Wicked, My Love (15 page)

“It's quite nice.”

“And you told me that you didn't trust me.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue as he retied her bonnet, securing it tightly under her chin. “Why don't I fetch you around seven o'clock?”

“Shouldn't I see Mrs. Perdita first, perhaps put on something different?”

He waved his hand. “But I adore what y
ou're wearing.”

“That's
not
what you said earlier,” she reminded him. “You said it was merely ‘well enough.'”

“Well enough for my mistress. Perhaps I was taken aback at seeing my old enemy dressed in my ex-l
over's clothes.”

“I know they looked better on her.” She smoothed the skirt. “No doubt your mistresses are the most beautiful ladies in London.”

He didn't respond but studied her with a dark, undecipherable light in his eyes that elicited another cursed tingle.

“It's only for one evening,” she stammered. “Then you can say that you left me and that I pleaded for you not to go in some melodramatic fashion.”

“Very well, you're my mistress for an evening, and then I'll break your heart in a bombastic Gothic manner.” He bowed. “We have a plan. Until seven, then. Try to relax.” He took her hand and kissed it, his lips tickling her skin. If he could just trail that kiss up her arm, maybe detour across her breasts, up her chin, and to her lips.

“Mmmm, good-bye,” she whispered.

He nodded and started to stride away. After a few yards, he turned and walked backward, keeping his gaze fixed on hers. When he reached the corner, he waved and disappeared behind the brown t
own houses.

She remained, staring at the space he'd vacated. A lonely, overwhelming feeling engulfed her, as if she could feel the financial tsunami rolling across the ocean, ready to wash her away. She wanted to run after him, let his presence chase away her fears.

Be
strong
, her father's voice echoed.

She took several long, measured breaths as she walked back to the hotel. In her small room, a young, pale-faced, expressionless servant eased Isabella out of her tight dress and corset. She released a sigh as all her internal and external body parts returned to their normal positions. The servant left, promising to return at six. Isabella curled under the covers. The sheets were cool and clean, the mattress was soft and firm—but the bed didn't have the safety and warmth of Randall's chest. She stared at a
Y
-shaped crack in the ceiling. Outside the window, she could hear muffled chatter and the rattle of passing omnibuses.

She closed her eyes but couldn't rest. She tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. Odd that she could snooze next to Randall on a hard bench in a drafty train station, but not fall asleep in this snug bed. She had always enjoyed being alone, when her mind could unfurl in the quiet. She could turn her problems over, analyze them, rearrange them. Even when her parents had died, when she'd stiffly accepted acquaintances' embraces and words of sympathy, she'd wanted to run away to the solitude of her bedchamber.

But now she didn't want to be alone. She
was scared.

She remembered Randall's eyes catching hers one last time before he disappeared around the block. The press of his lips when he kissed her hand. His kindly voice when he squatted before the suffering children.
Do
you
have
any
parents?
he had asked.

Her throat burned, and tears threatened her eyes.

Be
strong.

She wiped her eyes on the pillow and then slid the hand he had kissed beneath her cheek. After some minutes, her anxious thoughts transformed into an anxious nightmare: Her belly was swollen, filled with a baby ready to be born. She stood at an altar, sneezing, holding some limp daisies, her huge body sheathed in a dingy white wedding gown. Powers and Harker were in the back of the church, fists flying, slamming each other against the choir lofts, both claiming to have fathered her child. Meanwhile, Randall was asleep in the front pew. He was clad in his ugly brown coat over the black formal clothes he'd worn at the ball. The vicar held a watering pot and glared at Isabella. “Have you fornicated with these men? You wicked, wicked courtesan. No wonder your bank is going to fail.”

Randall bolted from his seat. “I didn't fornicate with her. We pretended to fornicate. I could never love her. Just look at her.”

Meanwhile, Judith was in the front row, wailing “They defiled her sacred, pristine vessel.”

Beside her, Mrs. Busby was saying “Don't share unnecessary details.”

