. However, his want of sufficient sleep had rendered the purpose of the ritual pointless.

“If you will excuse me, Mother, I have an errand to attend to.” He tucked his napkin under his plate rim.

“What? So early?”

He rose and inclined his head. “Indeed.”

“I wish you would stay. You look rather peaked.”

Only several hours of sleep will do that to a fellow
. “I am afraid it is rather urgent. Now, if you will excuse me.”

His mother’s eyes narrowed, the tiny laugh lines near her eyes crinkling. At fifty-two, she was still beautiful, but the loss of his father two years past had made advances on her visage. “Not so quickly, my dear. Please tell me you have forsaken this revenge business?”

Phineas locked his knees. Why could she not understand?

A delicate puff of air escaped her lips. “Well, I can plainly see you have not. I must admit, my expectations were raised when you attended Chelmsford’s ball last night and planned to attend Lady Huxton’s tonight.” She darted her gaze to the side. “It is about time you settled down, but with what you did to your reputation, I am beyond hope.”

He gritted his teeth against the pulse of guilt for the distress he caused his beloved parent. “It was my choice, Mother.”

“I realize that, dear.” She returned her gaze to his. “Unfortunate Miss Trowbridge was not in attendance last night. I hear she has finally returned for a Season. It nigh broke my heart your suit failed two Seasons ago. What happened?”

Phineas balled his fists. “I have not the time to discuss this, at present.”

“And I have not the time to wait for grandchildren.” Her tone was soft and teasing, taking the sting out of her words. He loved his mother, and it surprised him she was pushing him in this regard. Under normal circumstances, she wielded a light touch with her children. “If not Miss Trowbridge, then is there not some other young lady who would suit?”

Unbidden, Miss Rochon’s face flashed through his mind. He ruthlessly set the image, and the surge of interest, aside. He had to stay focused on his project: revenge. Anything that did not further that goal must be ignored. Edgerton and his cohorts must pay.

Lord, why couldn’t she have gone back to a different time? Or not at all?

Isabelle smoothed the folds of the hastily altered day dress she wore and stared in the full-length mirror on a wooden stand in the corner. Last night’s dress was bad enough. The mustard yellow sleeves of
this
dress not only flared wide at the shoulders, they now came all the way to her wrists, and her bodice rode high on her neck. How did women wear these things? And what if the weather turned warm?

Thankfully, Mrs. Somerville found the dress in the recesses of a wardrobe, and her lady’s maid set about making alterations immediately.

It had been strange allowing another to dress her and do her hair. Isabelle kept silent, trying for all the world to appear as if this was quite a normal thing for her. Judging by the maid’s suspicious looks, she’d failed. Miserably. The vast array of underclothing the maid draped, tied, and tucked on her was more than she’d imagined―no wonder ladies of this era had people to dress them.

Isabelle turned from the mirror and grasped the bedroom door handle, her heavy skirts swishing. Ada and Mrs. Somerville waited for her in the drawing room. And Lord Montagu would stop by. A flutter threaded through her. How would he act? Had her behavior freaked him out? Would she still find him attractive? And why the heck was she even wondering this?

A sob escaped Isabelle’s throat and she gripped the door handle tighter. She was stuck in the past. In 1834. How? And, more importantly, how could she get back? Was that even possible?

She
had
to find a way back.

To her house, her job, and, oh God, her promotion. She couldn’t allow that snake Andrew to beat her to it.

She lifted her skirt hem and peeked at her slippers―could it be that simple? She glanced around the room to make sure she was alone, clicked her heels together three times, and whispered, “There’s no place like home.”

She looked around. Same room. She shrugged. Oh, well. Of course, it couldn’t be easy.

Isabelle took a deep breath. Yes, she needed to find her way home, but first she had to face her current situation. Would she be able to fool Mrs. Somerville?

She straightened her shoulders. She would draw on all her training―from her debutante days in Mobile, Alabama, to her historical research, to her avid readings of Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer―to speak and to act as a lady should in this time period. Top priority: address Ada properly.

Isabelle strode into the drawing room with as much composure as she could summon. She whispered her new mantra― “Curtsey, No Contractions. Curtsey, No Contractions.”

“Miss Byron, oops―” Isabelle took quick steps to catch her balance. She glanced behind and lifted her skirts. A wrinkle in a rug near the entrance.

Good Lord, graceful much? Pretend it didn’t happen.

She curtseyed. “Miss Byron, thank you so much for all your help.” Thankfully, both acted as if they hadn’t noticed her grand entrance.

Isabelle inhaled deeply to calm herself and staggered again at the nostalgic wave that hit her―the comforting, nurturing smell of rose powder filled the room. Grandmère and Tante Mamie’s house! It smelled like the living room in their old house in Mobile.
Home
.

Ada’s welcoming smile brought her back to the present. “You are welcome. Please. Call me Ada. You will be masquerading as my cousin, so if you do not address me in this manner, it would seem peculiar.”

“Thank you.” Isabelle faced Mrs. Somerville. What had Ada told her? “Ma’am, thank you for your hospitality last night. I hope I have not inconvenienced you too much.”

No contractions there, pat yourself on the back, Isabelle. Oh yeah, curtsey.

“Not at all, my dear. You were in no condition to return home last night. I insist you stay at least one more night under my care, to be certain you are well. I shall send a footman to your home in Guildford to fetch your belongings.”

Oh, no. “I, um...”

“I am afraid Miss Rochon’s situation will not allow for the retrieval of her personal effects,” Ada said.

Mrs. Somerville glanced at Ada and back to Isabelle. “I am unsure why Miss Byron has chosen to adopt you as a long-lost cousin―”

Cold sweat broke out on Isabelle’s skin and her stomach felt as if it had participated in the free-fall drop at the county fair.

