Wicked, My Love (5 page)

“I need to talk to you. Just follow me.”

“What? No! The quadrille and I never got on.”

“Too late.” He kept a lock on her wrist as he made a curt bow to her and then to the female dancer beside him. All around, he could hear the buzzing whispers of shock. He could feel the heat of his mother's glare on his back, ready to murder her only male offspring. Isabella didn't return his bow nor the gentleman's to her right. Instead, she stared straight ahead, her eyes wide, mouth dropped open as if something large, fast, and oncoming were hurtling from the heavens and about to hit her square between the eyes.

“We have to cross over now,” he said, nudging her. She sneezed and stumbled forward, bumping against the oncoming lady dancer.

“So, so sorry,” Isabella cried as the woman tugged, trying to extract her lovely ruffle from under Isabella's foot. There was a terrible sound of ripping silk. Randall quickly reeled Isabella back, turning her in a half circle.

“What did he say?” Randall whispered.

“Who?” Isabella righted her glasses on her flaming-red face.

“The stockbroker.”

“In his records, he found some of the same stock numbers sold to a client five years ago,” she whispered. “Oh no, not the crossover again!” She took a breath, held it, and scurried across the dance floor as if she were swimming underwater. The lady with Isabella's footprint stain on her torn silk ruffle sidestepped to avoid her.

Randall met her on the opposite side and took her hand. “We turn now,” he said, spinning her. She wobbled like a falling top.

“Have you seen Powers today?” he asked.

“N-no.” Sneeze.

“Bloody bugger,” he hissed below the music as he untangled her arms.

“But I don't remember the bloody bugger step,” Isabella cried aloud, causing several people's heads to jerk in their direction. Realizing what she had said, she slapped her hands over her mouth.

“No, not the bloo—promenade.” Randall reached for her right hand, but she jabbed her left hand at him and grabbed his left with her other. Her arms were an
inelegant
tangle as he guided her around the other dancers. He kept a stiff smile on his face to balance his partner's terrified, the-ship's-going-down-we're-all-going-to-die expression. But inside he was a bottle of corked rage. His honor and integrity were at stake. He had to find Powers. Was the man acting alone? Was this malicious stunt aimed only at his bank, or were counterfeit Merckler Metalworks stocks floating across the exchange? Was a tall, bald-headed railroad baron involved?

He spun Isabella and then gently nudged her forward. She stood paralyzed in the middle of the dance formation, her eyes dilated and shiny like a scared animal's. The lady with the torn ruffle glared at her, shaking her gloved hand.

“Lady chain.” Randall patted his knuckles, signaling to Isabella to take the woman's hand. Isabella shook her head, confused, and sneezed. “Never mind.” He stepped in and clasped the torn-ruffle lady's fingers. He gave Isabella a gentle bump with his hip at the same time, sending her into the arms of the opposite partner, who spun her and sent her reeling back to the center, as if it were a schoolyard game.

Randall drew Isabella back to his side. “You can rest. It's the other partners' turn.”

“Why did I come here?” she muttered. “My entire life is about to be ruined. And I'm dancing.”

“It's rather poetic,” he quipped bitterly.

She sneezed. “I hate poetry.”

***

For Isabella, the remainder of the quadrille was a blur of Randall issuing calls, more falling hair, stepping on toes—including her own—and repeatedly muttering apologies. When the horrid thing was finally over, she made a beeline for a quiet, flower-infested corner. She had passed all her balls and dances in corners and found a degree of comfort in the familiar. A younger, tenderer Isabella would have suffered hours of acute embarrassment after the quadrille, pledging never to step outside her bedchamber again. But now she didn't care. Her last marital hope was missing, and the most valuable thing her father had left her—the bank—was under threat.

She should have known better than to come running to Randall. Their conversation and correspondence over the last days made her think that he had changed. That maybe he wasn't the golden boy who charmed his way through the world with his handsome face and silvery words, never acknowledging clumsy, tongue-tied Isabella looming about the edges of his life, blighting his otherwise glorious existence.