And all Isabella could think was that she'd had relations with two men and pretended with another and couldn't even remember it. “I have to check my ledgers,” she told the vicar. “I know I recorded the stock series numbers and price when I fornicated with them. I'm usually very careful about that.” She was mercifully awakened by the returning servant knocking at the door.

Isabella blinked, disoriented. She patted her stomach—it was flat. She wasn't going to have a baby. A strange, empty despair filled her.

She beckoned the maid to enter, slid from the bed, and checked herself in the mirror over the oak commode.
Oh, hang it
. That miserable nap had wreaked havoc on her hair. A tiny braid was loose and flopping on her forehead, and hair shot out from the nice puffs Mrs. Perdita had created. Between the servant and Isabella, they only succeeded in doing more damage when they tried to repair the coiffure.

I
will
insist
that
Randall
let
me
visit
Mrs. Perdita for a few minutes
, Isabella thought as she headed to the lobby, her body once again held in check by tight seams and laced-up stays. If she managed to pull off a financial miracle and save her bank and her own savings, she would steal away Lord Randall's pied-à-
terre housekeeper.

***

Her heart sank when she found the lobby empty except for a clerk sitting behind a desk, snickering over the contents of a book he was reading. She didn't realize she had been anticipating Randall's smile to ease her worries until he wasn't there.

She nodded to the clerk, sat on the edge of the sofa, and picked up one of the ladies' journals that were fanned on the round marble table. She thumbed through pages of poems and sordid short stories. How could other ladies read this useless, numberless rubbish? With her foot tapping, she perused
A
Ladies' Journal of Belle-Lettres
, lifting her eyes at every pedestrian passing the window and then checking the large clock over the fireplace. Where was he? Twice the clerk asked if she required tea or biscuits.

Had she heard Randall incorrectly? Was she supposed to meet him at his flat? At twenty-five past seven, she decided that was the case and rose to go just as a young courier, dressed in old-fashioned green livery, entered, hefting a large box wrapped in white paper tied up in a looping yellow bow. “Miss Izzy May,” he called out. “A package for Miss
Izzy May.”

She raised her hand. “That is me.”

The young man set the package on the table and bowed. “Good evening, miss.” He hurried from
the room.

What
is
this?

She opened the box. Nestled in tissue was a bottle of wine, two canisters of chocolate, a box of marzipan, vanilla soap, Madame Olavera's Secret Turkish Lotion, a toothbrush, tooth powder, a hairbrush, and a copy of
Monthly
Financial
Matters
of
Britain
and
her
Spheres of Influence.

Below all of these was a letter with a gold
R
stamped in wax and the name “Izzy May” written in Randall's elegant hand. She opened the envelope, drew out the folded stationery, and read.

Dearest Beautiful, Brilliant, Pretend
Mistress,

Please consider yourself under my protection. I ask that you enjoy the chocolate and an undisturbed bath. I shall tell you what I learn about Powers.

“That…that…scoundrel!” she cried. “He lied to me!” She stomped across the room. “Do you know where I might find the Golden Tyger?” she inquired of the clerk.

His face pinched, as if she emitted a foul odor. “I'm afraid I do not know the location of such a disreputable gaming h…” He paused, staring down at the half-crown that Isabella had placed on his desk. The coin gleamed in the lamplight. The haughty look melted. “It's in Soho Square.”

“Thank you.” She rushed for the door and then stopped. “Oh, and please take that box up to my room.”

Outside, the night was a deep blue, lit by a swollen full moon sitting on the rooftops and the gold light glowing from windows where families were gathered around tables or in their parlors. Except for the usual coal smoke clogging the skies, the night was clear, the heavy clouds and fog at bay. She reached to hail a hackney and then stopped midwave. Instead, she turned on her heel and hurried down the street, around the corner, passing the identical town houses until she came to number seventeen.

She knocked on the door. Mrs. Perdita opened it. She was in servant gray but had donned a flowery, silken, kimono-like robe over her dull gown. Tiny biscuit crumbs lingered about her unnaturally bright lips.

“Hello, I need to meet Lord Randall at a club tonight.” Isabella leaned in. “I want to give him that special sign you talked about—you know, the one to show just how much I adore him.” She tried not to choke on her words. “But, you see, my hair
has fallen—”

“Stop!” The woman's eyes grew large. “Don't say another word.”

