Wicked, My Love (11 page)

For a lady who adored quiet, she couldn't take the tender, raw silence any longer. He was too dangerously close to the scary, insecure, yearning places in her heart that she liked to shove in a corner and pretend didn't exist.

“I t-think this is the longest we've gone without fighting,” she said, trying to make a joke.

“Do you think we might become friends?”

Friends?
The word sounded so benign—hardly capable of describing the emotional lightning storm in her heart. She forced a laugh. “Never!”

“Well, that's too bad.” He slid to his side of the bench, fetched his bag, and opened it. “I'll have to eat my toffees by myself.”

He popped one in his mouth and made a show of eating it. “Oh, delicious. Oh, so good,” he rudely, cruelly said, as he chewed that little piece of heaven before her. She hadn't eaten since leaving home, and the scent of butter and sugar was pure torture.

“I've changed my mind. You're my dearest, bosomest friend. W-would you care to share a few with an abnormal, cracked girl?”

“Only if you dare to venture from your side of the bench and bask in my perfection.”

She scooted over. She was happy that the serious moment had passed and they were back to their normal shallow interplay. Yet, at the same time, she felt a little pang of sorrow. This bank debacle and Randall not behaving like himself had her so confused, she didn't know what she felt anymore.

She selected a lovely sweet and popped it in her mouth, savoring the caramel melting on her tongue. “Oh, thank you. I'm so famished and exhausted. I think I've had three hours of sleep this entire week.”

“I've kept a little secret from you all these years: I can be a
perfect
human pillow.”

She laughed, pretending that he was in jest, but in her heart, she desired to lie against his chest and surround herself in his warmth and scent. “My cat usually takes over my pillows, so I'm accustomed to doing without.”

“Suit yourself. But you're missing the thrill of a lifetime. I don't offer my pillow talents to everyone.” Again she laughed, but inside a little voice said,
No, when you kissed me and fondled my breasts was the thrill of my small life.

She ate three more toffees while he slumped against the side of the bench and closed his eyes. Soon his breath turned heavy and rhythmic as he drifted in
to sleep.

She studied him in the faint light. His hair and lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and his lips were parted, all his silvery words, charm, and defenses quieted in slumber. Atop all the other guilt she was carrying, she felt horrible for the mountains of mean things she had uttered about him over the years. He had stood up to Harding and, from everything she had studied about the railroad baron, he was an intimidating businessman. Aside from arguing for several more atrocious Tory economic reforms, Randall had supported Peel in the Corn Laws repeal and factory reform, neither of which were popular, but necessary. Did he really think he had no substance? She was pondering how someone's perception of himself could be completely wrong when his arm swooped up, caught her shoulders, and pressed her onto his chest.

“Stop staring at me and go to sleep, Isabella,”
he murmured.

She shouldn't sleep
on
him. It was bad enough that they were sleeping together, albeit in an empty train station. It was against all societal rules and moral codes, and downright dangerous after their little kissing incident. But he had captured her, she rationalized. She couldn't escape his powerful, warm, comforting arms. And he did indeed make a perfect pillow. The rise and fall of his breath was like a gentle tide rocking her. Under his coat, she could hear the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart. For the first time in days, she felt some semblance of safety and peace. She curled against him, clutching his body. She yawned as a merciful drowsiness came over her. Soon, all society's mores and injunctions gave way to sweet, dreamless sleep.

The previous night's soft spell was ruined by bells ringing around them before dawn had even broken. Men shouted train arrivals, babies cried, feet shuffled, and trains roared into the station. Isabella would remember the surrounding twelve hours like captioned illustrations in a book:
Lord
Randall
kisses
the
naked
Miss
St. Vincent. Miss St. Vincent and Lord Randall divulge their innermost feelings in a darkened train station. Miss St. Vincent thinks four and a half hours of sleep isn't enough. Mr. Randy finds forgotten money in the lining of his coat and buys first-class tickets. Alas, Izzy May can't fall back asleep because of their fellow passenger's cigar smoke and endless talk of horse racing. Izzy May hates everyone and everything as she arrives in London.

“I think your days as Mr. Randy are over,” she said as they fought their way out of the swift current of people streaming from Euston Station. “You will
be recognized.”

She looked about the street, and her heart sank. Soot-stained homes sat all the way to a horizon made up of jutting roofs and chimney stacks. Reeking animal manure steamed in the street. People crowded the walks, their hats low, shielding their faces from a sun that rarely broke through the haze of coal smoke. She ventured to London several times a year, and every time, she felt as though she were visiting a strange and very ugly foreign country.

She and her father had fled the city while in mourning for her mother. He told her stories of how Mother would put baby Isabella on a blanket on his factory floor, and the pounding of machines would put her to sleep. She didn't attend school, but stayed in her father's factory office, learning math from ledgers and reading from filing customer orders. Until she moved, she had thought all of England was covered with densely packed town houses, dim skies, crowded walks, and was bombarded with constant noise. Now already five minutes in London, and she wanted to go home to the beautiful, spacious, and clean country. But she had a bank to save or else she might not have a home at all.

