Lady Rogue

by Theresa Romain

  He wanted, too, to knit himself into Lady Isabel Morrow’s life. Had wanted that since the moment he saw her; had never managed to stop.

  Already, he’d been silent too long. Janey narrowed shrewd eyes. “Never mind that,” he said. “Keep your ear to the ground, will you?”

  “If you give it a shilling to weight it down.” Her grin was cheeky.

  He almost smiled at that. “Got to look out for yourself,” he agreed, and pressed the coin into her palm. “Oh, one more thing. Have you heard anything unusual to do with the tea shop on James?”

  “Morrison’s? Nahhh. He’s a good one. Gives a girl a cup of tea, like, in winter when the whole world seems froze.”

  Consistent with Davina Jenks’s opinion that the shop owner was no kind of businessman. “Thanks. Good to know. Here, Janey—another shilling. Keep both ears to the ground, all right then?”

  “Flat as they get,” she agreed.

  After this, Callum left the courtroom and headed for his rooms on James Street. Not far from the heart of his work; closer still to the hearth of the family that had raised him.

  He imagined that, miles away, on Lombard Street, Lady Isabel Morrow roamed an elegant house with a hidden room. Readied herself for bed. Dreamed.

  For approximately the five hundred fortieth time—only approximately, for though he’d met her eighteen months before, he was neither a mathematician nor a besotted fool—he wondered whether she thought of him. And what. And why. And for how long. If she was worried about the plan for the following night. If she would agree to see him again after it was carried out.

  Questions, so many questions, raced through his mind until he fell asleep.

  Just another tradition.

  Chapter Ten

  “Lord Martindale has arrived, my lady.”

  Selby’s voice broke into Isabel’s reverie. Her fingertips, which had been dancing silently over the keys of the drawing room’s pianoforte, crashed over the notes discordantly.

  Martin? Here? Today, of all days, when she had friends to charm and a painting to steal? Under her breath, she cursed.

  Then, pasting a smile on her features, she turned to face her butler. “I was not aware that his lordship was planning to visit. Did he send word?”

  Selby paused. For him, this was a sign of thunderous disapproval—though whether of Isabel or Martin, she was not sure. “His lordship indicated only that he was in receipt of troubling news.”

  Her brow puckered. “Is it to do with our father? Is Lord Greenfield well?”

  “Indeed, my lady. The matter does not pertain to your father.” Selby’s already correct posture grew even straighter. “Lord Martindale is available to speak with you at any time. I told his lordship I would ascertain whether you were prepared to accept callers.”

  “He must have loved that,” she said under her breath. Martin hated being thwarted. “As a matter of fact, Selby, I am only waiting for Miss Wallace to come downstairs; then we are to walk out with friends.”

  The first step in the plan to relieve the Duke of Ardmore of his false Botticelli: a long walk with Isabel, Lucy, and Brinley as well as Selina, George, and the duke’s two hounds, Gog and Magog. Bringing dogs along on a casual promenade was an odd request, but Isabel had made up some ridiculous excuse about Brinley being lonely for friends, and the Godwins were too polite to demur. In truth, she hoped to tire out the hounds enough to subdue their aggression. Exercise, more than any food, had worked to calm Brinley.

  “Have his lordship settled in the Chinese bedchamber,” she decided, “and we shall see him when we return.”

  “No need for that. For making me wait or packing me off to a bedchamber.” Aloysius Newcombe, Lord Martindale, pushed past Selby to enter the drawing room, then strode toward Isabel. “I’ll see you now, as you’ve time. You’d put your own brother off merely for a walk? Disappointing.”

  Selby withdrew, the picture of silent tact.

  All tailoring and exactitude, Martin drew up short as he reached the pianoforte. “Were you playing? Why didn’t you raise the lid?”

  Because she could feel Butler’s letters gummed under it, obvious as a lit candle in a lantern. “It would be too loud if I raised the lid,” she excused. “I didn’t want to overpower your welcome in case you happened to call unexpectedly at an odd hour of the day.”

