Wicked, My Love (22 page)

Randall chortled in sympathy, encouraging her to continue talking.

“I thought I was doing the right thing.” She stared at an empty spot on the wall between a buffalo head and an old blunderbuss. “I learned to dance, sew samplers, and sing. I tried so hard to do everything perfectly. I even won an award in ladies' seminary: the superlative young lady of the year. My parents were so proud. When I was sixteen, they told me that I must marry Mr. Merckler, that he was rich and would take care of me. They said I would forget about J-Jonathon.” She turned silent for a beat. “But memories don't fade. They just grow stronger and more painful.”

A cold shiver flowed down Randall's back as if her words were meant for him. He realized what happened last night wasn't going to fade away silently. No matter whom he married or how far his ambition took him, he would spend his last moments on his deathbed remembering Isabella's vulnerable face when she had whispered,
I
never
thought
it
would
be
you. Never in a million years
.

“Mrs. Merckler, these numbers that Mr. Quimby gave you,” Isabella said from the bureau. Her hard business tone broke into his sad ruminations. “Do you remember any of them? Did he say something about quarterly profit?”

“He said we didn't make a profit last quarter,” she replied. “There weren't enough orders and he had to let workers go.”

Isabella tapped her finger on the ledger's cover. “In the quarter before your husband's death, he turned the lowest profit of his last five years. A mere one hundred and fifteen pounds. That was down almost eighty-
two percent.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Merckler said. “I don't understand. He was wonderful at business. What happened?”

“Nothing unusual,” Isabella replied. “He had retooled his factory. Before he died, he had some significant pending orders from the Hull and Leeds Railroad Company and another from the Great Southern Railroad Company.” Isabella waved a missive. “This letter was wedged between the pages. It concerns partnering with the Great Southern Railroad Company. What became of those orders or this potential partnership?”

All
George
Harding's rivals,
Randall thought.
Bloody hell.

“I don't know.” Mrs. Merckler pounded the sofa cushion with her tiny fist. “I was too busy knitting him stupid slippers.”

“How long has Mr. Quimby been the manager?” Isabella asked.

“Just after my husband's death. The old manager, a dear man, said the board had released him and given his position to Mr. Quimby.”

“Did anyone at all consult you about the replacing of the manager?” Isabella asked, her voice becoming sharp and heated. “In the ledger, your husband listed all the shareholders. You own forty-five percent of the company. You have a say in how the business is run.”

Mrs. Merckler shook her head, her blond curls slapping her cheeks. “They taught me how to make a pretty French knot, not how to run a factory. I'm useless. I don't know what I'm doing.”

“No, no, Mrs. Merckler, that's not true,” Randall said, patting the woman's wrist. “Perhaps you could be a little more gentle, Isabella,” he said, trying to sound pleasant while heavily emphasizing the “more” and “gentle” part. But she was in another world filled with cold logic, quarterly profits, and whatever else ticked in the clockwork of her brain.

“Do you know if a Mr. Anthony Powers called shortly after your husband's death,” Isabella asked, closing the ledger and returning it to the correct place on the shelf. “He's a bachelor, rather handsome a
nd eloquent—”

“He's about as eloquent as my big toe and a good deal uglier,” Randall interjected. “He is prawn-like, and his eyes—”

“No unmarried man has visited me except for you,” Mrs. Merckler answered in a flat voice that left no room for doubt. “And you're hopelessly smitten. I would have remembered a young marriage prospect, prawn-like or not. Marriage is my only way out of this messy predicament.”

“No, it's not,” Isabella disagreed. “You have a factory that is modernized in a country that's railroad mad. Someone is purposely deceiving you.”

“W-what?” Mrs. Merckler's gaze darted between Isabella and Randall. She paused, her lips forming an
O
. “What is happening here?” she asked slowly.

“Mrs. Merckler,” Randall began, “I fear we haven't been entirely honest with you. My real name is Lord Randall and this is…” Isabella's eyes grew wide. “Isabella St. Vincent, author of
From
Poor
to
Prosperous
. We are bank partners at the Bank of Lord Hazelwood.”

