Wicked, My Love (28 page)

She fished the folded list of Merckler Metalworks' shareholders from under her corset on the floor. “Take this to Harker. See if any names on this list hold shares in Harding's companies. This is paramount. Vital. And you need to get to Judith at the Copenhagen and reassure her that I'm going to be at the Wollstonec
raft meeting.
”

He ran his finger along the edge of the document. “I won't leave you.”

“You have to,” she whispered. “We might be able to save you, us, the bank, and Mrs. Merckler. You have to let me try. Please.”

He studied her for a long time. His eyes were shining. Was he crying? “Oh, Randall.” She hugged him.

“You promise that you'll come back to me,” he said. “That you won't let anything happen to you.”

“I would come back to you if I had to crawl on my knees all the way from Siam.” She kissed his lips, and at first he didn't respond. She coaxed and caressed until he let her inside. “Let me go,” she whispered.

He rested his head on her shoulder. “Very well,” he said so quietly she almost didn't hear.

Then he squeezed her bottom. “I'm going to fetch Mrs. Perdita to accompany you.”

“I don't have time to—”

“You're not going to convince anyone of anything in a dress that smells like rats vomited on it,” he aptly pointed out. “And I need a shoe.”

In Isabella's tired, overwrought mind, the last nineteen hours were an angst-filled haze of changing carriages and trains and worries about being spotted. Now Isabella and Mrs. Perdita hid around the corner from the Wollstonecraft Society meeting. That is, if Isabella could truly
hide
in a flowing blond wig, huge straw bonnet, and a gauzy pale gray dress that was once used in the death scene of a production of
The
Vicar's Ruined Daughter
. But it was nothing compared to the shiny rainbow brilliance of Mrs. Perdita's painted face and revealing costume.

“Hee-hee,” Mrs. Perdita giggled. “It's just like in
The
Merry
Cuckold
.” She patted her ringlets, jingling her numerous necklaces and bracelets. “I played the devious Madame De Saucy, one of my most
famous parts.”

When Isabella and Mrs. Perdita had arrived back in London, the housekeeper had insisted that Isabella needed to disguise herself, so Isabella had wasted an hour in the moldy costume shop at the bottom of an ancient theater, sneezing. Now they were late. The sun sat low behind the gray coal clouds. The evening portion of the meeting had started forty-five minutes ago, the police were waiting for her at the door, and she couldn't find Lord Randall anywhere. S
he panic
ked.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Perdita had her own problems. “Good heavens, my beauty mark fell off again. Oh, where did it go?” She bent over. “Here it is. No, that's a tiny beetle.”

Isabella removed the long strands of blond hair from her eyes and peered around the corner again, hoping in the thirty seconds since she had last checked, the six policemen guarding the building and Harding's men by the entrance had decided to wander off for a nice spot of tea.

No such luck.

“We were supposed to meet Lord Randall an hour ago. He's not here. Why, why, why did I think this was a good idea? If anything happened to him, I'll—”

“Oh, there's that wicked little beauty mark! It's fallen onto my bosom. Hmm, I quite like it there, rather naughty.” She patted it in place, jiggling her ample mantel of flesh. “Now, don't you worry, dearie. You need to give your husband a little due.”

Isabella and Randall had met Mrs. Perdita in the early hours of the morning. Randall had been beside himself with worry. Clutching Isabella as if she might float away on the sidewalk and drown in the street, he had ordered the housekeeper to take excellent care of his betrothed all the way to Tupping-on-the-Water and back. If he were to lose Isabella aga
in, he
told them, he would take a no-return ticket to Bedlam…or Newgate for murder of a powerful railroad baron.

“He's not my husband,” Isabella corrected. “If I truly loved him, I wouldn't let him marry me. I've just got to save his career and dreams.” Unfortunately, her master plan hadn't included breaking into the heavily guarded society meeting. She groaned and pressed her forehead to the wall, crumpling the bonnet brim. “We can't get in that building. Those women will never learn the truth. We're sunk.”

“Now you listen to me.” Mrs. Perdita seized her by the shoulders and whirled her around. “We are strong women, like in your book. And a woman has to do what a woman has to do.” She tugged at her bodice, exposing even more of her voluptuous breasts. “Now take those glasses off before anyone recognizes you. I'm going to get Miss St. Vincent on that stage.”