“I'm going to miss Mr. Randy,” her companion mourned as they rounded the corner. “He was a nice, regular old chap, but his sister, well, she was a
bit wild.”

She glanced over her shoulder, giving him a roll of her eyes. “Well, I'm going to visit my stockbroker. You can—” She jumped back, letting out a wild, high-pitched cry. “Oh Lord, this is terrible!” She dropped her bag and pressed her hands to her mouth. “How could this happen? No, no, no!”

“What's wrong?” Randall grabbed her elbow.

“I'm going to die! I'm going to die!”

“I'll get you to a physician!” he said. “A hospital! Someplace that can help you!” He stepped out, frantically waving his arms up and down, trying to hail a passing hackney.

“No!” she shouted and pointed. “Look.”

He followed the line of her finger, across the street, to a massive stone building constructed in the somber symmetry of the George III era. Across its four massive columns, a banner was strung. Huge letters read: “Miss Isabella St. Vincent, the distinguished author and financial advisor, will be speaking about her book and other investment and business opportunities for gentle ladies.” The next to last line gave the speech date and time, and below that, in very small print, was “The Wollstonecraft Society.” Attached to the bottom of the banner was another sign: “Few seats remaining,” except “few” had been crossed through and the word “no” inserted above.

The first emotion to grab Randall was jealousy. He wanted his name so prominently displayed. Then shame followed for desiring to steal Isabella's fame.
Why
do
I
always
crave
attention? Why must everyone adore me?
However, he gathered from her red face and the sucking noises she made as her chest fluttered with her rapid breath, the only thing she felt was sheer panic. How could two people be so different? “What's the matter, love?” he asked. “This is wonderful.”

“Wonderful!?” she wailed, uncaring about the heads she was turning. “I was supposed to mutter a few words and accept a stupid award. There weren't going to be more than a dozen women there. Who cared what I said? Now! Oh God, I can't speak to—to
people
! Who knows what I'll say.” She seized his coat lapels. “You've got to help me! I wrote a speech, but Judith changed it, because it was awful, because she thinks I keep all my sad emotions buried deep, not feeling them or acknowledging them. So she made me write stories and then embellished them, but I can't say them. They're hideous. Like my book. Like the Wollstonecraft. Where am I going to put a big gold-painted head of Mary Wollstonecraft in my house? I should never have agreed to write that volume. I'm going to humiliate myself.”

“Now calm down,” he said, his voice low and soothing. He had pacified many a hysterical young lady in his years. “Hush now. I will help you. Together, we will come up with something that will amaze the ladies.”

“The speech is in my b— My bag! Where's my bag? It was just here!”

“What the devil?” He pivoted, scanning the streets for her gray bag, but it was useless. If the scene were a painting, it could be called
A
Study
in
Gray—
gray hats, coats, shoes, skies, buildings. He dashed down the crowded street, but it was futile. The bag was gone. He retraced his steps to where he had left Isabella in front of the large banner bearing her name. She had taken off down the opposite street, and now stomped back to meet him, empty-handed, her wrinkled skirts brushing the dirt.

“Capital, just capital.” She flung up her arms. “I've got to address a huge crowd, and I don't have a hairbrush, a toothbrush, any tooth powder, hairpins, or clothes besides the ones I'm wearing, and I assure you there isn't much under this for having gotten dressed in five minutes.”

A foolish passing chap, who had never experienced the wrath of a peeved Isabella, dared to rake her up and down. Before Randall could step in to defend her honor, she shot the man a scorching glower, magnified by her lenses. “And just what are you staring at?”
she barked.

He cowered under his hat and hurried on.

“What about your money?” Randall asked, immune to her anger from years of exposure.

She edged closer, and said in a low, sharp voice, “I would never carry my…
you
know
in a separate bag or reticule while traveling in London. That's stupid.” She scanned the street and released a long breath that sank her shoulders and chest. “Well, I haven't the time to worry about this now. I'm going to my stockbroker and see if he has any further information about Merckler Metalworks. That's the most important thing.”

“Wait, we're in this together,” he cried, panicked at the thought that she would leave him alone in the city, as if she didn't need him. He seized her arm, removing her from the flow of pedestrian traffic. “Besides, I know someone who can help you with your missing feminine items.” He couldn't believe what he was saying. Was he really taking Isabella to the apartment where he'd kept his mistress—that is, before Harding stole her? But he couldn't very well take her to his father's home in St. James's—too many eyes and indiscrete mouths about the corridors. He knew he could trust Mrs. Perdita to keep mum about matters. “She lives very near here.”

“Who is ‘she'?” A suspicious brow arched over her glasses rim.

“A housekeeper. Just trust me.”

She considered as she tried to cram a strand of fallen hair under her misshaped bonnet, only causing more locks to tumble down. She blew them from her face. “First, I have never trusted you and never will, but second, does she have a mirror and a spare hairpin or two or three or a dozen?”

***

With her bonnet pulled low, concealing her face, Isabella stood outside a black door that, except for the painted number seventeen, matched every door on the street of identical brick row domiciles. How could people live here? She would be forever trying to come home to her neighbor's house.