“What…” The widow leaped to her feet and approached Isabella, her head cocked, eyes suspicious. “You're really Miss St. Vincent?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Isabella bit the edge of her lip. “Well, we, I mean, I… So there was a gentleman and he…well…” Randall was ready to break in when Isabella stiffened her spine. “I'm afraid someone has been circulating false stock in your company, and my bank may have bought it.”

Mrs. Merckler's shoulders began to quake. “Oh God. Oh God. I can't take any…any more. I just can't! Where is that damned sherry!”

Randall shot around the sofa. “Now, Mrs. Merckler, just sit down and take deep, calming breaths.”

“Don't get emotional,” Isabella supplied.

“You've got to help me.” The widow grabbed Isabella's hands. “I don't know what to do.”

“I promise I will. I promise… Well, unless I end up in the poorhouse.”

“What!” Mrs. Merckler screamed, tears bursting from her eyes.

“Forget I said that,” Isabella cried. “I didn't mean it. It just popped out.”

“Isabella is awful about saying random scary things,” Randall assured Mrs. Merckler. “They edited those parts out of her book. Just take us to your factory.”

They waited for Mrs. Merckler on the front lawn, where the dogs still lay in the tall grass. For a moment, Isabella thought they were dead, but then one wagged the tip of its tail.

“I can't believe you,” she snapped at Randall. “Your fiancée? That was perfectly horrid of you.”

“We were quite convincing, darling. She immediately recognized that you weren't whole without me.”

“And you're hopelessly smitten with me,” she retorted, and rubbed her finger over the list of Merckler Metalworks shareholders that the widow let her have. “Can I really help her? I haven't managed a factory since those few months before my father died.”

He drew away a stray lock of hair that blew across her nose. “Isabella, as your greatest enemy, you must believe me when I tell you that I have complete faith in you.”

She gazed at him, his vivid blue eyes contrasted with the heavy, dull gray sky. The wind ruffled his cravat and the blond strands under his hat. She should say something biting to further distance him, but she couldn't summon her defenses. Instead, she whispered, “Thank you.” They didn't speak again, but looked at each other, the space between them filled with unspoken, flailing words. Enemies, friends, lovers, business partners—their relationship was as tangled as a ball of yarn after her cat, Milton, had batted it around the house for a month.

Mrs. Merckler exited the house with a cape and an umbrella. The dogs shot to attention and bolted to her side. Isabella stuffed the shareholder list into her corset, and she and Randall followed the woman and hounds down the street lined with pastel town houses, and then along a canal. The heavy sky reflected in the water, and ducks shot across the surface. The beautiful countryside reminded her of home. She had only been away three days, but it seemed like weeks.

What would her life be like when she returned? Would she be selling her home to pay off debt and worrying about how to survive? If not, she would save the bank only to continue living near Randall, pretending that last night hadn't happened. When he finally popped the question to the right Tory daughter, would Isabella have the strength not to scratch the woman's eyes out at the wedding ceremony or wish that their beautiful babies were hers?

The metalworks factory stood beside the canal. She had expected to hear machines booming across the water, but the low brick building with dirty windows was eerily silent. They entered into a hall, the cream walls decorated with wainscoting and mechanical illustrations. The scent of oil, metal, sweat, and heat wafted down the corridor. She found this plain, masculine setting comforting. She remembered being a little girl, sitting on that old blanket her mama had laid out on the factory floor. Isabella had played whist with her dolls amid the rumble and pounding of her papa's machines.

Mrs. Merckler knocked on a door. “Mr. Quimby,” she said, her voice soft and hesitant. After waiting several long moments, she knocked again. “Mr. Quimby?” She waited about half a minute and then turned. “I'm sorry, he seems to be—”

The door opened and a muscular, broad-shouldered man strolled out. He sported a headful of oily, black curls and sideburns on his wide face. Dark stubble peppered his jaw and chin. His blue coat was wrinkled, and his belly strained the bottom button of his waistcoat. He studied them with frank, dark brown eyes, his mouth twisting into a juicy smirk. The office behind him measured no more than ten by four feet. It wouldn't have taken him but a few seconds, not an entire minute, to get up and open the door.

He only said “yes” as a way of greeting the majority shareholder of the factory. Isabella's father would have upbraided him on the spot.