She sneezed and sniffed.

What was the worst that was going to happen to him if the bank went under? He might lose his seat in the House of Commons—perhaps not such a bad outcome for England, in her estimation. Yes, his family would sacrifice their reputation, their beloved integrity, maybe a good bit of their fortune, but they still had their entailment and peerage protected by law. And rich, beautiful ladies, such as the ones littering the dance floor, would still clamor for his title. As always, the charmed lord would sail across the rough waters unscathed, probably noting only an annoying bump or two.

Meanwhile, having forty shares in a full-liability bank, she stood to lose her home and her savings, and still be left with a massive debt to be paid. She was as scared as she had been in those last moments of her father's life, when the rattle of his breath ceased and his eyes turned empty. She had held his hand then, for the first time. “What do I do?” she whispered now.

If she let the bank go down, she would lose him all over again. She would disappoint him in death as she had during his lifetime—never even marrying or giving him grandchildren or being as beautiful and graceful as her mother. He had been in tight spots his whole life and through his intellect managed to set himself free and turn the situations to his advantage. But he was much smarter than she was. Had he been alive, he would have thought of a way to stop Powers. He would have seen the situation before it happened. Instead, she had been pinning silly hairpieces to her head.

Think, Isabella, think!
She banged the heel of her palm against her forehead, trying to shake loose some stuck thoughts. What would her father do in this situation? The answer tumbled down:

Break
into
Powers's home and see if you can find any clues to his whereabouts.

Her blood racing, eager to commit a crime, she turned on her heel and came face-to-face with Randall's formidable mother.

A smile stretched across the countess's dainty, thin-skinned face. Her teeth were as white and shiny as pearls. The smile, however, stopped at her eyes. They were hot, blue flames decorated around the edges with long lashes and tight, angry lines.

“Miss St. Vincent, it's so lovely to see you,” she said, all sugary and pleasant as she planted a kiss on Isabella's cheek. “You know I think the world of you. I just adore you.”

Somehow these words didn't reassure Isabella. The little quadrille escapade could not have gone unnoticed. Hidden under this buttery admiration was an unspoken
but
.

Lady Hazelwood lowered her voice as she linked her arm through Isabella's. “But—”

Ah, there it was.

“—I'm telling you this as a mother would to her beloved daughter.” The countess leaned in. “You must get over your little infatuation with my son.”

Isabella blinked. “My what?”

“Come now.” The woman waved her hand, jingling her bracelets. “Ever since you were a little girl, you've been running to him. It breaks my heart to say this to you after all you've been through with your papa, but, my dear, Randall lives a very different life from you. He needs a wife who will be a credit to his station, his family, his honor, his name. A woman who understands the nuances of fashion, engages in charming conversation, and excels in the womanly arts of music, dance, art, and embroidery. Do you sketch or sing or sew, Miss St. Vincent?” she said in a knowing purr and didn't wait for an answer. “Of course, you don't have time. Having to run my husband and son's bank—”

“I'm the majority shareholder.”

“—I think it's brave of you to behave like a man. So you should understand that you must let go of these girlish fantasies of Randall and move on before it's too late. Good heavens, most women have three or more children by your age.”

Isabella stared, her jaw dropped, unable to speak for a beat. “Wait, you think I'm angling for
Randall
!” Sharp, hysterical laughter burst from her lips.

“What is so funny?”

Isabella couldn't answer for laughing like a Bedlamite.
What
is
the
matter
with
you? Get ahold of yourself.
But the strain of the previous days had frayed her nerves
to nothing.

“And just what do you find wrong with my son, Miss St. Vincent?” Lady Hazelwood's previously feigned motherly concern was replaced w
ith indignation.

Isabella took a deep inhale, trying to restrain her mirth. “Most everything.” She broke into feverish giggles. “Please, pardon me,” she choked. “I hope that your son finds the witless, titled, influential Tory beauty of his dreams. But I really must go.”
My
life
is
about
to
fall
apart, and I can't marry anyone to save it.