Isabella caught her breath. Had the viscount told his housekeeper the truth? Was her ruse over?

Mrs. Perdita clapped her chubby hands. “I have just the thing that will drive him wild.”

Randall paused on the platform where twin staircases met. He gazed through the haze of smoke to a huge painting of a golden-eyed tiger resting beside a nude woman who stroked his fur. On the walls, the tiger's stuffed brethren were affixed beside decorative maps of India and Africa. Randall's hope faded as he took in the hundreds of men clad in dark clothes, standing about the bars or sitting around tables, cards fanned in their hands, cigars sticking from the sides of their mouths, and lovely ladies in bright silk dangling on their arms.

How was he going to find out anything about Powers here? The man was just another loser, chewed up, spat out, and washed away in the tide of faceless men just like him. Randall was wasting time and energy trying to hold back the inevitable. He wished Isabella were beside him. He closed his eyes and remembered her as he had left her on the street that afternoon, the sunlight shining on her dark hair, reflecting off her thick lenses, and glowing on her soft lips. He couldn't let her down.

By God, he wouldn't give up without a fight.

“I'm looking for an ugly cove who lost a vast amount of money here a couple of months ago,” Randall informed a male servant holding a silver cigar box. “He's shorter than I am, greasy brown hair, vacant brown eyes.” The servant raised a brow, as if to say
You've just described half the guests.

This
is
useless
, Randall thought, but still he trudged on. “The only thing of distinction about the vile bugger is a strange constellation of moles on his jaw.”

The man's eyes lit. “Ah, like the Little Dipper, sir?”

“Exactly. Have you seen such a cur this evening?”

A cloud passed over the young man's features. “No, not tonight.”

Randall drew a crown from his pocket and pressed it into the man's free hand. “When did you last
see him?”

The servant stared at the money, gave it a tiny toss, and then jammed the coin into his pocket. “I would say a few months ago, when he was lushy, losing his shirt at the vingt-et-un table, and making eyes at my best gel, carrying on about some pussycat game. An odd type, that one.”

“Which dealer?”

“Harvey Spinkell.” He nodded to the right. “In the corner. With the long nose and hair over his eyes.” Randall identified such a man; his table was full. That wasn't a concern; he wanted to wait, appear to be a bit foxed when he ambled over to play.

“For you and your best gel, my good man.” Randall tossed another crown to the helpful servant.

He strode down the stairs toward one of the bars. As he folded into the crowd, men began slapping his back and asking why he wasn't at his house party. He winked and replied that he needed a quick bit of London sport and then shared in the men's dark, conspiratorial laughter.

He ordered a brandy, drank it by the edge of the bar, and wondered what Isabella was doing. Probably cursing his name, wishing financial and political poxes on his future. But he couldn't in good gentlemanly conscience have brought her here. Some of the most debauched men and ladies in London infested these waters. But dear Lord, he was going to get an earful later. How should he calm her? He remembered the feel of his mouth on hers, her nipple wet and slippery under his thumb, and her body rubbing against his. He ordered another brandy and slowly sipped it. A smile played on his mouth as he fantasized about making love to her: the slow, teasing foreplay, the act in various positions, the wild, crying out climax, and then holding each other, their bodies drained and sated. Her imagined touch gave him the strength he needed. He set down the empty glass and began to wander toward Spinkell's table.

“Randall,” a fragile female cried.

He had the sensation of ice sliding down his back.
Oh
God, not tonight
. He recognized the timbre and softness in the woman's voice from the times she had whispered her love and devotion as they rolled together under the sheets.

Damnation.
Heaven forbid Randall should come to London for one night and not run into his ex-mistress. He turned. The crowd had formed a semicircle around Cecelia, giving her a stage. She was breathtaking in a shimmering ice-blue gown that matched her large, delicate eyes, which always appeared seconds away from tearing up. Her white-blond hair fell in glossy, perfect rings. He stood staring, waiting for that sinking, melting feeling to engulf his heart as it did whenever she was near—that or the bitter sting of hurt and humiliation as he remembered how she had left him. Nothing came but an odd emptiness.

