Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  No, falling in love was out of the question—that would be the ultimate follow-the-boyfriend move.

  If she accepted his outrageous proposal, could she trust herself to keep it a strict business arrangement? She had a trick for major decisions. She’d sift through the pros and cons and come to a rational decision based on available evidence. She’d then tell herself that was her decision and go to bed. Then, in the morning, before she would fully wake, she’d do a gut check. If she was happy, it was the right choice. If, however, she felt the least bit of dread, she knew it was the wrong one.

  She always believed she should do what would make her happy. Well, obviously if it didn’t affect anyone else. So, she mentally went through her options now. She also tried to do a gut check on Lord Montagu, the person. Her sense told her Lord Montagu was one of the good ones; he wouldn’t harm her. Vicious Viscount, my ass.

  Besides, she had her Hop Gar Kung Fu skills if he got out of hand, right? She should start doing her routines again in the mornings to keep in shape. But then, knowing Kung Fu didn’t always help.

  She forced her mind to relax, but more thoughts kept popping up—the guilt about the help she’d received from Ada, the need to find her case.

  And to do that, she’d need money to investigate, to buy it back if she were lucky enough to find it in this time’s equivalent of a pawn shop.

  Lord Montagu said he’d give her an allowance.

  Lord Montagu also made her toes curl. Okay, can’t make rational decisions based on that. Though it would be a perk, hmmm.

  Erg, no. She was supposed to stay away from him, right?

  But Lord Montagu was trustworthy, she just knew it. Or was that her Guy Gullibility talking again?

  Bigger than that, she needed to find a way to stay in London to find her case so she could return home. She couldn’t go with Ada to her home an hour away. The money could help with that, too.

  Lord, if she couldn’t find the case, she’d be stuck in the past where they hadn’t heard of toilet paper or women’s lib.

  “Ada, I haven’t had a chance to tell you, as things have been so busy, but I think I’ve figured out how I got here.” Isabelle filled her in on her theory and the new urgency for finding her stolen case. “But, this will be harder if I go to Fordhook with you. How often do you go into town?”

  “Usually, every Saturday I stay at Mrs. Somerville’s and attend Charles Babbage’s Saturday night soiree.”

  “Oh, wow, he has parties every Saturday?”

  “Yes, it is an opportunity for him to find new benefactors for his Difference Engine. He demonstrates a model, which is quite fascinating. Many of our foremost thinkers are in attendance.”

  “Are you going this Saturday?”

  “Yes, I thought we could both attend, if you would like?”

  “Foremost thinkers of your time? Party at Charles Babbage’s? No...”

  “Oh, well, I imagine we are not―”

  “Ada, I’m joking. This is so exciting for me. I get to meet people, in person, whom I’ve read about only in history books. I would not miss this, even if I find my case before then.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. It’ll put me a week behind at work, which will be difficult to make up, but this is worth it.” She wanted to ask if Lord Montagu would be there, but resisted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing, it’s that while I’m here, Andrew, my arch rival at the museum, is no doubt hobnobbing with the Board of Directors. We’re both up for the same position. For him, it’s only another step on the ladder, but for me, it means I get to stay permanently in London, working for the British Museum. Right now, my job’s only temporary. I can’t tell you how important it is for me to stay in London.”

  Her life had finally come together when she’d moved to London. Except for Andrew. Perhaps she’d tried too hard to fit him in. He’d seemed safe—someone with her own interests who could fold into her life with no ramifications, no threat of giving up her own self.

  Yes, other than the Andrew anomaly, the move had been right for her. She’d finally found herself and begun to have a real life again without her family. She had to get back. To her house, to her job, to her life.

  She cleared her throat. “Ada, how much would it cost for me to rent a decent place in London?”

  “You cannot mean to live on your own.”

  “I need to stay in London to find my case so I can return home.”

  “Perhaps I could speak with Mrs. Somerville. She might be able to provide you with an opportunity to stay here.”

  Isabelle tightened her fingers on the carriage curtain, frustrated by her inability to take action for herself.

  And then there was the problem of Lord Montagu.

  The next afternoon, Isabelle sat in the Somerville drawing room with Ada and her formidable mother, Lady Byron, when Lord Montagu called.

  “Lord Montagu, here? How intriguing,” Lady Byron replied. “Show him in. He has quite neglected me of late. No doubt he has heard of my arrival and latest illness and has come to offer condolences.”

  Condolences? Isabelle gaped at Lady Byron; she seemed quite healthy.

  What was he doing here? Did he expect an answer to his proposal already?

  Lady Byron continued, “So kind of him to be solicitous, but then, he should be. I am a close relation, after all, and one cannot be too solicitous when it comes to family. Is that not so, Ada? No, not at all.”

  Good Lord. She wished Lady Byron’s embroidery needle would slip from her fingers, whip around, and stab the back of her hand. She’d arrived early this morning, and already she grated. She was here to escort Ada back to Fordhook tomorrow, and hopefully only Ada. Fortunately, Lord Montagu swept into the room and bowed. As usual, the stupid homing beacon inside her perked up and zeroed in on him.