  Martin was a creature of great literalness, so he accepted this. “Excellent foresight. That was thoughtful of you.”

  “Sit, sit.” Isabel pushed over to one side of the bench, then regarded her brother. He was a male mirror of herself, medium in build and with the same dark hair and eyes. Twelve years her senior, he had wed young and sensibly and filled the nursery of the family’s estate in Kent.

  True, Lady Martindale had done most of the difficult bits, but Martin took full credit for the health and successes of his children. It was a year after Andrew’s death before Martin ceased looking expectantly at Isabel’s midsection, as if wondering how anyone who shared his blood could fail to take the proper steps in progressing through life. Marriage, children, widowhood. Careless of Isabel to skip the second.

  He settled onto the bench beside her, taking care not to sit on and wrinkle his coat. “Isabel. I heard you were planning to set up your own household. That cannot be true.”

  Gossip. Miraculous gossip—the only thing in the world that traveled faster than a horse. “I do have my own household. And surely it was too early for my letter to reach you? I only sent it yesterday.”

  “What letter?”

  “You didn’t receive my letter? How did you know about my plan?”

  “I’ve been here in London since yesterday, conducting some business for Father. Stayed at Greenfield House, of course—that’s why you wouldn’t have known I was here. Ran into Ardmore at the club last night, and he said he’d put you on to the scent of a house agent.”

  She sifted through his words, found a troubling grain. “You weren’t planning to call on me otherwise?” Though she’d joked of their distance to Callum, the realization stung.

  Martin pokered up. “I told you, I am here on business. I have been much occupied.” To his credit, he didn’t look her in the eye when he said this.

  “All that the duke told you is accurate,” Isabel granted. “This was Morrow’s house. I should like my own instead.”

  He pressed a key at random, doubtful. “It’s not usually done for a woman to buy a house of her own. But I suppose there is no harm in it, if the address is good.”

  “I did go over a house in Russell Square yesterday.”

  Martin looked mollified. “Excellent choice.”

  “But I decided it didn’t suit, so I looked at a few rooms over a shop in Cheapside.”

  His jaw went slack. “You are joking.”

  She poked him in the side, enjoying his startled expression. “I am. The house agent did offer, but the second would suit me no more than the first.”

  “I am relieved to hear it.” And he truly did sound relieved, as if he’d just learned she’d made a narrow escape from a rampaging lion.

  She laughed. “I am spoiled; I want a comfortable home. You needn’t fear that I will choose against my own preferences.”

  He poked another key on the pianoforte. “I do worry about you, with no one to look after you.”

  Callum Jenks said he would. She hid her smile within, warm like the memory of his gruff, calm words.

  “Thank you for that. Do forgive me, Martin, but I cannot visit longer just now. Lucy and I have an appointment to walk out with Lady Selina Godwin. Is that not an excellent choice of company?” She repeated his own phrase.

  He was blinking rather a lot and did not reply.

  “You are welcome to order whatever you like of the servants, of course. Or come walking out with us. Lord Northbrook is coming too—you could talk about masculine things.”

  Now Martin looked interested. “Is he courting Lucy?” As a rule, he didn’t approve of Lucy, who had neither birth nor for
tune to recommend her. But interest from a ducal heir would repair these faults.

  “No, George is not looking for a wife as yet. But I hope Brinley will make a friend of his father’s dogs.”

  “Isabel, you are growing odd in your widowhood. And what is this you are wearing?”

  She looked down. “It’s a walking dress.”

  “I mean your pelisse.”

  “It’s a pelisse. As I mentioned, I’m preparing to walk out.”

  “It’s blue.”

  “Quite right.” It was a subdued sort of evening-ish color, but it was, if one wanted to be quite specific, blue.

  “But you are in mourning!”

  Had she been hurt that he hadn’t planned to call on her? Ha. That would have been preferable. Exasperated, she slid from the bench, forcing Martin to spring to his feet as well lest he demonstrate unmannerliness.