The large feather poking from the housekeeper's bright blue hat was a crimson blur against the dull gray sky. Isabella followed the red splotch, trying not to stumble over the sidewalk, potholes, and her flowing hem. Her heart was light and racy, making her dizzy. All she could think was
Save
Randall, save the bank, save its clients, save the Mary Wollstonecraft Society, save Mrs. Merckler, save my father's legacy, save my home
… Good God, why not just save the entirety of civilization while she was at it?

“Hallo there, my pretty boys,” Mrs. Perdita called, drawing Isabella closer. “Is this that naughty Wollstonecraft meeting?” Isabella kept her head low, letting the brim of her straw bonnet and long stringy wig conceal her face.

“Yes, my colorful totty,” a deep voice responded. “But you don't look like the type.”

“Ohh, we Wollstonecraft women come in all types, and we can be awfully wicked when we want.” Mrs. Perdita giggled and crashed into Isabella as if she had stumbled, shoving Isabella toward what might be a door. Isabella rushed through a threshold into a darkened corridor filled with large splotches of flesh and black.

She slipped her glasses from her sleeve and took a quick peek. Men in dark clothes and police uniforms were rushing toward her. She panicked.
Sorry, Randall! I'm so sorry I failed you.
She hunched down, drawing her arms to her chest, waiting for one to arrest her. But they dashed past as if she wasn't there.

“Oh, good 'eavens,” she heard Mrs. Perdita say. “I fell so 'ard, me titties almost popped out. You gentlemen are so kind to 'elp me up. Let me give each of you a nice kiss on the cheek.”

By the double doors into the auditorium stood a policeman, his legs spread, hands clasped over his male regions. Two dour women wearing ribbons across their chests that read “Mary Wollstonecraft Society” sat behind a long wooden table. Behind them waited a squat yet muscled second policeman.

Isabella had the urge to run away and hide. But the housekeeper's words echoed in her head.
A
woman
has
to
do
what
a
woman
has
to
do.
And she had to get into that meeting. She returned her glasses to her sleeve.

With her floppy bonnet low on her face and her heart pounding loud enough to lead soldiers into battle, she edged toward the two dark, smudgy female shapes at the table. “I would like to attend the meeting,” she muttered, keeping her eyes low.

“May I see your ticket?” one of the ladies replied.

A ticket?
Oh
Hades!
“May—may I purchase one?”

“I'm sorry. We have none left. You must understand, we've had a great deal of controversy surrounding this meeting.”

“But it's extremely important that I attend,” she said, her voice turning tight and thin, tittering on the edge of hysteria.

“And it's extremely important for you to have a ticket,” a husky male voice mocked. She assumed it emitted from the muscle-bound policeman standing behind the women.

Now what? She pressed her hand to her mouth.

Think, Isabella. Think!

The only thought that bubbled up was:
Must
save
entirety
of
civilization.

That
is
not
helpful!

Beside her, she could see the shape of the huge wooden double doors and the policeman guarding it. Beyond its wood, she could hear Judith, in a muffled voice, saying, “I assure you that my cousin is innocent.”

“I really, really need to attend this meeting.” Isabella pressed her hands together, praying to the human smudges. “My life depends—”

“I knew yer were a-lyin' to me, devil woman!”

Mr. Randy!

Isabella wheeled around to see an approaching shape in shades of brown and green. She forced herself to remain still and not give in to the urge to rush into Randall's arms and melt away.

***

Randall struggled to keep his character and not break into a relieved, thank-God-you're-alive-and-not-held-prisoner-or-hit-by-a-train-or-the-thousands-of-horrible-scenarios-I-imagined grin as he gazed upon blond Isabella in her rather doleful gown. He had been terrified since sending her off with Mrs. Perdita. The last hour—three thousand and six hundred slow, torturous seconds—when she hadn't arrived on time had been akin to seeing her shoved into Harding's carriage over and over. Randall had managed to loiter about the building undetected for two hours thanks in part to having dyed his hair, but mostly from sporting two swelling bruises on his face. One nasty blue contusion swelled just below his eye where Judith had bashed him with a poker when he snuck into her hotel room at the Copenhagen, and another welt throbbed on his jaw where she had hit him with a lamp after he told her he was ma
rrying Isabella.

“Now, I'm taking your sad likes 'ome and giving yer a spankin' to remember what for,” he told Isabella. “Then I'm burning that book of yours. That will teach yer for getting ideas and tryin' to teach yer bird-witted self to read. Now get yer bit of arse 'ome and clean my chamber pot up good.”

