When the Rogue Returns (9 page)

Good Lord, was
that
why Victor had thought she deserted him? Had he gone to Paris after she’d left? It would have been just like Jacoba and Gerhart to tell him some mean thing about how she didn’t want him anymore.

She raised her chin. Well, she’d waited for him in Paris as long as she could. With the child growing in
her belly, she’d had to act, and she would just point that out to him.
If
indeed he had gone there looking for her. She didn’t trust a word he said. Not after his part in the theft.

“Are you even sure that he’s really your cousin?” she ventured.

“Mother says he is, so he must be.” Rupert cocked his head. “Besides, I know I’ve seen his name somewhere. Probably in the family tree. Or
Debrett’s.
I never forget names, and Victor is an unusual one for an Englishman.”

“Pay me no mind,” she said. “I’m probably wrong about him.” She found the book he wanted and handed it to him.

“I hope you are. Mother wouldn’t like being taken advantage of.”

“I imagine not.” Though Isa suspected Lady Lochlaw could hold her own against fortune hunters, sharpers, and schemers of any kind.

Rupert stared down at the book for a long moment. “I want her to like you,” he said suddenly.

Now, what had brought that on? “It doesn’t matter,” Isa said. “We can be friends whether or not she likes me.”

“Friends,” he mumbled, two spots of color appearing high on his cheeks. “Of course.”

When he continued to stare at the book, she asked, “That
is
the one you wanted, isn’t it?”

He looked up, his eyes oddly filmy. “Yes. Are you sure you can spare it?”

She laughed. “I can’t make heads or tails of it, to be honest. My English is good enough for novels, but understanding a scientific book is beyond me.”

“Then why did you buy it?”

“Because I thought I could glean some knowledge on using chemicals to alter the colors of imitation gems. But he never speaks of that. The book has no practical applications. It’s strictly theory.”

He eyed her askance. “Well, it
is
titled
A New System of Chemical Philosophy
. Philosophy tends to be theoretical.”

She smiled. He could be so very literal. “I know. It was a foolish purchase.” She headed for the hallway.

“You are never foolish,” he murmured as he followed her.

Oh, she’d been foolish many a time. And the worst was when she’d given her heart to the man who’d trampled on it.

But no more. Tonight she would force Victor to admit his purpose in coming here, one way or another.

B
Y THE TIME
Victor arrived at the Theatre Royal, he was fit to chew nails. He’d started his investigation of “Mrs. Franke” at her shop on Princes Street, hoping to speak to her seventy-year-old partner. But the place was apparently closed on Saturdays, which was interesting. Shops closed on Sunday, not on both Saturday
and
Sunday. Not unless they made very good money.

Judging from what those who ran the neighboring shops had to say, that was indeed the case. And apparently the other shopkeepers found Mrs. Franke a fascinating subject for gossip. Some praised her talent as a jeweler. Others commented favorably on her willingness to contribute to charitable causes. A few speculated about her past—whether she was Angus Gordon’s illegitimate granddaughter, why she’d settled in Edinburgh, what battles her soldier husband had fought in.

None of them knew where she lived. Or if she attended church. Or anything about her family, beyond the fact that she was a soldier’s widow. To hear the
denizens of Princes Street tell it, Sofie Franke’s life began when she arrived at her shop in the morning and ended when she left at night.

They did agree on one thing—the Baron Lochlaw was sure to marry her within the year. He visited the shop with great regularity, he spoke of her in glowing terms, and he was often seen trailing after her like a puppy. She would be a fool not to accept any offer he made.

And Mrs. Franke was no fool.

The past rose up to taunt him.
You don’t expect us to believe that your wife, the talented diamond cutter, had nothing to do with the theft of those diamonds. She was no fool, your wife. She left you to pick up the pieces.

Victor gritted his teeth as he entered the theater, an unprepossessing building with only a statue of Shakespeare for adornment on the outside. The very thought of Isa attempting to marry a rich baron made him want to smash a hammer into one of the marble pillars in the theater’s surprisingly lush interior. It wasn’t right that she should be
rewarded
for what she’d done.

