When the Rogue Returns (11 page)

“She seems lovely,” Victor said through gritted teeth.
She’s my wife, damn it! Keep your bloody hands off of her!
But he couldn’t stake his claim to her publicly yet. Not until he figured out what she was up to. The last thing he needed was her trying to paint
him
as the thief.

Caution was the best course of action, yet he had this visceral need to proclaim her his wife. Especially
after last night’s kiss, when she’d melted in his arms, reminding him of how they’d once been.

Of how
she’d
once been, generous with her soft, sweet kisses and easy acceptance of who he was. Though in truth, she hadn’t really known who he was back then. After the war, he’d been so eager to calm the heavy turmoil in his soul that he’d seized on her as his oasis. Instead, she’d proved to be his Waterloo. And he’d never been the same.

Lochlaw was watching him. “Mrs. Franke
is
lovely.” But he said it as if it were a curse.

Very curious. Might as well find out about the baron’s feelings for Isa while the lad was willing to talk. “Your mother worries that you mean to marry her.”

“And what if I do?” Lochlaw said with sudden belligerence. “Mother has no say in it. I’m the baron. I can do as I wish.”

“So, is that what you wish?” Victor’s gut clenched. “To marry Mrs. Franke?”

“She’s the only woman who’s ever really been nice to me. And since I have to marry to sire an heir . . .” A look of despair crossed Lochlaw’s face. “But even if I did wish to marry her, she would never have me.”

Oddly enough, the young man’s woeful expression tugged at Victor’s sympathies. He remembered all too well the torment he’d suffered working himself up to ask for Isa’s hand, sure that she would see only a worthless soldier with no fortune, no family, and no permanent position to commend him.

“You’re a man of wealth and high rank,” he pointed out. “She’d be a fool not to have you.”

Lochlaw shook his head. “She doesn’t care about all that.”

“Trust me,” Victor said cynically, “every woman cares about all that.”

“Not
her
.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve spent most of my life with a woman who
does
care. Mother rates flowers by their cost. Roses are ‘splendid’; daisies are ‘cheap.’ A man who drives a phaeton or a cabriolet is ‘important’; a man who drives a curricle is ‘unfashionable.’”

Which was probably why Lochlaw drove one.

“But Mrs. Franke rates flowers by color, which makes more sense. She likes hydrangeas and violets because they’re purple. She doesn’t care about carriages, because she likes to walk.”

Victor was growing annoyed that the lad knew so much about Isa’s likes. Though he hadn’t mentioned dahlias. Those were her favorites. Victor definitely remembered that.

Then Lochlaw added, “And she prefers red oxide of lead to white.”

“Red oxide of
what
?”

“Lead. It’s a chemical she uses in her work. She says it’s very pretty.” Lochlaw sighed. “But when I brought her some as a gift, she merely said thank you and acted as if it meant nothing.”

“You brought her red oxide of lead instead of hydrangeas?” Victor said incredulously.

“Why would I bring her hydrangeas? They weren’t
in season.” Lochlaw blinked. “Oh, Lord, should I have brought her hydrangeas? Or perhaps some walking shoes? I don’t know where to get walking shoes for ladies. I suppose at a cobbler, but—”

“Don’t bring her walking shoes,” Victor snapped. “Trust me on that one.”

That deflated poor Lochlaw. “I’m not good with women. They’re like foreign creatures to me, even Mother.”

“Ah, lad,” Victor said dryly, “every man the world over thinks the same. But we all muddle through somehow.”

Lochlaw gazed at him beseechingly. “You’re older and know more. Will you help me court Mrs. Franke?”

Victor’s reaction was instant, raw, and fierce. “Absolutely not.”

Lochlaw looked wounded. “Why?”

Because she’s mine!
“Because every man has to find his own way with a woman.” He choked down anger. “And I barely know her.”

That had begun to seem very true.

God, he couldn’t take another minute of this. He changed the subject, and as soon as he could politely make his escape, he did.

He spent that night in restless dreams, plagued by memories he’d banished years ago. Now he dredged through them, trying to find the Isa he used to know, before he’d erected a replica of her to throw stones at. As always, she eluded him.

So, the next morning he entered the shop on Princes
Street as soon as it opened. Inside, it looked much like the one where he’d served as night guard, with glass cases flanking the sides and a door set in the back wall that probably led to the work areas.

