Must Love Breeches (35 page)

“Yes, yes, he impressed upon me the situation’s urgency. Unfortunately, I am not privy to your history and your need for this protection.” She paced to the room’s other side.

“But, Mrs. Somerville...” Isabelle trailed off. Short of confiding in her, she had no argument to make.

“It pains me to be in this position. Lady Byron I tolerate, for she is Ada’s mother, but I find her to be a bit of a tyrant and prone to grandstanding. On the other hand, I
do
need to think of my eldest daughter, for she makes her debut next year.”

Bubbles of panic tickled her chest. “You’re turning me out?”

Mrs. Somerville paused and heaved a sigh. “No. However, if you could find another establishment, that might be for the best.”

Great. What now?

“In the meanwhile, I have more notes for you to transcribe and a small errand. It should keep you occupied for the rest of the week.”

Phineas sat in his favorite armchair at White’s, smoking a pungent cigar. He had been there only a short time, most of the morning having been spent talking over plans with Miss Rochon and Miss Byron, allaying Mrs. Somerville’s fears, as well as hiring three Bow Street Runners. He had stayed long enough to ensure they patrolled Mrs. Somerville’s townhouse to his satisfaction.

Perusing
The Times
financial section
,
he grimly noted an advertisement for the latest investment scheme set up by the consortium he had infiltrated and derisively termed the Cadre Cads. They had their own nickname, known only to their tight circle: The Muslin Makers.

The name’s meaning was no idle boast, and a rather crude pun. So fitting of that ilk. Phineas gritted his teeth contemplating it. The journal he had found last night proved to be all he required to finally bring them to justice. He meant to ruin them. Thoroughly.

A footman approached and stood, awaiting his notice. Phineas glanced up and nodded.

“My lord, this note was left for you by a tradesman.”

“Thank you.” He took the cheap paper and scanned its contents. It proved to be from one of the jewelers he had approached over a week ago.

I believe I have the item you seek—Mr. Tindal, Jeweler, Bond Street.

He stared at the note for some time, afraid of its import, the weight of it seemingly increasing.

“For Isabelle,” he whispered. He stood, tucked the note inside his coat, retrieved his hat and gloves from the porter, and headed to the jeweler’s establishment.

Early on, he had lost confidence in the investigative abilities of the Bow Street Runner hired for the purpose. Phineas had requested the drawing from Isabelle for himself, not the Runner, in hopes he might have better luck quizzing the shop keepers. After all, his title alone ought to be enough to encourage people to talk. Moreover, he could be persuasive, if he put his mind to it. Besides, a shop keeper would be more willing to assist a potential customer, a wealthy one, than one who could land them in prison. At least, that was how he reasoned it when he dismissed the Runner.

However, he had subsequently canvassed every shop near where Isabelle’s case had been stolen and naught had surfaced. He had shown the proprietors the drawing and left his card, in the event they came across it afterward.

Expecting this excursion to end as previous excursions, he nevertheless headed straight for the shop. Knowing now the real reason that necessitated its recovery, it was more imperative than ever.

A bell over the shop door announced his entrance. He now remembered the shop and its proprietor, a personage with an unfortunate tendency to sweat profusely. Phineas had ranked him in his mind as the one least likely to work out. He could not help but regard the outcome in a less hopeful light than when he had left White’s.

“Ah, my lord, so gracious of you to come. And so quickly.” The jeweler bowed a fraction too low for the occasion.

Phineas cursed himself for showing too much interest. No doubt he had added another couple of shillings to the asking price, if, despite all, the errand proved successful. No matter. If it was indeed what Isabelle sought, he would acquire it, no matter the cost or inconvenience. “Do you have what I seek?”

“Yes, yes, I believe so. Arrived this morning.” The pudgy man disappeared into the back and returned shortly, carrying something small inside a shabby linen cloth. He set it on the wooden counter and flicked the cloth folds aside, revealing the silver case within.

Heart racing, Phineas reached into his inner coat pocket and retrieved Isabelle’s drawing. He unfolded it carefully and laid it beside the silver case.

Yes. He could scarcely credit it. Desirous of being certain, he brought both to a nearby lamp and scrutinized the initials in the drawing and those on the case. They matched.

A mixture of emotions flooded Phineas, but with a will, prominent above all was resolve. Hands shaking, he refolded the drawing and replaced it in his coat.

He looked at the shop keeper. “Indeed. How much?”

Phineas trudged up the steps of the Somervilles’ townhouse. In his possession he had the one item that would secure Isabelle’s happiness, but would dispel his own.

Before his resolve could dissipate in the face of selfish reflection, he knocked and handed his card to the butler, who immediately ushered him upstairs to the drawing room.

“Miss Byron, Miss Rochon.” He bowed. His pulse quickened. How would she react? Would she leave forthwith?

“Cousin, Isabelle told me of her adventures when she left London. She also informed me you know of her secret. Incredible, is it not?”