“Oh, hello,” he said.

She didn't respond but continued to gaze expectantly at him from under her long lashes.

When it was apparent that he had forgotten his lines as the jilted, heartbroken lover, she prompted, “How do I look? Isn't this dress beautiful? I just had it made.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Do you think it makes my waist look huge? I told the modiste that I thought it did. She assured me that it didn't. But how can I trust her?”

“It looks…
well
enough
,” he replied, laughing inside. Plus, he knew better than to get involved in her “do you like this on me” game. Once ensnared, he would have to compliment every tiny detail of
her appearance.

“Well enough!” Cecelia puckered her lips in a sweet pout and flipped a curl. “Harding says it lo
oks wonderful.”

“I believe you've established your preference for Harding and his opinion.” Across the room, a man was leaving the vingt-et-un table where Spinkell dealt. “Good evening, then.” He started to stroll to the vacated space, but Cecelia seized his elbow.

“W-where are you going?” she demanded. Randall blinked. He hadn't heard that tone from her offstage.

“To play cards.” He shrugged. “It's a gaming hell. What else am I going to do?”

She edged closer, looking at him from under her lashes, letting her finger draw little circles on the back of his hand. “I—I miss you, Randall. I think of you all the time.” She reached up and smoothed a fold in his cravat. “I think I made a mistake.”

Oh hell, a man had beaten Randall to the empty chair at Spinkell's table.

“What!” He removed her roving fingers from his person. Strange how the touch that once excited him now turned him cold.

“I said I made a mistake,” she repeated, her eyes moistening with tears. “A terrible mistake. George has friends at
The
Examiner
and the other papers. You know
The
Examiner
never reviewed me. Not once. He said he would talk to them, but he didn't.”

Her lips lifted in a sweet, quivering smile that not so long ago would have had him leading her to the door and making love in his carriage on the way back to his flat. He realized in the play that constantly ran in her head, this was the climactic moment when he was supposed to fall on his knees and admit how much he missed her and couldn't live without her. And maybe a few weeks ago he might have performed an abridged version of the scene.

“You left me—you betrayed me—when I needed you the most,” he said, in a low serious voice. “I want something more than you can give.”

“You found another lady!” Cecelia cried. The entire club turned in their direction, the conversations hushing. “She can't be as pretty as I am. She can't. I am pretty, aren't I? All the reviews say I'm lovely, even the bad ones.” She began to quote, “‘Her arresting beauty overshadowed her melodramatic, hammering performance, which lacked the needed nuance and subtlety required of the intellectually demandi
ng role.'”

What had he ever seen in this woman?

“Actually, I have met someone,” he retorted. “Or should I say, I've come to know someone better. She is brilliant, funny, and unaffected. I can't stop thinking about her—and trust me, I try hard not to.” Maybe he wanted to hurt Cecelia as she had hurt him—or maybe he just needed to say the words. He desired a woman he could never have unless he planned to commit social and political suicide.

“Who is she?” Cecelia screamed.

“I'm sorry, but I no longer—oh, hell!” Another man was leaving Spinkell's table. Randall shot across the room with the tenacious Cecelia at his heels.

“You still want me. You know you do!”

“Mind if I join you fine gentlemen for a congenial game of cards?” Randall asked, trying to appear as if he had casually ambled over despite the hysterical actress clinging to him.

“I want you back,” she cried. “I'm throwing myself at you.”

“No, you're attaching yourself to me. Please let go.” To his dismay, Cecelia lingered on, her tiny fingers wound around his elbow as if she had claimed him.

Spinkell bowed and gestured to the vacant chair. Up close, Randall could see sharp, watchful eyes below the dealer's floppy hair. Their coldness was mitigated by a sullen, boyish mouth and soft chin. He looked over Randall's shoulder, and his face made a subtle change, a tightening around the lips and eyes. The crowd took a collective intake of breath and turned silent.