  “Lady Byron. Miss Byron. Miss Rochon.”

  “Tut, tut, my boy. Come and sit by me,” the Witch said. “That’s my dear boy. I was telling these young ladies how kind you are to see how I fare. I assure you, I have been quite ill, no doubt you heard. This latest doctor is a quack—he refuses to bleed me. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

  “Quite. Actually, my lady, I have come to solicit a word with Miss Rochon, if I may? Though, I am grieved to hear of your latest setback. I do hope you are on the mend soon.”

  Isabelle sat straighter, aware of his gaze alighting on her, feeling her skin heat in response.

  “Miss Rochon?” Lady Byron set down her needlework.

  “Yes, if I may.”

  Lady Byron glared at Isabelle, but replied sweetly, “Of course, pay no mind to us.” She picked up her needlework.

  He cleared his throat. “I did hope for a private audience.”

  Isabelle’s stomach dipped.

  “Private? What are you about, my lord? What could you possibly want with her?”

  “I assure you, Lady Byron, what I wish to discuss with Miss Rochon is both honorable and private.”

  “Hmph. Very well. Ada, let us go consult the lady’s maid about packing your things. We shall return in ten minutes,” this last she directed at Lord Montagu as she exited the room. She left the door slightly ajar.

  He sat forward, elbows on knees, and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. His gaze settled on her mouth, and warmth bloomed inside her. He shook his head and wiped his hands on his pants. “Miss Rochon, I do not wish to push, but I hoped you might have an answer for me.” His fascinating eyes held hers and she made herself not fidget, or look away.

  “I do.” This morning when she had awakened, while she hadn’t felt exactly happy, she hadn’t felt any dread. However, she needed to find out how much of a commitment it would be. She must be flexible enough to not only have time to find her case, but to leave as soon as she did. Hopefully, he needed her for only a few days.

  She took a deep breath and checked her gut again for any last minute waverings.

  All systems go. All right. “Before
I give my answer, can you explain exactly what my duties would be, what you would expect from me.”

  “A reasonable request. We shall send a notice to the paper. The ton will be curious to meet you, and I expect you will receive a number of invitations to soirees, routs, and balls that would otherwise not come my way. While I am admitted to some homes, others—the ones I desire—are denied me. That is the primary motive for this arrangement, you understand. You will show me any invitations you receive, and I will tell you which ones to accept. I will escort you to and from those events.”

  Wow, he was a bossy sort, but then again, she’d asked, and she would basically be in his employ.

  “In addition,” he continued, “we will take the occasional afternoon ride in Hyde Park, and generally engage in the expected activities of the newly betrothed. At all times, I will behave with propriety, you may be assured.”

  Oh, man, this might be more than she could handle—this could encourage her attraction. It also sounded more long-term.

  She swallowed. “And what do I get in return?” Isabelle cringed; it sounded so crass, but she needed to know.

  “I will give you a betrothal gift of one hundred pounds and a monthly allowance of twenty-five.”

  Hadn’t the Dashwoods lived on something like five hundred pounds a year in Sense and Sensibility? It sounded like a fair deal to her. More than she had right now. But the scheme sounded more involved than she’d thought. He was going to announce it in the papers?

  He must have read her silence as hesitation. “If you feel that is inadequate for your needs, I can raise it to a hundred and fifty pounds, and thirty a month.”

  “No, that is generous, the former will be fine. But, I think I should warn you my situation here is, uh, temporary. I know I will be here through Saturday, but after that, I cannot promise. Perhaps we should skip the betrothal gift? Or maybe this is not such a good idea?”

  “Temporary? What do you mean ‘temporary’? I need assurance you can commit to at least one month of this charade.”

  “One month?”

  Of course, she might not find her case for another month and it wouldn’t matter, but what if she found it within a week and her hunch was right? The conference where she’d be giving her big paper was a month and a half away, but she hadn’t yet discovered the identity of the owner of the case and journal. Also, applications for the new job closed in a week and a half, and interviews would start the first week in June. She’d already submitted the paperwork, but she needed to be back for the interview. If she even had her job. They’d probably already fired her for not showing up on Monday. Her plan to place the letters to Katy with Barclay’s bank just had to work.

  Of course, it might happen that she returned on the day she left.

  Isabelle stood, causing him to stand. She paced the room. Ugh. He remained standing. Damn nineteenth century manners.

  She sat again and he followed suit. The desire to return soon to salvage and forward her career battled with her practical need for money to survive here until she could return. What if it did take longer than a few weeks to find her case and get back home?

  Her house... She missed it. It was her refuge—where she’d finally pieced together a sense of self. “Two weeks. I cannot promise anything past that,” she said.

  He opened and closed his mouth, frowned, and then said, “Very well. Two weeks.”

  “So perhaps we should skip the betrothal gift?”

  He waved a hand at her. “No, keep it for expenses. You shall be incurring costs as a result of this arrangement. However, we shall hold off on the monthly allowance until the duration becomes clearer.”