And he was going to make damn sure that she wasn’t—even if it meant exposing his own past.

Though the Theatre Royale was nicely fitted out, only thirty or so private boxes lined the walls, probably half of what might be found in a London theater. It took only one word with an usher, and Victor was promptly shown into the Lochlaw box.

Lady Lochlaw rose to greet him with a kiss to each cheek, making sure he got a good glimpse down her
very low-cut gown. Her heavy perfume swirled about his head like steam rising from a harem’s bathing room, but he only had eyes for Isa.

She was standing at the other end of the box under a sconce, perusing a program with the baron. She frowned as the lad tried to explain certain English words.

Lochlaw looked only marginally better dressed than he had earlier. There were no holes in his coat sleeve, but both his cravat and his hair were rumpled, and the creases in his trouser legs had already started to vanish.

But Isa was a goddess in human form. Her hair was ornamented with ostrich feathers and a glittering diadem, probably made of imitation diamonds, though it was no less beautiful for it. If that was an example of her work, it was no wonder she and her partner did well.

Her gown was far simpler than the baroness’s heavily furbelowed one—white taffeta embellished with green piping, short puffy sleeves, and a respectable neckline—but the little it revealed and the way it nipped in at her waist reminded him of the last time he’d taken a gown off of her. Slowly, with the reverence of a hesitant new husband.

Now he wanted to rip it off of her with his teeth. Then cover her soft, pale flesh with his body and explore every inch with his tongue and hands and cock. He wanted to bury his mouth in the enticingly shadowed valley between her breasts, lick his way down her slender belly to the dark brown curls that covered the sweetness below . . . and drive himself inside her until she begged for more.

He fought an erection.

No wonder Lochlaw had stars in his eyes whenever he gazed at her. No wonder Lady Lochlaw saw Isa as a threat.

Just then the baron looked up and spotted him. “Ah, there you are, cousin!”

Lochlaw headed for him but Isa stayed in place, her eyes widening and her mouth flattening into a tight line that he wanted to kiss until it softened.

God, what was wrong with him? She had betrayed him, left him to deal with the authorities alone, to make apologies for
her
wrongdoing. She had left him without one look back.

And all of that melted away when he saw her in that gown.

“Good evening,” he said as Lochlaw reached him. He nodded in Isa’s direction. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Franke.”

She nodded, a flush rising in her cheeks.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” Lochlaw said. “The opera is about to start, and you won’t want to miss the beginning.”

“Opera?” He stifled a groan. “I thought we were seeing some play called
The Iron Chest.
”

“They refer to it as a ‘musical play’ in the program,” Isa said. “But some of the reviews deemed it ‘operatic.’”

Her gaze met his, soft with memory, and he was catapulted back to Amsterdam. Gerhart and Jacoba had dragged them to the opera once. He and Isa had only been able to afford the worst seats, and they’d spent
most of it whispering together, since neither of them had liked the singing. His opinion of opera hadn’t altered since then, despite attending a couple of them with his relations in London.

A bell rang, and Lady Lochlaw took Victor’s arm to lead him to two chairs sitting side by side behind two more. Lochlaw seated Isa in the chair directly in front of the baroness, then took the one in front of Victor for himself.

As the orchestra tuned up, Lady Lochlaw leaned over to Victor to whisper, “You see what I mean about vulgar? That tiara is the height of bad taste; I daresay the diamonds in it aren’t real.”

Judging from Isa’s stiffened back, she’d heard every word.

“I couldn’t tell,” he whispered. “And as I recall, in London many women wear tiaras to the theater.”

Lady Lochlaw sat back with a sniff. A moment went by, during which time the music began. Then she leaned close again. “Clearly she knows nothing about opera. Why, she pronounced the word
aria
as ‘area.’”