Mrs. Merckler began to make the introductions. “May I present—”

“Mr. Randy,” the viscount interjected. A silent, hostile communication passed between the men when their hands met. Isabella didn't know what was not said, but she felt an uneasy twinge in her gut. Randall didn't introduce her.

“Mr. Randy is interested in touring the factory,” Mrs. Merckler explained. “He has some ideas how to generate profit.”

“I'm rather busy today,” Quimby said.

With
what?
Isabella thought.
Drinking
the
dark
spirits
from
the
jar
on
your
desk
and
reading
the
caricatures
in
the
latest
penny
journal?
“Mr. Quimby,” she began. Her own voice shocked her, the deep power which sounded so much like her papa's. “The majority shareholder of your factory just told you to give us a tour. If you haven't the time, I'll be glad to supply her with a list of competent, respectful managers to replace you.”

The man's eyes turned black with his glower. Randall placed a hand on her arm, trying to draw her back, but Isabella would not be cowed. She stood
her ground.

“Very well,” the manager conceded with a smirk. He gestured to a set of double doors at the end of
the hall.

They entered a large, flat, unventilated area. The belts running along the walls and across the room were still. Shiny new machinery sat about, most unused, some of it even covered with blankets. The windows in the ceiling were closed, coated in dust, letting no light in and keeping the same dust-laden, acrid air trapped. Isabella's eyes burned, and she pressed her hand on her chest, laboring to breathe. Slender adolescent boys stood about tables, hammering metal into submission. Their skin glistened with perspiration and was streaked with grease. In the corner, blackened children, no more than eight years old, shoveled coal into the mouth of a blazing furnace. Isabella didn't see any adult supervising the work.

“How old are those children?” Randall demanded, his lips thinned and tight.

Quimby shrugged. “I don't know.”

“No child under nine is allowed to work,” Randall said.

“Well then, they're nine,” Quimby said, and spat on the floor.

Randall crossed to the table where the boys pounded metal with mallets. “How long do you work a day?” he asked the young workers.

The boys glanced at each other and shrugged. “From dark to dark, sir,” one answered with an Iri
sh lilt.

“From dark to dark?” Randall repeated.

Isabella watched the tendons in Randall's neck bulge as he approached the manager. She had an awful dropping sensation in her belly, knowing that something terrible was about to happen. She had spent most of her life plotting ways to make Randall angry, but she had never seen him so enraged.

“Last year, a hard-fought law was passed in Parliament limiting the labor of children between the ages of nine and thirteen to nine hours a day,” he shouted at Mr. Quimby. “These boys aren't workers; they're slaves.”

“Come,” she said, terrified Randall was going to hit the manager, who was the bigger, thicker man. “There are other ways to deal with this matter.”

“Mr. Quimby, is this true?” Mrs. Merckler demanded.

“You have an issue, then tell it to Parliament,” Quimby said in that slow, chewy way that he talked. “They repealed the Corn Laws, so now those lazy, potato-eating Irish don't think they have to get off their lazy arses to work.”

Isabella gasped. “
I
am half-Irish.”

The manager eyed her, his jaw working. “Like I said.” The edge of his mouth lifted in a sneer which Randall's fist knocked off his face.

“No!” Isabella shouted.

The factory manager fell like a stone, and Randall pressed his heel into Quimby's throat. “The Irish are starving,” Randall hissed. “They're dying by the thousands. You will apologize to the lady.”

Quimby spat on Randall's trousers.

“Mr. Quimby!” Mrs. Merckler cried.

The viscount pressed harder, until Quimby was making raspy choking sounds and clawing at Rand
all's leg.

“I said apologize,” Randall repeated, his voice low and hard.

“I'm sorry,” Quimby choked, gripping Randall's ankle.

“I've seen enough.” Randall withdrew his foot. He grabbed Isabella's hand and pulled her away.

“I didn't know,” Mrs. Merckler cried behind them, tears streaming down her face. “I didn't know. I promise.”

Isabella couldn't stop to talk to her. Randall held her wrist so tightly that it hurt. She could feel his anger coursing through him. He was muttering terrible curses as he marched her through the double doors and back to the entrance.

“I will send you the names of competent managers very shortly,” she called over her shoulder to Mrs. Merckler. “We can talk about what you can do. I promise, I'll help.”