  “Brother. Dear. Morrow died more than eighteen months ago, and you never liked him while he was alive. To twit me now for wearing a blue pelisse over my gray is unkind.”

  “Isabel!” He sounded shocked.

  “Mar. Tin. Dale.” She punctuated each syllable with a rap on the lid of the pianoforte. “You mind only that I am not allowing you the polite fiction of concern anymore.”

  “But I have need of it! You have lost sight of proper manners.”

  She rubbed at the sleek finish of the instrument’s lid, marred by her touch. “I am a wealthy widow. Must I have proper manners?”

  “You are a marquess’s daughter. I should be ashamed if you had anything but.”

  “Oh, Martin.” She sighed. “Could you not be ashamed of more substantial crimes than my telling you the truth?”

  “You are not yourself anymore. Grief has addled your wits.” He flicked his gaze over her clothing, frowning. “And you cannot just invent fashion. You should follow it, so you do not draw undue attention to yourself.”

  He was stuffier than a taxidermied elephant. “I am myself, I believe, more than ever. Perhaps my wits have been sharpened. And what is undue attention?”

  “Any attention.”

  “I thought so.” She shook her head. “Martin. I am a grown woman. I shall not behave as if I am a shadow any longer.”

  All this over a dark blue pelisse! What a sad little rebellion, if it were even intentional. But she’d put it on innocently, not meaning to start a battle of words with her brother. Now he had awoken a wondering in her. What sort of attention would she like? What sort of fashion ought she to favor?

  So deep she was in her wondering, she almost missed his next words.

  “Our mother never—” He pressed his lips together, cutting off the sentence.

  “What?” It came out harshly, so she asked again—gently this time. “What did our mother never do, or say, or think? I don’t know, Martin. I honestly don’t.”

  At this appeal to his greater knowledge, he softened like wax worked in friendly hands. “Poor mite. You never knew her, and I got twelve years with her.”

  Poor mite. Honestly. “I’m a grown woman, for the second time. But yes, if you’re to hold her up as an example, you must tell me what she’s an example of. I suppose I knew her on the day I was born, but as she passed away just hours later, I cannot recall.”

  He looked grave, his eyes turning sad. “It was difficult. She was docile, always doing what father wanted. There were so many babies lost between my birth and yours. It wasn’t your fault when she died.”

  “I know that it wasn’t. I was a baby, and I didn’t choose to make myself.”

  He hadn’t chosen to make himself either, she realized. Son and heir, only child of a noble couple, their sole comfort as child after child was lost. They must have heaped more expectations upon him with every passing year, until he all but ossified beneath the burden.

  “Thank you for calling on me,” she said. “Truly. I know you act out of concern.” For his own reputation as much as her well-being, certainly. But it didn’t much matter. The effect was the same.

  Her gracious words softened the stubborn line of his jaw. “You are most welcome. I return to Kent in the morning, but I shall call on you again before I go.”

  “Come for breakfast,” she offered recklessly, and he agreed.

  If all went as planned, tomorrow morning she’d be sleepless and euphoric after switching the Duke of Ardmore’s painting. The idea appealed, facing her brother and Lucy over toast and marmalade, neither of them knowing what she’d done. Yet both of them would benefit. Her small trespass would prevent a greater scandal.

  “I must go now,” she said. “I’ve plans, and it’s time to get on with them.”

  * * *

  Each member of the team had his or her part to play that afternoon. Isabel walked with the others and the dogs until everyone was footsore. When she returned home, she burned all of Butler’s letters, for they were all to become moot.

  As none of them had found a way to force a window latch from the outside, Butler was to ensure that a window at Ardmore House was broken. He intended to press a street urchin into service. For the excessive price of a half-crown, they would buy his silence as well.

  As evening fell, the boy was to come onto the rarefied street and throw stones at the house, being sure to hit the windows of the study that were pointed out to him. If the job were completed late enough, there would not be time for a glazier to make a repair until the next day.