But this shop had some feminine touches: paintings of laughing ladies dripping with gems, black velvet in the cases, a nicely upholstered settee. And vases of purple dahlias. He smiled. Clearly Isa had laid her hand on the place.

As he entered, he was greeted by a dapper old man wearing a natty wool coat, a waistcoat of figured silk, and a pair of trousers that Victor’s ducal cousin wouldn’t be ashamed to don.

Isa’s partner? He had to be.

“Good morning, sir,” the shopkeeper asked. “May I help you?”

“Actually, I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Franke.”

“She’s not here today, I’m afraid.”

Victor’s blood began to pound in his ears. Surely she hadn’t fled, damn her.

“I’m her partner, Angus Gordon,” the old man went on. “Perhaps there is something
I
could help you with?”

“It’s a personal matter, actually,” Victor snapped. “Where is she?”

“She’ll be back tomorrow,” Gordon said blandly. “Perhaps you should return then.”

“Back?” She really
had
fled. “Did she leave town?” he demanded, throwing caution to the winds. “Where did she go? Why?”

Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “And who might you be?”

Victor forced himself to calm down. He would get nowhere by antagonizing the man. Time to change tacks, and soothe Gordon’s suspicions.

Somehow he managed a smile. “I’m Victor Cale, cousin to the Baron Lochlaw.” Lochlaw was a popular figure around here. “Since Mrs. Franke isn’t here to answer my questions, perhaps I could speak with you about her?”

“Ah, yes. The Lochlaws’ cousin. I’ve been hearing about you.” Gordon looked him up and down, dissecting him with a thoroughness generally reserved for dead frogs. “You roused quite a flurry of gossip with all your questioning of the shopkeepers on Saturday.”

“I’m merely concerned about his lordship’s future. I want to know what sort of woman he has taken up with.”

“And of course your interest is purely selfless, borne of naught but your concern for the baron,” Gordon said with a faint Scottish brogue.

Victor ignored the dollop of acid in it. “Exactly.”

Gordon stared hard at him. Then he shouted, “Mary Grace!” and a slender young woman hurried into the shop through the door in the back. “Could you watch the front for a while, lassie? I’ve business to conduct with this gentleman.”

“Certainly, Uncle,” she mumbled into her chest, which wasn’t hard to do, since she stood hunched over as if afraid someone might see her freckled face. She was also doing her best to hide her flaming red hair, for it was scraped up beneath a mobcap, with only a few curls peeking out to betray its color.

As Gordon led Victor into the back, which did indeed prove to be a sort of workshop, he murmured, “Mary Grace is my brother’s granddaughter. She comes to the shop to get away from her plague of a mother, who’s always going on about her making a splash in good society.”

They passed through a labyrinth of locked cabinets and worktables, skirted a large furnace, and finally entered a cozy little room containing a leather-topped mahogany partner’s desk with brass fittings, two Windsor chairs on either side of the desk, a large cabinet, and a small fireplace.

Gordon closed the door, then gestured to one of the chairs. As Victor took a seat, the man went to stoke up the fire. From behind, Gordon resembled a priest with a tonsure, his gray curls surrounding a circlet of shiny bald pate.

“So,” the old fellow said, “you want to know about Mrs. Franke.”

“I understand that she and the baron have a . . . more than friendly relationship.”

“Humph.” Gordon sat in the chair opposite the desk from Victor. “You’ve been talking to his lordship’s mother.”

“What makes you think that?” As Tristan was fond of saying,
Answer a question with a question if you don’t want to answer with the truth.

“Her ladyship is obsessed with getting the poor man out of Mrs. Franke’s so-called clutches. Don’t know
why. Mrs. Franke is a fine lass. The young baron would be lucky to have her.”

“But would she be lucky to have
him
?” Victor countered, before he caught himself.

“Why should you care?”

Victor suppressed a curse, aware of the old man’s gaze on him.
Steady now, you dolt. Stop letting your emotions rule your head.
“I don’t. But I confess I was wondering what she could possibly see in the man. Aside from the obvious.”

“The obvious?” Gordon asked.

“His title. His fortune. His connections.”

“Ah.” Gordon’s gaze chilled, though when he spoke again, his tone was mild. “How well do you know Mrs. Franke?”