“Trying to take Cecelia back from me?” a familiar baritone asked, and then broke into a low, easy laugh.

Randall pivoted. Harding, flanked by his three flash men, waited in dark evening clothes. Across his silk scarlet waistcoat, he wore a gold poppy watch chain—a remembrance of the man's younger years spent running opium between India and China. The chandelier light overhead glowed on his bald head, and accentuated his chiseled face and intense eyes. “Are you not content with any of those sweet flowers your parents invited to their house party? Come h
ere, Cecelia.”

“I prefer to remain.” She drew up, her body and face assuming the dramatic role of wronged but de
fiant lover.

A low whistle ran through the club.

Dammit.
This evening was supposed to be Randall talking to Spinkell and then going back to Isabella, getting slapped, telling her what the dealer had said, and then fighting the urge to seduce her enough to glimpse those stunning breasts again. That was all. Now Randall found himself taking Cecelia's hand and slowly kissing it, while keeping his eyes trained on Harding.

“Seems she wants to stay with me, old boy,” Randall purred. “Something about satisfaction in the bedchamber. Sorry, but you should know by now that you don't always get what you want.”

“I love him, George,” Cecelia cried, then broke into dramatic sobs on Randall's chest, but taking a small peek to see how her performance was affecting her audience.

“What can I do, old boy?” Randall opened his palms. “She loves me.”

Harding's slash-like brows slanted, the side of his mouth slightly hitched. While every other man in the club might be intimidated, Randall stood his ground.
Make
a
move, Harding.
Just a slight motion, a tiny jab, and Randall would relish unleashing the mountain of anger and tension from pent-up desire packed in his muscles.

After a long pause, Harding tossed his head back and laughed again, long, deep, and calculating. “Well, never let it be said that I would stand between true lovers. I'll tell you what. I'm bored tonight, so let's play for her. One hand. Between the two of us, the closest to twenty-one wins the lady.”

What?
Randall just wanted to give a few nasty jabs to Harding's gut, not truly get Cecelia back.

“You can't bet me like…like…money,” the actress wept. “As if I were nothing.” She clutched Randall's lapel, tears streaming from her eyes. “Don't let him win, Randall. I would rather die than let him touch me,” she cried in her stage voice. She buried her face in his coat and wept.

“Sorry, the table is full,” Randall told Harding, trying to get out of the wager on a technicality.

The railroad man put his hands on the shoulders of the elderly men playing at the end. “Boys, why don't you take these kind gentlemen over to the bar, give them as many drinks as they want. On me.” The graying men knew better than to protest, and hurriedly scooped up their meager winnings and followed Harding's minions across the room.

Harding took both the empty seats, draping his arm over the vacant chair at the end. “I'm feeling rather lucky this evening.”

“I can't watch,” Cecelia cried, still buried in Randall's coat. “I can't bear it.”

“That's well and all, darling,” Randall said, “but I need to sit down to see the cards.”

The actress sucked in a deep breath, composing herself, and stepped back. “I shall be strong for you.”

“Thank you.” Randall released an annoyed exhale and sat down between Harding and the poor chaps remaining at the table. If Randall managed to get out of here tonight, he might just give in to that urge to seduce Isabella and treat himself to those breasts. Provided, of course, he didn't have his ex-mistress
in tow.

Harding gestured to the dealer. “Let's begin.”

Spinkell slid a card across the table. Randall lifted its edge: the queen of hearts.

And then it happened again—the collective inhalation and hush. A shiver crawled up his spine, raising the hair on his neck when he heard Cecelia screech, “Who is
she
?”

Before he even raised his head, Randall knew Isabella was near.

She stood on the landing, gazing down at the club, a ravishing vision in a red silk gown. Her hair was pulled from her face, and cascaded from the top of her head, winding down her neck and falling about her creamy, pushed up bosom. A tiny net of diamond-like gems dotted her hair and fell in a
V
on her forehead. She wasn't wearing those spectacles which concealed her face; instead, the chandelier light poured onto her bare face, accented the contours of her plush lips, stunning cheekbones, and lashed gray eyes that lifted exotically at the edges.