Must Love Breeches (9 page)

Ada gasped, her hand fluttering in front of her mouth. She leaned in closer. “That is my portrait!” She touched the screen with a hesitant finger.

“Yes. I probably startled you when I took it.”

“But, how?”

Isabelle tucked the phone away. Wouldn’t do to have it visible for too long. “Soon, the ability will exist for people to instantly capture images.” Isabelle went on to explain photography.

“So many remarkable things are accomplished in the future. May I inquire more fully about it?”

“Of course, ask away.” Isabelle smiled in encouragement. But then the implications set in. “Well, to a point.”

“Have you solved hunger? Cured all diseases? Do people still fight wars? And kill each other? I loved Mr. Irving’s
Rip Van Winkle
. I wish I could go forward in time and witness how much things have changed,” she finished, her tone more contemplative.

They talked more about the future, and Isabelle answered as best she could, trying to find words common to both eras and to keep the answers very general.

“Ada, I hate to change the subject, but there are a couple of things I need to talk to you about.”

“Certainly. I hope I can help.”

“Well, one thing is, I have no clue how I got here or how to get back. Obviously, I won’t make it in time for work in the morning as I’d hoped. And the only thing keeping me sane is believing I’ll figure it out soon.” She toyed with her reticule, rotating it in short spurts. She took a deep breath. “But I’m worried.” Her voice hitched. “Very worried. If I can’t figure this out, I’m stuck here, and I don’t know what to do, where to stay―”

“I thought we had established your lodgings. You are to reside with me, as my companion.”

“That’s a cover story, our, uh, ‘blind.’”

“But I am in earnest. You shall remain with me.”

“I can’t impose on you forever, Ada.”

“Something will transpire to your benefit. I am sure of it.”

She liked Ada’s optimism. “Okay, I’ll figure something out. But in the meantime, in case I’m here for longer than a few days, I’ve got another problem. My eyesight’s weak—I’ll need glasses soon.”

Ada frowned. “You appear to see quite well without them.”

Isabelle explained about contact lenses and how she could go only another week at the most without removing them.

“You have spectacles in your eyes?”

“Well, not in them, but on the surface, yes.”

Ada edged closer and studied one of Isabelle’s eyes. Isabelle tried not to blink and stared straight ahead.

“Remarkable,” her tone incredulous. “I believe I see the edge of what appears to be a clear skin over your eye. You are able to wear those and not spectacles?”

“Yes, but not much longer. They have to be taken out regularly and cleaned, and after a while, replaced. But I don’t have any cleaning solution with me. So, I think I should get fitted for glasses—spectacles—as soon as possible.”

“Certainly, we shall visit a spectacle seller tomorrow when we visit my modiste.”

‘Spectacle seller’ didn’t sound too scientific. She’d have to deal with it then.

Back at the Somervilles’, Ada started a letter to her mother at her escritoire in the sitting room. Isabelle took a chair by the fire and tucked her feet under her. She stared into the pinkish glow of the burning coal, the volcanic smell tickling her nose. So different from a log fire—instead of crackles and pops and bright, showy flames, this was a steady glow with a rhythmic ticking noise.

The present from Lord Montagu called to her. She bounced a leg up and down. No, she must wait. Ada hadn’t said anything.

Ada set down her pen. “There, that should do it.” She rang for a footman to post it immediately.

“Now, let us see what kind of coat my cousin gave you.” Ada smiled and swished to her room. She returned and placed the box in Isabelle’s lap.

Isabelle gripped the twine and gave it a tug, anticipation coursing through her. She lifted the lid. Nestled inside lay what appeared to be a chocolate-brown cape. “Oh, it’s beautiful.” She shook it out.

“A mantelet. Quite practical of him.”

Isabelle fingered the light fabric. Muslin? The edges were embroidered in a floral pattern of the same color. “When would it be appropriate to wear?”

“Any time during the day, I should think.” She slapped her thighs. “Now to get dressed for the ball.”

“Wait,” Isabelle said, “there are other things I need to ask you about—have toothbrushes been invented yet?”

“Indeed.” Ada left and returned with an object she placed proudly in Isabelle’s hand. “You may use my spare. We shall purchase one for you when we visit the shops. And here is some tooth powder.”

Isabelle grasped the toothbrush and fingered the handle. An intricately carved bone handle—she peered closer—carved with an image of Poseidon? Seeing something so modern rendered in an old-style way gave her a jolt. She ran a thumb over the rough fibers. “What’s the brush part made of?”

“Hog bristles.”

Okay, she hadn’t heard that. She tried not to show any distaste. Hey, at least they had toothbrushes. But, apparently, no toothpaste yet. Man, she’d hated tooth powder ever since she’d run out of toothpaste and had to use her great aunt’s supply during a visit.

She set these in her lap. “Thank you.” So many things she’d taken for granted were different. She’d already had to use a chamber pot and a clump of dry wool when she’d had to go to the bathroom. It explained the practicality of the slit in her ‘drawers.’

Thank God she had a confidante as well as a roof over her head. So far, Mrs. Somerville had remained understanding. “Is Mrs. Somerville a widow?”

“Oh, no. Her husband is a physician. That is the reason they live in this part of town. He is the lead doctor at Royal Hospital Chelsea, so is generally absent attending to patients. Do you like her?”

The question caught Isabelle off guard. “Yes, she’s been open-minded about me, that’s for sure.”

Ada clasped her hands. “Oh, I admire her greatly. A mentor to me since youth. She is brilliant at math and always greatly supportive of me.”