“I just met her yesterday.” That was certainly true. “Mrs. Franke” hadn’t existed for him until then.

“Then I should correct the impression of her that Lady Lochlaw has obviously given you. Mrs. Franke doesn’t care about title, fortune, or connections.”

Was every man who knew Isa completely smitten? Why did they all see her as such a saint, when she most certainly was not?

“Then what
does
she care about?” Victor snapped.

“Her—” Gordon paused. “Her work.”

Victor had a sneaking suspicion that the man had started to say something else. “You mean, her work making fake jewels.”

The Scotsman glared at him. “I mean, her work
designing beautiful jewelry, and attempting with every new creation to surpass the last.”

Victor flashed on a memory of Isa bent over a table in the jeweler’s shop in Amsterdam, her eyes alight as she manipulated tiny diamonds into an intricate brooch. Through the years he’d imbued that enraptured look with a certain greed, part of his way of explaining to himself how she could have chosen a set of royal jewels over him.

But had there really been any greed in her face? Or had that just been his rewriting of the past? “Isn’t it odd for a woman to be satisfied with work alone?”

“Not when the woman is extraordinarily talented, no. Have you seen an example of her work?”

Even now, Victor remembered how lovely the imitation royal parure had been, so perfect that until the palace had forced the jeweler to make a closer examination of it, the man had missed that it was a fake. “Yes, I have.”

That seemed to take Gordon off guard. “Oh? When?”

“Last night at the theater,” Victor said swiftly. “Mrs. Franke told us that she had designed the necklace worn by the opera singer.”

Gordon’s face cleared. “Ah, yes. A beautiful piece.”

“The tiara Mrs. Franke wore was her own work, too, I presume.”

“It was.” Gordon stared hard at Victor. “Why do you think I took her on? When she came to my shop to beg that I hire her, she brought a ruby ring left to her by her family. She’d refashioned it, using the most amazing im
itation diamonds I’d ever seen. It was exquisite. I hired her as an apprentice on the strength of that ring alone.”

“I gather from what Lady Lochlaw said that she’s from the Continent. How did she end up in Scotland?”

Gordon looked confused. “You misunderstand. I didn’t hire her
here.
She traveled with me to Edinburgh after I hired her in Paris.”

That flummoxed Victor. She’d stolen a fortune in diamonds, and then gone begging for a position from Gordon? That made no sense.

And if she’d been trying to escape being captured, why not just pay for her passage with the proceeds from the theft?

“Why was she seeking work with you?”

“Why do you think?” Gordon said testily. “She had to live somehow. After her husband died in the army, she was left destitute.” He scowled. “I suppose you’re one of those who think a woman is better off starving than going into trade.”

“Not at all,” Victor said, trying to find his way in this increasingly odd conversation. “I’m just surprised that you would hire a woman you barely knew and pay for her passage to Scotland, merely so she could work for you as an apprentice.”

Gordon sat up straight. “What the devil are you implying? That I had some other motive in hiring her? That I took advantage of the woman? That I’m some lecher who—”

“No, forgive me,” Victor said hastily. The Scot was quick to take insult. “I’m saying this badly. But jewelers
do tend to be circumspect about whom they hire. It was kind of you to take on a widow about whom you knew so little.”

The man’s glare faded a bit. “Well,” he grumbled, “I needed an apprentice. She needed a position. There weren’t many Frenchmen who wished to travel to Scotland.”

“So you were in a bit of a pickle. Perfectly understandable.” He chose his words carefully. “Did your wife mind that you were hiring a woman?”

A shadow crossed Gordon’s face. “She’s dead,” he said softly. “That’s why I came here. After my French wife was gone, there was no reason to stay in Paris. I missed my home.”

And Isa might have offered to share a few of the diamonds with Gordon if he helped her start a new life.

But then why go through the nonsense about being his apprentice? Why not just live off of the money from the jewels? Or steal more? Victor was missing something in all this. He just didn’t know what.

Gordon was staring at him now. “Her ladyship put you up to finding out about Mrs. Franke, didn’t she?”

Victor tensed. “You can’t blame her for worrying about her son. By your own account, you took in a stranger without knowing a thing about her except the tale she spun about her soldier husband. How can you be sure that she didn’t come to you simply because she needed to leave Paris quickly? Because, perhaps, she’d been using her ability for creating imitation diamonds in some criminal pursuit?”