Just as he was about to point out that Mrs. Franke wasn’t a native speaker of English, Lochlaw half turned to hiss, “Quiet, Mother. I want to hear the music.”

And that was that.

Thank God, because Victor didn’t think he could tolerate many more of the baroness’s snide comments. But he did understand her reaction. Isa outshone her as a rose did a weed, despite the wealthier woman’s finery and expensive jewels. That had to gall.

The first act of the opera turned out to be not as bad as he expected. For one thing, it had a decent story, with some interesting political notes. And for another, from his vantage point he had a good look of Isa in profile. He could feast his eyes as much as he liked on her glorious hair, her delicate ear, her glowing cheek.

He knew it was foolish to do so, but he let himself dwell on the times he’d kissed her just there, where her pretty neck met her shoulder, or had run his tongue down the hollow of her throat. By the time the first act ended, every part of him ached to touch her.

Bloody idiot—he wasn’t here to take up with his wife again, damn it! He was here for vengeance.

No, not vengeance. Justice. That’s all. He had a right to expect that.

As the interlude began, they all rose.

“How did you like it, Mrs. Franke?” Lady Lochlaw asked, casting Victor a conspiratorial glance. “The contralto’s
aria
was lovely, don’t you think?”

A mischievous gleam shone in Isa’s eyes. “I didn’t really notice. I was too busy admiring the gorgeous necklace she’d purchased from my shop. It sparkled so nicely in the gaslights.”

Lady Lochlaw’s smug smile vanished. “Did it have real gems? Or imitation?”

“You mean you couldn’t
tell
?” Isa asked sweetly. “How odd. I would have thought it obvious to a woman of your discernment.”

The laugh that rose in him unbidden caught Victor by surprise, and he nearly bit his tongue holding it
back. A servant entered just then with a tray of champagne glasses, which was a good thing, since Lady Lochlaw looked fit to be tied. Feeling oddly cheered by that, Victor took a glass. But when the baron handed Isa one, and she smiled up at him engagingly, Victor’s mood suddenly soured.

“So, Mrs. Franke,” he said in a hard voice, “what made you decide to leave the Continent for Scotland?”

She sipped some champagne. “The death of my husband. I wanted to escape the bad memories.”

“Of his death?” he bit out. “Or of your marriage?”

“Both,” she said pointedly.

He gritted his teeth. So that had been an illusion, too. All the time he’d been besotted, she’d been resenting their marriage. Damn her for having hidden it so well.

Lochlaw began to frown, and even her ladyship looked wary, but Victor ignored them. “What was wrong with your marriage? Was he cruel to you? Did he mistreat you?”

“Neither,” she shot back. “He didn’t have to. He just acted as if I were his pet. He never told me anything of himself or his family, never let me see inside him. After he was gone, I realized I never really knew him at all.”

That wasn’t the answer he’d expected, though on that subject at least, she spoke the truth. He’d been afraid that if she learned the dirty secrets of his childhood, she would bolt.

In the end, she’d bolted anyway. “Perhaps you weren’t married long enough to take his measure.”

“Perhaps. But that’s all the more reason I was stunned to learn how much he’d lied to me; how much he’d pretended to be one thing when he was quite another.”

What the devil was she talking about? “You make him sound like a villain,” he growled.

“See here, cousin,” Lochlaw interrupted, “this conversation is becoming very rude.” He cast Isa an uncertain glance. “Don’t you agree?”

“Your cousin is perfectly aware that it is,” Isa said. “But I’m happy to tell him whatever he wishes to know.” Setting her glass down, she came toward Victor. “Still, Mr. Cale, we needn’t bore Rupert and his mother with such nonsense. Perhaps you’d like to take a tour of the theater? I understand there are some very fine statues in the lobby.”

“And I’ll go with you,” Lochlaw broke in with a scowl.

Lady Lochlaw put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “No, you will not.” When he glowered at her, she added, “You can’t leave me here alone, dear boy. What would people think?”