“Indeed. Quite difficult to comprehend.” Phineas settled in the chair Miss Byron indicated.

“Did she show you her tiny Analytical Engine? That was the evidence that convinced me in the end.”

Phineas looked to Isabelle, whose eyes darted away. She looked so beautiful, the fading afternoon light gilding her face and hair. He swallowed hard. “No.”

“No, I didn’t have it with me. It no longer works, anyway,” Isabelle said.

“What? Did it break?” asked Miss Byron.

“No, but that kind of machine runs on a power that, uh, that runs out with time, unless it gets recharged.”

“Oh,” said Miss Byron, sounding disappointed. “But, Lord Montagu might wish to see it. The outside is different enough from machines today.”

“Indeed I would. I am intrigued.”

Isabelle rose to quit the room and he stood, waiting.

She returned shortly with a wooden bowl and placed it on a table between them. “These are the items that were with me when I came here. Normally, I would’ve had much more in my purse, but since I was going to a ball, my purse was small and I had only the essentials.” She held up a clump of clinking metal objects and passed it to Miss Byron. “These are my keys. Much different than the keys you’re used to, but they open my house—your house, Phineas—another opens my office in the British Museum, another goes to my car.”

Of course, they questioned the meaning of the last item named, and Isabelle went into a lengthy discussion of the automobile, its usage and ubiquity in her time. Next, she retrieved a hard, flat disk, calling it her money chip, and explained it; showed her ‘U.K. driver’s license,’ the bank notes she had, her tube of lipstick—which Miss Byron kept spiraling open and closed, eyes wide—and then she produced a thin, brown object.

“Is that... I do believe that is the device you had the first night we became acquainted, is it not?” asked Phineas.

“Yes, but it’s lost its power. Kind of like how you use gas to power the lights on the street, this takes a different kind of power to work, and it’s run out. But we use it to talk to people who are in a different place, read news as it happens. That night I tried to contact my friends with it. Remember I wanted to meet some friends at a place nearby?”

He suspected the device did much more and she held back for his sake. A chasm opened in his mind’s eye, Isabelle occupying the other side and retreating. How could he hope to bridge the gap?

Miss Byron interjected, relating other wonders it performed, confirming his suspicion. “And that is not all. She captured my likeness at the ball, and I saw myself in there, in my dress. Moreover, it can perform mathematical calculations, as I told you Mr. Babbage is attempting.”

Isabelle gave a half shrug. His stomach in turmoil, he cleared his throat. “Miss Rochon, I believe I have found the means for your return to this wondrous future.” He retrieved the silver case from inside his pocket, wrapped now in satin cloth.

She gasped and Phineas looked up. She held herself perfectly still. Setting the object on the table, he pulled back the cloth.

“Oh my God, you found it! I can’t believe it, now I can go home. Oh, you’re amazing!” She hurried to his side, the chair edging back from the force of her hug.

Her intoxicating scent washed over him. He gripped the chair’s arms, not trusting himself to touch her, and briefly closed his eyes. His nerves coiled and frayed. “Well, now you may return. I imagine you can go now, if you desire,” his voice catching only slightly, he thought.

Isabelle’s arms fell away. She returned to her chair and sat back, rather ungracefully. She looked away, not meeting his eye. “I can’t—” She cleared her throat and ran her palms over her knees. She blew out a breath and stood, walking to the window. She faced him. “I can’t just leave now. I need. I need to say goodbye to your family, and to Mrs. Somerville. There’s the engagement ball. That’s next week, so I can’t, oh man, I don’t know what to do. I feel bad your mother and sisters are going to all this trouble, only to have me call our engagement off. Would it be better for me to end it now, or after?”

Can you conceive of not ending it at all?
Phineas refrained from expressing this and took a moment to compose himself and reflect on the options. “I think it would be better for all concerned if we staged our estrangement before—however, it means I shall not have one last waltz with you.”

They discussed the timing of her attempted departure. She wished to have a chance to say goodbye to Mother and Mrs. Somerville, so they agreed on tomorrow evening. He checked on the Bow Street Runners to ensure they remained in place and to inquire whether they had anything to report. All was quiet.

“I shall take my leave of you ladies, then. Miss Rochon, I am happy to relate as well that I was successful in my mission at Barclay’s on your behalf.”

“Oh, thank you, Lord Montagu. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to add a final letter to it before I leave, so she’ll know when I’m returning. That way she can tell my boss from the start how long I will be gone.”

“Of course.” Phineas bowed but stood a moment longer. He tugged in a deep breath. “May I call on you tomorrow afternoon for one last ride through Hyde Park?” Why he tortured himself by seeking to spend more time with her, he could not conceive, but part of him felt a selfish need to plead his case,
their
case. To be honest, his thoughts warred with each other. Above all else, he desired her happiness, so how could he ask her to remain for the sake of his own?

She nodded solemnly. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“May I speak to you in private?” Ada said from Isabelle’s bedroom door.