Randall marched her out the entrance and down the lane running by the canal, away from the village. He stared straight ahead, his jaw set. She had never seen this side of him—primitive and violent. If Quimby hadn't apologized, Randall might easily have killed him. He released her hand, strode to the bank, and stared into the drifting water.

She felt useless. She didn't know what to say to calm him. He was the one who always knew the soothing, right words, not her. But she had to do something. “I have to think that Quimby was—”

“I am not some mindless, handsome, silver-tongued pawn that people can play with.” He kept his back t
o her.

She rested a tentative hand on his taut shoulder.
“I know.”

“Yes, I like power. Yes, I am vain. Yes, I want everyone to love me. I possess a whole host of deficiencies that you have long pointed out.” He turned and gazed at her. His eyes were tensed and vulnerable and broke her heart. “But I put my entire career in jeopardy to stop the things I just witnessed.”

“Oh, Randall.” She smoothed his cravat. “You're not those things.” In fact, the Randall she thought she knew had begun crumbling away about seventy-two hours ago. Before her was a different man: smart, passionate, complex, confusing, and dangerous. She desperately wanted the right words, something that would soothe his hurt.

“Why the hell do I even try?” He flung up his arms. “The people I help can't vote. They don't matter as far as politics are concerned. You want to stay in power, you have to give railroads away to scoundrels like Harding. You must marry for connections an
d influence.”

He slumped onto a bench, his back hunched, his head down. No, this wasn't beautiful, confident Lord Randall. She couldn't let him feel so defeated. She sat beside him, taking his hand into her lap. “One day you will be an earl. You don't have to do anything. You already have power.”

“And that's the issue,” he said quietly. “I want to be a true politician who rises on his own merit, not his family name. I want to be adored at the same time that I want to be my own man. I want to be a powerful Tory, but I don't want to alter my opinions that go against my party's position.” He raked his hands down his face and closed his eyes. “Pardon me. I'm having a little difficulty figuring out who I am at the present.”

“I think I'm having the same problem,” she cried. “Figuring you out, that is. But I can never figure out anyone. That is what you do—see inside them and understand them. That's why you're a good politician. You have these doubts because you can break apart everything, everyone, including yourself. You understand this enormous world. You're brilliant, Lord Randall.”

He raised her hand to kiss her fingers and then brushed his cheek on her knuckles. It felt so wonderful to feel his intimate touch again. The last few hours had been awful.

“And what do you do, fair Isabella?” he whispered. “What kind of magic happens in your enigm
atic mind?”

“Magic?” She laughed. The only thing she understood were numbers, supply and demand, calculated interest, stock prices—things that were quantifiable. “I have to believe that manager was intentionally placed there to make the company fail,” she said, because it was the only thing she really knew at the moment. What else? There were ducks swimming down the canal, there was a sun somewhere behind those heavy clouds, and she had fallen in love with a man she could never have. “A huge power exists in the shadows with enough influence over the Merckler Metalworks board, but it keeps its tracks covered.”

Randall laughed and tossed back his head. “I wonder who it is?”

“Probably George H—”

He placed his finger over her lips. “I know,” he said softly. “I was being sarcastic.”

Her throat burned with embarrassment. She gave up trying to say the right thing or understanding this man. She was hopeless.

“Isabella, I know you don't want to talk about last night and that you really don't like me, but kiss me. Please. I need you to kiss me.”

His lips descended on hers, her hands rose up his back, pulling him closer. She let her body tell him everything she couldn't. She didn't care if anyone passing saw them. She was comforting a brave man who battled to keep children from slave labor, helped strike down Corn Laws to relieve the poor, and had just fought a man who had insulted her mama's Irish heritage. She followed his motion, giving him what he wanted, losing track of place and time until splats of rain fell from the skies.

***

Randall tried to shield Isabella from the rain, but it was futile. The drops came down hard, soaking their clothes and splashing on their feet. By the time they reached the overhang protecting the benches outside the train station, her bonnet was a soggy mess, her glasses had steamed up, and strands of hair stuck to her face. All the same, she was as beautiful as ever and he wanted to kiss her again, let her touch soothe his anxious mind.

Damn
this
rain,
he thought as he opened the station door, letting her pass. “We have half an hour before the train arrives. Let's find a quiet corner to figure out our next move.”