Isabella hurried away, muttering “stupid, stupid mistake” under her breath. Let the useless viscount dance. She had a burglary to attend.

Isabella used the light from the flaming torches lining Lord Hazelwood's estate gate to guide her to the Roman perimeter road around the village. The old timber-and-stone buildings in the heart of the village were cast in the deep blue light of the moon, which sat on the rooftops swollen but not quite full, like a fat potato with one side peeled. No one ambled along the walks, and all the house windows were darkened, because at night, every villager over fifteen years of age made for the tavern. She made several loops of the village working up her courage, then looked about her, making sure that no one was watching. She assumed the second rule of a good burglary was not to be seen in the area—the first being not to get caught. She veered into a narrow, winding medieval-ish alley that stank of rotting vegetation and urine. Navigating from memory, she tiptoed quietly behind the houses.

Mr. Powers's home was across from the tavern, and loud chatter and raucous laughter mingling with the howls of an enamored cat echoed around her. She gazed up to find Milton, her roving tomcat, perched on Mr. Powers's second-story windowsill.

“Go home, Milton,” she hissed. He ignored her, continuing to howl his lusty intentions to a slinky blond bathing her paws, like a feline Bathsheba, on the adjoining roof.

She gave a quiet knock at the kitchen door and waited. No answer. She jiggled the doorknob. Locked. Then she took a deep breath, bracing herself. Time to break the law.

But how?

She could find a way to pick the lock…but then she would be here all night, trying not to swear, and probably without success—at picking the lock, that is. She would be quite successful at swearing. Maybe smash a window, but that would be noisy and draw attention. She could scale the side of the building and come down the chimney…no, that wasn't logical at all. Her numerous stiff petticoats and bustle pad would never make it down. And besides, the people at the tavern across the street would see her tromping about the roof.

She made a mental note in case she would be required to write a volume on burglary for the Wollstonecraft Society to support herself in the poorhouse:
When
committing
burglary, it is best to have a plan. Don't just show up in a ball gown with no tools.

“Reorrw!”

“Milton, I said—” She stopped mid-mutter. The glass window behind the cat had been left open just the merest bit. She needed to get up there. Squinting in the dim light, she spied a wooden crate by the back door. She dragged it over and climbed atop. But even on her tiptoes, her arms stretched high, she was still a good two feet below Milton, who gazed down at her and yawned.

“I could use some sympathy,” she told her cat.

Approaching footsteps crunched on the cobbles. Soft gold light illuminated the alley.
Oh
fudge!
She
was trapped.

A man came around the corner, silhouetted by the light of his lantern.

“Oh, hello there, I'm…I'm just getting my cat down,” she said, trying to sound casual as she balanced on the crate. “I'm not, you know…”
a
desperate
spinster
attempting
to
break
into
a
bachelor's home.

“Like hell you are,” Randall drawled, lowering his lantern to reveal his face. “Why did you leave me? Did you think you were going to break in here
by yourself?”

“Oh, it's you.” Her shoulders slumped with relief. “Well, you seemed preoccupied with dancing while our bank might be going under.”

“I wasn't dancing,” he said, dropping his bag on the ground with a clank. “I was thinking.”

“You can think and dance at the same time?”

A nasty smile hiked the corners of his mouth. “I'm talented in more ways than you will ever know, love.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just come here. I need you.”

“Here? Now?” He obeyed, that nasty smile curving higher as she positioned him under the window. “What are you going to do to me?” His voice was low and husky. “Will I enjoy it?”

“I'm going to climb onto your shoulders and—wait a minute!” She swatted his shoulder. “You meant something lurid, didn't you? How can you have your mind wallowing in the gutter at this moment? Just go back home and waltz the night away with your pretty Tories while I save our hides. No wonder you're
a politician.”

Anger sparked in his eyes. His white teeth glinted in the lantern light. “Very well. Just step on my hand and I'll lift you up.”

She kicked off her slippers and lifted the hem of her skirt, her cheeks flaming at exposing her ankles, and a bit more, to him.