***

Isabella stared in his general vicinity with the shiny-eyed terror of a cornered, feral cat.

“Sir, do not speak to your wife thus.” One of the reverent women taking tickets rose and placed a hand on her heart, her nostrils quivering. “Our society was formed in order to protest men such as you—low, brutish reptiles.”

“Why, thank you, ma'am, for those kind words.” Randall belched and scratched his bollocks. “But don't you listen to 'er,” he told Isabella with eyes that pleaded
play
along
, although she couldn't see anyway. “You're mine. If yer don't start behaving and knowing your place, I might just sells you. You 'ad better 'ope whoever buys yer is as nice as I am to yer.”

Then a miracle occurred. “You…you treat yer…dog better than me,” Isabella cried in an uneven, panic-infused cockney.

One of the dour Wollstonecraft Society matrons drew herself tall in righteous indignation and marched around the table to Isabella, linking their arms together. “Ma'am, it would be my honor to escort you inside so that you might hear the liberating truth spoken from the mouths of our sisters.” The policeman guarding the door stepped aside.

“Don't yer let that devil woman in!” Randall rushed forward, pretending to be trying to prevent the ladies from entering. But instead he used his body to form a barricade behind them. “Get to your companion,” he whispered to Isabella.

She bounded forward in a large, open space, but everything was a dark blur. “Judith, I'm here!” On that note, she tripped, hitting the floor.
Fudge! Fudge! Fudge!
She jammed on her glasses and ripped off her bonnet, taking her stupid wig with it. She jumped to her feet and rushed down the aisle.

On a stage in wooden chairs sat four ladies in somber clothes and sporting Mary Wollstonecraft ribbons. Behind them, the society's emblem hung on a rope. Judith, with tears flowing from her eyes, stood behind a podium where a large gold bust of their fearless leader sat, gazing at the audience. “Oh, Isabella, my brave child.”

The audience sucked a collective breath, bolting to their feet.

A great rumble echoed from the back of the theater and then a man's voice thundered through the huge space. “She's inside. Someone let her inside, dammit!”

Isabella glanced over her shoulder. Randall's beautiful face was bruised, his arms wide, trying to hold back the tide of men pushing to get in. “Randall!” sh
e screamed.

“Keep going, love!” he shouted. “Don't worry about me.” He was shoved to the ground by police officers and his arm wrenched behind his back. “You want me. Not her. You leave her alone.” His words were muffled as his face was pushed to the floor, men trampling over him as they poured down the aisle.

“He's innocent,” she cried. “Let me speak. I will tell you.” She rushed along the front of the stage. Hands were reaching out, but none tried to grasp or seize her. They just wanted to touch her, she registered. She dashed for the narrow stairs leading to the stage, the police closing the gap behind her.

Judith leaped forward, yanking Isabella onto the stage and then spreading her arms and legs wide, ready to use her body to block the stairs.

The women in the front rows joined her effort, barricading the police. “Let her speak!” they cried, starting a chant that spread over the crowd.

“Let her speak! Let her speak!”

Women spilled from their seats, clasping hands, forming human chains to further impede the police. “Let her speak!”

“You women are out of line,” a strident male voice barked. “Do your husbands, fathers, or brothers know what you're doing?”

“Let her speak!”

Isabella sidled along the podium, searching the audience for Randall, but he was lost in the trample.

“Let her speak!”

Oh
God!
What was she going to say? What had she done? She reached for the head of Mary Wollstonecraft and cradled it, like an upset child seeking comfort in a favorite blanket or beloved toy.

The room fell to a hush. Her mouth moved, but no words came. She couldn't remember her speech or Judith's notes. She just held the gold plaster bust and swayed. “Ummm…ummm…ummm.”

Say
something! Say something! Save the civilized world!

“Promising openings,” she blurted.

No, no, not that!
Anything
but
that.

The women glanced at each other. Oh God, it was like Isabella always knew: she would let them down. She wasn't the powerful, charismatic leader they h
ad imagined.

A man's rich belly laughter filled the space. “You are wise, Miss St. Vincent, not to incriminate yourself any further,” Mr. Harding boomed. “Let the lord mayor of London through before he has all you women arrested.” Harding used his powerful body to ram through the lines. Behind him was a smaller, graying man sporting a neatly knotted green cravat and tan plaid waistcoat. Huge lamb chop whiskers grew along his cheeks.