Another female mathematician? Isabelle didn’t remember her, but if that was the case, assumptions about women in this time held by her contemporaries needed to change.

However, more immediate concerns pushed her. “Ada, can I quiz you now? I’m a historian―”

“Fascinating!”

“—and so I know somewhat of your time and the morals and behavioral codes, though I specialize in early American Southern history. I’ve read lots of novels taking place in your mother’s time period, like those I saw downstairs by Jane Austen.”

“Is she not sublime? She is not altogether popular, but I think her work is such a wonderful depiction of our day-to-day human weaknesses. You have read her novels?”

“Yes, and you’ll be happy to know in the future she’s very popular. Anyway, can you and I role-play common situations I might find myself in? You could tell me if I act appropriately or not. Visiting Lady Huxton today brought home how ignorant I am. I need to fit in.”

“Oooh, this sounds delightful. Initially, you shall manage based on your origins—the
ton
thrive on novelty. However, it will take you only so far. After the initial charm wears off...”

And so Isabelle created scenarios, and Ada got into it as they readied for the party. She envisioned some Isabelle would never have thought she’d find herself in. Her brain felt too crowded with no way to fully pin each new scenario. “Sorry, Ada, do you have paper and a, uh, a quill? So I can take notes?” They didn’t worry about the lady’s maid, for the fact that Isabelle was not from here and needed instruction was not a secret.

“Actually, we have a pen nib.” Ada jumped up, left the room, and returned with a pen. Isabelle took notes.

Many notes.

Phineas circulated among the guests at Lady Huxton’s ball. Soon, he would head to the card room, his usual solace at these gatherings. He never played too deep, but enough to maintain his rakish façade. He paced the small ballroom’s length. Ladies backed up in the wake of his scowl. The ball was certainly shaping up to be a big squeeze, sure to please Lady Huxton, at least, if not himself.

Phineas stopped abruptly, disconcerting the guests nearest him. He had been searching the room. For whom? For what reason? Moreover, his gut had tightened, but why? For tonight he enacted no plans, no schemes to forward his project. No reason, therefore, to account for these feelings. Only a social engagement, for a change.

“There you are, cousin.”

Phineas turned. Miss Byron stood before him, accompanied by her “American cousin.” He looked upon the latter’s face, and the tension in his stomach eased. A pleasant, warm feeling seeped in.

Bloody hell. This was his anxiety’s source? Was he a moon-calf? He bowed to both, hoping the action hid his confusion, among other things.

“Miss Byron, Miss Rochon, a pleasure as always.”

They dipped a curtsey. Phineas availed himself of the few seconds their eyes were downcast and perused Miss Rochon’s form. Green favored her coloring, for certain. Leagues better than the yellow dress she had worn when he called earlier today. Well-shaped, too, ample curves in the right places.
What would it feel like to hold—

“Just the person we wished to see,” said Miss Byron.

“Indeed? I am flattered, to be sure.” He smiled at both, but Miss Rochon avoided his eye, which he was grateful for. If she could read the thoughts he had just entertained, she might very well slap him, and that would be inconvenient.

Marshalling his thoughts and his body’s response, he led them to a small alcove. It was well in sight of the guests for preservation of modesty, and for preservation of privacy, it was ideal.

“Lord Montagu, have you had any luck in finding my silver case?” Miss Rochon’s warm brown eyes finally met his, searching.

Her gaze burrowed within, making a path for her unusual voice, low but feminine, to seep in—his skin tightened all over, his heartbeat thumped in his ears, and he felt exposed, his public mask inadequate to the task of conversing with her.

Ridiculous. He reined in his erratic reaction and forced himself to observe her dispassionately. Her nose was just a tad too long, but it did have an endearing slight upturn—

“Lord Montagu?”

“Pardon me. My mind wandered. How can I assist you?”

“My silver case. Any luck?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“You hired a Bow Street Runner, did you not?”

“Since that was the very thing you specifically requested, I did indeed. However, he has so far proved unsuccessful. Perhaps if you provided me with a more detailed description so he is fully informed, that would help matters.”

“Of course, I can write it down, make a little sketch, if it would help.”

“Indeed it will, Miss Rochon,” he replied with a slight bow. For some odd reason, his blood still pounded through his body, restless, searching, eager.

A gentleman in dire need of replenishing the family coffers, if recent rumors circulating the clubs were accurate, approached tentatively. He begged Miss Byron’s hand for the next set, and they repaired to the dance floor.

An awkward silence bloomed between him and Miss Rochon. Her presence beside him seemed to grow. He glanced at her. She appeared paler than usual, and his heart skipped a beat. He stepped toward her and her intoxicating scent settled over him. “Miss Rochon, are you well?

“Yes, thank you, though this room is very stuffy. I have never been able to get used to that. I think... I think I need some air.”

Phineas tucked her arm within his, completely aware of all the tiny movements that made up the act: their gloved fingers touching, the whisper-scrape of cloth as she curled her hand around his arm, the warmth and weight settling on him at their point of contact. Oh, for her to be gloveless again.

He pulled in a deep breath, blinked once, and slowly put them in motion, escorting her to the terrace off the ballroom. At the marble balustrade, her hand gave a tug and he loosened his hold. And because he was watching her hand leave his body, he was a witness to them shaking when she rested them on the marble railing. After a few deep breaths, she regained her usual color.

His muscles relaxed a fraction.
Thank God.
Fainting females were deuced awkward to handle.

“I am so sorry. It was so stuffy in there. I started to feel a bit dizzy.”

“Do not distress yourself. I found I needed air myself. It is a lovely evening, is it not?”