Which
do
you
care
about
more: modesty or bankruptcy?
she asked herself, as she slipped her foot into his hand.

“Don't you think there might be an easier way?” he wondered as he was being whapped by her stiff horsehair petticoats. She wobbled in his grasp and fell against him, his mouth landing in the valley between her breasts. “Never mind,” he said, his words muffled against her bosom. “This works just fine.”

No, no, no, Isabella. Don't you dare feel a tingle when you are breaking into the home of the man who may have possibly deserted you and destroyed your life. Stop that tingling this instant.

She pushed off his palm and tentatively stepped onto his shoulders. “I can do this,” she said, pulling up her other foot. Milton continued to gaze on, disinterested. “It's just like when we were eleven,” she told Randall, “and we tried to sneak into that hot air balloon.” She tugged at the blasted window that wouldn't budge more than the inch it was already open.

“Oh, but we aren't eleven anymore,” he said, a curious, almost intimate arch in his voice. She glanced down. Her gown engulfed his head and the lantern at his feet illuminated the skirt like a lamp shade, lighting all the contents within: her stockings, garters, the split in her drawers, and the passage to the sacred chamber of her womb!

“Randall, are—are you looking up my dress?”

“Where the hell else am I supposed to look?”

She jabbed his neck with her big toe, causing her to lose balance. She waved her arms frantically, trying to stabilize herself, but it was no use. She instinctively covered her spectacles as she fell through the air.
Bam!
She slammed the ground with her shoulder and hip.

“My God, Isabella!” His arms were around her. “Are you hurt? I'm damnably sorry. Do you think you can move? Say something. Anything.”

The pain of embarrassment was more acute than any physical ache. She flipped over, slid her spectacles into place, and glared at him. “The bank is full liability,” she hissed. “We and our customers could be in massive debt, you cotton-brained idiot.”

He made a low whistle, raised his hands, palms showing, and began slowly backing away.

She wasn't finished, her humiliation driving her on. “You have your estate entailed. You get to be the impoverished Lord Randall, the ex-MP. But don't worry, you can always marry some rich merchant's daughter and go on living happily ever after. Me, I get to go to the workhouse. A shriveled, raisiny spinster who has to fight for crumbs of stale bread, and dies alone in a cold, slumping, coverless, flea-infested bed.” He picked up his bag and began rooting through it, not paying her any heed. “This was my father's bank and—are you even listening to me?”

“I'm entailed, impoverished, ex-MP, marrying a rich merchant; you go to poorhouse, raisiny spinster, die with fleas,” he muttered absently, and pulled a long crowbar from his bag. “Ah. See, if you had waited, I wouldn't have had to look up your dress and get my head bitten off just for spying a bunch of lace.”

In spite of the tense situation, Isabella giggled.

He jammed the bar into the door, seemingly uncaring for any damage he wrought. He tugged and a tiny explosion of splinters burst into the alley. Dropping the tool, he swiftly kicked the door and sent it flying against the inner wall.

Isabella watched, her eyes wide. She didn't want to admit that there was something very alluring, very throbby in the sacred feminine regions, about Randall's method of breaking and entering.

He bowed and swept his hand in an “after you” gesture. “Lady burglars first.”

After she passed, he closed them into Powers's back scullery and dimmed his lantern. He studied the tiny room. Dirty clay bowls were stacked in the sink and crumbs littered the preparation tables. He followed her into the kitchen. A single dented, tarnished pan dangled from one of the numerous hooks along the walls. The drawers of the silver cabinet were pulled out and empty.

“Dammit!” He slammed one shut, shaking the cabinet. “I'll wager he left in a hurry with anything he could pawn, and the servants carried off the rest.”

“He was set up,” she cried. “He had to be. And when he realized his mistake—”

“He fled. Because that's exactly what innocent people do.”