  “Thank you.” The silence stretched. She looked at him and could have sworn she caught him looking at her hands, but he looked quickly away. She cleared her throat.

  He picked a piece of lint off his top hat in his lap. He then looked at her as if he were going to say something more, but instead stood and bowed. “I have much to attend to. I shall make all the arrangements, and I shall direct your betrothal gift with my man of affairs in town. Good day.”

  Isabelle stood, her mouth hanging open. That was that?

  He paused at the threshold into the hall and turned back, his hand resting on the door latch. Oh good, he was going to say something that would humanize it a little, make it less... cold.

  “I neglected to relate that I entrusted your drawing of the case to the Runner I hired, and I will inform you as soon as anything arises.”

  And with that, he left.

  Isabelle slumped down on the settee. On top of having to pretend to be from this time, now she had to pretend to be his fiancée. What had Sir Walter Scott famously written? Oh! What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive?

  If only you knew, Walt. If only you knew.

  May 11th

  Katy,

  Lord Montagu (the cute guy I mentioned in the first letter) has asked me to pose as his fiancée (long story) and I’ve accepted the crazy scheme. I hope I’m not making a big mistake. Weird to think there’ll be no time lapse for you between these two letters, as you’ll get both on the same day. I’ve also promised Lord Montagu I’d be here two weeks. So, can you let my boss know I’ll be gone for at least that long? Say that I’m the only relative left and I had to wrap up my uncle’s estate, or something, and am not sure how long that’ll take.

  Meanwhile, Lady B offered me a loan of money at dinner tonight. She presented herself as playing my savior and wasn’t she so good to do this for me? She kept going on and on and saying as how I was in a precarious position and should be so grateful for her help.

  Ada had warned me not to accept favors from her, that it was a form of control, and I politely, but firmly, turned her down. I was then so thankful of Lord M’s scheme, I would’ve jumped up and kissed him if he’d walked into the room. She looked put out by my refusal. Had a hard time accepting ‘No’ from me.

  She’s quite the specimen. I swear, I can practically see her donning an air of martyrdom like a cloak whenever anyone comes near. It’s as if everything she does is calculated for show, not because she feels it.

  She also strikes me as someone who sees everything in black and white and can’t see shades of gray. Shades of gray scare the crap out of her, I think. Maybe that was the problem with Lord Byron—he scared her because she couldn’t control him? Maybe he brought out shades of gray in her.

  Anyway, it was easy for Ada to persuade her mother to allow her to stay, so The Witch leaves tomorrow alone, which is great for Ada and me. Mrs. Somerville doesn’t know the truth about me, and I’d miss having someone who understands me, plus, I still need her help learning etiquette. Apparently, her mom goes to “take the cure” from time to time at various spas and this gave her an excuse to do so. Been doing it since Ada was born—apparently she’s been at death’s door since. A hypochondriac if I ever saw one. Makes Ada feel guilty about it—holds it over her head― “You need to listen to me, dear, as I might not be around much longer,” things like that....

  ...Now that I’m doing the fianceé thing, I’ll need a larger wardrobe, so Ada and I are going shopping tomorrow—we made a list tonight. We’re also going to get these letters to you via Barclay’s.

  I wish you could write back...

  Chapter Eleven

  Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,

  Sadder than owl—songs or the midnight blast,

  Is that portentous phrase, I told you so.

  Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIV

  The next day, Isabelle peered out the carriage window as they headed into the City of London—specifically Lombard Street and the offices of Barclay’s Bank. A part of London vastly different from her own unfolded. Sights and insights assaulted her with increasing rapidity: children thronged the streets and sidewalks, greatly outnumbering adults; these children roamed in packs unsupervised; scrawny kids swept crosswalks for passersby for tips; wooden shop signs plastered everywhere; and the noise and acr
id smell infused everything. No order reigned anywhere, no relief to the siege on her senses. All was cruddy, chaotic, and cobbled together.

  They pulled up at Barclay’s, and Isabelle let out a light giggle—the name of the nearest cross street had caught her eye: Gracechurch Street, the location of Elizabeth Bennet’s fictional aunt and uncle in Pride and Prejudice. So, this must be Cheapside?

  Isabelle clutched the packet of letters and ventured inside, Ada alongside as her sidekick for moral, and possible etiquette, support. Oh, please work.

  “I do not think this will work, Isabelle,” Ada said for the bazillionth time. “Women are not permitted to have bank accounts, so I highly doubt they will allow you to deposit these in their vault, much less hold them for so long.”

  Nope. Not listening.

  The first couple of clerks turned her down, but Isabelle persisted and generally did her best to be such a pest about it, she was finally put before one of the managers.

  “I understand you wish to place something in our care?” The kindly looking man squinted at her over his desk.

  Isabelle tried to sound polite and demure. “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is your husband?”

  “My husband?”

  He spoke slowly as if explaining something to a child. “Yes, your husband. He should handle such matters.”

  Isabelle counted to ten. “I am not married.”

  “Brother? Uncle?... Guardian?”