“However,” she continued, “I trust her judgment.”

Now she felt as if she’d gotten off the ride and stumbled along on solid ground. “Thank you, Mrs. Somerville.” Isabelle tried not to indulge the tickle of panic creeping up her spine. Where would she stay tomorrow?

Maybe she’d figure out how to get back before then. She had to stay positive. Today was Sunday―she had a day to solve her how-do-I-get-back-home dilemma before she was due to work on Monday. She couldn’t afford to be absent.

Pfft
. Yeah, as if work were her biggest worry right now.

Did time run at the same pace in both places?

Or, had she created an alternate timeline the moment she came here? Some theorized that every possible decision not made splits reality into alternate worlds where those decisions
had
been made. Same for time travel. Was she now in an alternate reality she’d created and would later be born into?

Ack. Too complicated. Her headache threatened to return.

She had to get back, that was all there was to it.

Isabelle sat on a couch. Mrs. Somerville and Ada resumed reading.

Weird. No conversation?
Dang it, she’d sat wrong and one of her stays poked into her side. She shifted. She was also in danger of ripping a seam. Unable to adjust without attracting notice, she needed an excuse to stand. “Do you have a book I can read, too?”

“Of course, help yourself.” Mrs. Somerville waved to a Hepplewhite side table stacked with books. “If you do not find anything that strikes your fancy, there are more in the library. We are avid readers.”

Isabelle stood, adjusted her dress, and walked to the table. She choked back a squeal.

Her holy grail lay nestled among the books stacked and scattered haphazardly on the table: the 1833 Bentley edition of Jane Austen’s novels. The edition that launched her to fame. Easily worth $6,000 in Isabelle’s time. So strange to see them, and everything else, brand new, instead of mellowed with age and loving use.

Isabelle pulled out her favorite, running her hand across the calf-bound spine and the shiny, gilt letters spelling
Persuasion
below
Northanger Abbey.
She opened the book and stuck her nose inside, inhaling the crisp, inky smell of new-book, instead of the expected mustiness of old-book. Smiling, she went to her seat with her selection.

The familiar words of a much-loved story helped to anchor her, and she fell under the spell of Austen.

A footman entered some time later, interrupting them. Drat―she’d finally gotten to the heroine.

“Lord Montagu,” he announced.

Butterflies took up residence in Isabelle’s belly and flapped as if their lives depended on it. She snapped her book closed, placed it beside her, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

“Ladies.” He swept into the room behind the footman. In his hand he carried a box tied with string. “It is a pleasure.”

His rumbling baritone agitated her butterflies further. She kept her eyes on Lord Montagu, admiring him all over again.

Her mouth went dry.
Keep it together, Isabelle.

He, however, hadn’t glanced her way―obviously he had no trouble resisting her.

Just as well. When she crushed, she crushed hard.

Mrs. Somerville and Ada stood and greeted him. Isabelle hastened to follow suit, mimicking their curtsey. The older lady instructed the footman to have the tea things sent in.

Ada stepped forward. “Lord Montagu, you remember my cousin, Miss Rochon?”

Isabelle curtseyed again, unsure if she’d executed a premature curtsey earlier.

He stepped forward, his gaze still on Ada, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “Cousin?”

Lord Montagu was Ada’s second cousin on her maternal grandmother’s side of the family, so Ada had decided Isabelle would be one from her maternal grandfather’s side. While it would have been much easier to pretend a connection from Lord Byron’s side, Ada had assured Isabelle it would have been too unbelievable; Ada rarely associated with relations from that branch since her mother’s separation with Lord Byron.

“Yes, Granpapa’s sister Amelia emigrated to America and married a Frenchman in Mobile, Alabama. Miss Rochon has journeyed here to visit us for a while. She is to be my companion.” Ada stared at him, eyes narrowed.

His piercing gaze finally left Ada’s and trained on Isabelle’s, burrowing within. He then surveyed her form and the same frisson of excitement zipped down her spine as last night.

Isabelle locked her knees and when his gaze returned to hers, she added her silent plea to Ada’s. At this distance, she couldn’t get a good peek at his eyes to see if she’d imagined their differing colors.

He bowed. “Indeed, welcome. I do not know my great uncle’s side of the family well, but I am at your service.”

Isabelle did her best to curtsey again. Those hours and hours of re-watching the BBC’s
Pride and Prejudice
just might pay off.

His focus switched to her hands. She clasped them together, grateful again to Ada for loaning her gloves. He returned his gaze to hers and held. But—weird—he looked both relieved and disappointed, a low heat simmering in the depths of his eyes, causing an answering flare of warmth within herself.

She sat with unsteady legs on the couch, beside Ada. The butler entering with the tea tray broke their heated stare, and conversation centered around common topics while Mrs. Somerville poured. However, Lord Montagu’s unspoken questions settled over them. Isabelle’s intermingled, adding to the weight. She sipped her tea, feeling Lord Montagu’s gaze on her again, but refusing to look up.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Rochon, I am afraid I have been unsuccessful in learning anything about your thief. I canvassed the area, describing the urchin, but was unable to learn a single thing about the creature, or your silver case.”

She took a steadying breath. “Thank you, I appreciate your help. Is there anything else we, uh, I, can do?” She
had
to believe she’d find it; if trapped here for more than a day, she needed to pawn it for money. But the thought of doing so sat heavily with her. Her whole body had hummed when she’d found it and the journal wrapped in seal skin under the rotting floorboards of her study in Guildford.

“Could we hire a Bow Street Runner?” she continued. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.” They were still around, right? Shit, when did they stop using Bow Street Runners to investigate crime and began to depend on the newly formed police force? Why couldn’t she have gone back to the Regency era, or the Victorian era? She was stuck in the hazy in-between.