Her dark gray eyes loomed large and hurt behind her lenses in the low light. Despite his desire to rip off Powers's bollocks and shove them down his throat—if he ever found the goddamned lying cove—Randall felt a prick of tender pity for the backward woman. He couldn't recall a man who had ever been sweet on her. Powers had been the old girl's last chance and the heartless cur had broken her heart.

He rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. No matter how many times he touched her, he was always surprised by the daintiness of her bones and the silky warmth of her skin. In his mind, she always loomed taller, larger, and plainer than she was in person.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

Her voice was brittle when she spoke. “Let's just see if he left some indication of where he went.” Straightening her spine, she swept past him.

The downstairs rooms were much like the kitchens. The furniture, lamps, and whatnots were in the customary places, but there were conspicuous holes where silver candlesticks had rested. Picture hooks dangled from strings, the paintings removed. The bureau in the parlor was empty except for a deck of cards, the usual writing instruments, and a broken porcelain figurine of a hound.

Muffled raucous chatter from the tavern and Milton's lovesick howls drifted in as Randall followed Isabella up the stairs. A waft of her scent filled his nostrils, a subtle sweet jasmine mingling with a tang of orange. More of her hair had fallen, and wavy locks swayed back and forth across her back. He had never noticed how luscious it was before now. He had the unexplainable urge to caress the strands, bury his face in her silken tresses to calm his racing heart.

Good
Lord, chap, you're desperate.
He really needed a woman, and soon, if he was lusting for Isabella.

Of the two bedchambers on the first floor, one was neat and tidy, a light coating of dust on the chair and commode. The other was not. The drawers in the bureau hung open, letters, bills, and receipts spilling out. The covers were bunched at the foot of the bed. The closet door stood open, revealing a single stained shirt hanging on a hook. Randall set the lantern on the desktop, grabbed a handful of papers, and began to read. Powers owed seven pounds and two shillings to a tailor on New Bond Street, five more pounds to a wine merchant, three pounds to a ladies' modiste, thirty pounds and six shillings for back rent and property damage to a man claiming to be Powers's former landlord, and six pounds and two shillings to a gun maker who noted a special fee for engraving “La Diablo” on the handle.

Just
bloody
capital!
An ignorant, indebted cur with a gender-confused devil gun was going to shoot down Randall's political future.

“My sweet beloved,” he heard Isabella whisper. His head shot up, unaccustomed to hearing endearments fall from her lips. The surprising warmth blossoming in his heart stopped when he realized that she wasn't talking to him but reading from a letter. He crossed the room and gazed over her shoulder.

“‘How I am counting the minutes until I embrace you again,'” she read. “‘My hart cherries'—umm, maybe she meant cherishes?—‘the memories of sweet kisses and embrases that furst evening we met. I had never knowed how exqesit'—I wager that's exquisite—‘a woman could fill until you filled me. Now no other man can do.'”

The missive shook in her hand. She turned her head, her gaze meeting his. The thick spectacles magnified the hurt in her eyes.

“It-it could be his mother,” she said. She shifted the letters, reading another. “‘It has ben two weeks and three long days since I was under the spel of your manly insrument'—Ah, how sweet,” she quipped. “And this could be his sister.” She made a tiny cry, dropping the pages, and covered her face with her hands. When he tried to draw her to his chest, she stepped back. “I'm not crying,” she declared. “I'm not. I'm-I'm strong.” She blinked and took two deep breaths, her shoulders rising and falling. “I'll look in his commode.”

He retrieved the pages she had spilled on the floor—more tiny lust-filled murders of the English language. How did that prawn-like fellow get so many women, albeit barely literate ones? His manly instrument must be enormous.

The letter at the bottom of his pile was written by a Mr. Nicholas Busby. All the words were correctly spelled and evenly spaced in neat lines. The man sent his condolences for the passing of Powers's uncle, but hoped that Powers would make a fresh, respectable start in his new home and honorable profession as a partner in a reputable bank. Busby suggested Powers make a detailed budget of expenses so that Powers might slowly pay down his debts. Randall was reading about the recent birth of Busby's ninth child when he heard Isabella call his name, her voice a quiet,
shaky whisper.