  This would be the way in.

  Isabel passed the rest of the day in one task after another. She collected the necessary supplies and put them in a small black satchel with a long string that could be slung over her shoulder like a pack. She sent Celeste, her lady’s maid, to buy a youth’s mourning clothes from a secondhand shop, as “I know someone who has need of them.” It was becoming a common excuse for her.

  The most important task, of course, was retrieving the original Botticelli from the hidden room. The process was hardly distasteful at all this time. She remembered sidling up the hidden stairs with Callum and imagined he was there again.

  When she reached the room and laid hands on the painting, relief flooded her. Relief that this bit of Morrow’s legacy would be undone, that this particular reminder of her failures as a wife would be gone. Many more remained, their painted eyes accusing as she slipped from the room with the priceless painting under a cloth. She took satisfaction in turning the key on them before she headed back down the stairs with her parcel.

  And then it was only necessary to wait. Wait through dinner and make pleasant conversation with Lucy; wait for the long late-spring day to end and night to fall. It must be night, full night with only a moon to guide them, before they ventured out.

  At midnight, Isabel was waiting behind her house with the painting. She saw nothing, heard nothing—and then Callum’s voice was a whisper in her ear. “You don’t look the slightest bit like a man.”

  She jolted, almost dropping the painting, then turned toward him. He was all in black, his face shaded by a brimmed cap. Until he appeared, she had almost doubted that he would. That any of this would happen. That she, Lady Isabel Morrow, proper widow who had never worn anything more scandalous than a dark blue pelisse, was now wearing cheap boys’ clothing and carrying a mourning-shawl-wrapped painting of three nude women.

  “Hullo to you too,” she whispered. “You do look like a man. What of it?”

  “Your—” He waved a hand at her hips. “You aren’t the right shape. No one will be fooled.”

  “I’m not trying to fool anyone. I only want to be able to climb without a bunch of skirts getting in the way.”

  He considered this. “Since we don’t intend to be noticed at all, your point is well made. Shall we?” He stretched out a hand to the painting, and she released it. Another flood of relief, to have it out of her own hands.

  “I couldn’t think of doing this with anyone else,” she said.

  “I couldn’t think of doing this for anyone else.” She thought he smiled, but with his face
shadowed and the moon behind him, it was difficult to tell.

  “Thank you. I hope we shall make things right.”

  “That is the whole reason for my career,” he said. “And for this unusual outgrowth of it.”

  The walk to Ardmore House was not long. At this hour of the night, traffic was light, the tonnish revelers who had left for the evening not yet on their way home. The air was cool and petulant, with yellow fog twining around lamps and buildings, disturbed by breeze and the threat of rain. It jaundiced the moon, turning the crescent of silver light to sooty dullness.

  As much as possible, they slipped through mews, an unfamiliar world at night. The weight of the pistol was heavy in her pack. If she needed it, she wouldn’t be able to reach it in time. Callum’s hands were full of the painting, so he was helpless too.

  She thought all this, eyes wide, heart racing, as they slinked from street to street—but then, before she had made up her mind to take the painting back from him, they were there: in the mews behind Ardmore House. Butler awaited them, also garbed in black.

  Callum collected them into a huddle. “This is a tipping point,” he murmured. “We can all still leave. We could leave the duke with the painting he believes to be real, and you can leave with a clear conscience, having committed no crime.”

  “I won’t have a clear conscience unless I do the right thing,” she whispered back. “It’s not for Morrow’s memory. It’s for Lucy.”

  “I already hired a boy to break a duke’s windows,” Butler said mildly. “I’m in.”

  As he was too large of frame to fit easily through a window, he had agreed to take up watch. First, though, he helped to boost Isabel over the wall that separated the house and yard from the mews. Once she was over, landing quiet as a cat in her kid half-boots, Butler and Callum slid the cloth-wrapped painting over the wall; then Callum climbed over and followed her.