“I thought you lived in your father's house in St. James's when you were in London.”

He shrugged and pulled the doorbell. “This is a place I keep when I want to get away.”

The door opened, and a short woman in her mid-fifties appeared. She had unnatural bluish auburn hair that dangled in curls about her wide, lovely face. She was clad in a plain gray servant's gown, which she had accessorized with a rich red shawl, bracelets, necklaces, and earrings. Little biscuit crumbs were sprinkled over her more than ample bosom.

“Lord Randall!” She clapped her hands together. Despite being a rather large woman, her voice was surprisingly high and light, like a small girl's. “I was just reading and nibbling biscuits, happy as you please, no idea that you were in London! Come in. Come in. Oh, and who is
this
young lady?”

Stepping inside the tiny hall, Isabella held out her hand. “Hello, I'm Miss—”

“Izzy May,” Randall supplied. “She's an
acquaintance
. Miss Izzy, this is Mrs. Perdita, my housekeeper.”

“Perdita, like the famed courtesan of George IV.” The housekeeper bobbed her head as she spoke, her curls bouncing.

“Oh.” Isabella blinked, not expecting that saucy tidbit in polite conversation. “How, um, interesting.”

“I took Perdita as my own name when I entered the theater as a mere baby. Everyone said I resembled the grand lady. You wouldn't know to look at me now, but I was a darling little thing. A regular pocket Venus. All the gentlemen desired me.” She waved her hand, clanging the bracelets on her wrists. “Ah, that was years and years ago. Now I just take care of this gentleman here.” She inclined her head toward Isabella. “Mind you, he is the best one of the lot, and I've known quite a few men in my day, I tell you. Quite a few.” She wagged her finger at the viscount. “But he's a naughty little boy sometimes, sneaking away from his mother's house party. Do come, do come.” She hurried through the first door on
the right.

Randall clasped Isabella's elbow, trying to escort her, but she dug in her heels. “Just what do you use this flat for when you're in town?” she said through her tight smile.

“As I said, I come here to get away.”

She spun. “I'll just wager you do. I can't believe you brought me to…to your pied-à-terre!” she hissed. “You have gone too far. Don't you dare think that because I let you kiss me that—”

“Do come in,” Mrs. Perdita called from the parlor. “Pardon my crumbs. I was reading a most wonderful book—the author is a partner in your bank, Lord Randall. You should have told me about it sooner. Everyone's reading it.”

“No!” Isabella squeaked and tried to make a break, but he held her tight.

“She's just going to help you with your toilette,” he said, dragging her across the corridor, her bootheels sliding on the floor. “Lend you a few items.”

“I doubt we are the same size.” She slid across the threshold into the parlor. She sucked in her breath.

She had never been in a man's pied-à-terre, and she expected some garish Ottoman harem–theme with draped fabrics, pillows, and suggestive art and statuettes, not a comfortable room with an inviting leather sofa, draped in blankets, and matching chairs. On the round tables in the corners were small stacks of leather books with little figures on top. A bureau desk stood beside the fireplace. On the shelves were more books. Several newspapers were folded on a side table by the door, and a small fire burned in the ceramic grate.

She was supposed to be outraged, offended, affronted; instead, the low hiss of the fire made her want to curl up on the sofa under the soft blankets and catch up on those hours of sleep she had missed.

The housekeeper stacked several lacy handkerchiefs and a plate of biscuits atop Isabella's volume. “'Twas such a lovely book your partner wrote.” She sniffed. “Why didn't you tell me about her?”

“Oh, she's an odd bird.” He winked at Isabella. “A rickety, withered old spinster who frightens me.” For that, he got a quick jab in the ribs.

“Well, I never thought a book about something as boring as the funds and business would make me emotional. But when she started in about little Hannah being used and abandoned by that wicked baron…” She patted her huge bosom and dabbed her eyes with one of the handkerchiefs. “It was like she knew my own heart.”

“My
acquaintance
had to spend the night in a train station and then had her bag stolen by some vagrant,” he explained. “I thought you might be so kind as to assist her toilette, perhaps give her any necessary items that might have been left behind.”

What? Left behind? By whom?
Before Isabella could say “I would rather wear the same grimy, stinking, wrinkled, clingy chemise and gown for a month than dress in your lover's clean, perfect clothes,” Mrs. Perdita clapped her hands and exclaimed, “Why, I hid all of those lovely things you gave Cecelia. I wouldn't let that evil devil woman take those clothes and jewelry after what she did to you.” She glanced at Isabella. “Broke my poor boy's heart, she did.”

All Isabella's outrage was temporarily suspended as she reeled from the amazing discovery that some woman actually hurt Randall. What woman, well, besides her, would not madly desire him? Surely, she must not have heard Mrs. Perdita correctly. “A lady broke your heart?” she asked him.

He kept his gaze down, not answering.

“That horrid Mr. Harding stole her. No doubt out of vengeance. But you know what I say, good riddance. A selfish, feeling-less girl she was, but my lord never saw it—too much in love. Oh, but she'll come back begging. Mark my words.”