Lady Rogue

by Theresa Romain

  His mother was more than making up for her lapse now. “So good to meet a friend of Callum’s! He’s so close-lipped, you know. We canna get a word out of him about who he’s spending time with.”

  Did she bat her eyes? Was she hinting about—oh, good Lord. “Mum,” he said. “Mother. Please.”

  “Whisht, enough. Now, Lady Isabel, you must be hungry. And you’re slim as a reed! Eat, eat, have some tea.”

  Isabel gave the smile Callum now recognized as one of embarrassed politeness. “Oh, no—no, thank you. I’m quite all right.”

  His mother protested, listing half a dozen eatables she could fetch at a moment’s notice.

  “Mum,” Callum said quietly, remembering. Morrow thought it unladylike, Isabel had said. And eating when she wished, what she wished—that was one of her dreams. “Don’t press her. She knows what she wants.”

  “All right, then,” Davina granted. “But she must expect notice, beauty as she is.”

  “Inside as well as out,” Callum affirmed.

  Isabel pretended not to hear him. Callum pretended he didn’t know she had.

  When they locked eyes, though, the mere glance went deeper than words. It was a resonant sort of look. Like the bell that rang over the door of the grocery: Welcome, welcome. You are in the right place.

  He smiled. She smiled back.

  Had he thought the store crowded? There was no one else there; no one else in the world.

  Then Davina cleared her throat, and Callum’s surroundings swam back into his awareness. “Well! You’re welcome anytime, my lady, though this rascally son of mine only comes by once a week.”

  “Does he?” Isabel looked interested. “And what does he do when he visits? How rascally is he?”

  “So rascally.” Davina rolled her eyes indulgently. “Last time he was here, he took a pound of the best tea. If he gave it to his charwoman, I’ll have his hide! She takes so much sugar, she wouldna notice if he brought her old ground-up coffee beans instead.”

  “She would notice,” Callum sighed. This was not the first time his mother had spouted this opinion, yet she was happy enough to sell sugar by the pound to Mrs. Sockett.

  He looked to Isabel for confirmation about the tea Mrs. Sockett served, but her attention had turned. “Mrs. Jenks. Will you introduce me to the lady in the lovely pink gown?”

  Davina turned to follow her gaze. “Bless me, you didna meet her yet? I thought we’d introduced you to everyone.”

  “I thought so too,” Callum muttered.

  His mother elbowed him, maintaining an expression of friendly calm. “That’s our Celia, my lady. Almost ours, that is. She was to wed our Harry, but he was killed before their marriage, God rest him. She was companion to her aunt, and when her aunt died soon after Harry, she came to live with us.”

  “She has a kind face,” Isabel said. “And a lovely one. Will you introduce me?”

  Who could resist such an entreaty? Callum watched as his mother all but dragged Isabel over to the foot of the stairs, where Celia stood—not quite in the store, not quite away from it.

  To Callum, Celia had always seemed faded, even before Harry died. Her aunt kept her under a thumb, and the marriage that would have meant an escape had never happened. Instead she was cramped into a corner of the upstairs rooms, given quiet tasks that would not tax her.

  Once Davina floated off to attend to a customer, Callum sidled close enough to overhear the younger women’s conversation.

  “Readily do I believe it,” he overheard Isabel say. “And what would you like best to do in the store, do you think?”

  “I can’t say.” Celia retreated a step.

  “Please, I’m curious. I’ve little knowledge of what it takes to run a store.”

  In her expression was curiosity, but also kindness. Patience. Something he could not put a name to, quite. He only knew that it called to him, a desire to connect. If she turned such a look upon him, he would be at her feet.

  Celia was not immune, either. After a long pause, a blush, a stammer, her tongue was unlocked. As Callum listened, the woman he had thought contented with solitude told Isabel of the grocery’s great network of suppliers, and how Jamie and Mr. Jenks were constantly negotiating and renegotiating.

  “If I worked in the store,” said Celia, “I should like to find out what people have enjoyed in the past. Then I could suggest things that they might also like.”

  “You are a diplomat,” said Isabel.

  “Oh, no.” Celia blushed again. “Jamie’s the diplomat.”

  Callum spluttered. He had drawn closer to the women than he’d realized, for Isabel shot him a warning look. He turned away, feigning indifference even as his ears were still drawn to their conversation.

  “But I think I could help, all the same,” Celia added. “Though I help with other things now. Mending and whatnot.”

  So. Not much else, then. How did she fill her time? For the first time, Callum wondered.

  “I would be grateful if you would help me now,” said Isabel. “What would you suggest as a treat for my ward? She likes every sort of fruit and sweet, but it cannot be good for her to eat so many.”

  The barest pause. “Perhaps almonds. They are the sweetest of nuts, and if she enjoys marchpane she will already be fond of the flavor.”

  Davina returned to Callum’s side just as Isabel replied, “The very thing. I’ll have a pound, and we’ll see how she gets on with them.”

  “Mum,” Callum murmured in that lady’s ear. “Look at what’s going on behind me. Celia is selling nuts to a marquess’s daughter. She’s not so fragile as we thought.”

  Davina beamed. “And this marquess’s daughter isn’t so grand as you believe. She’s buying nuts from our Celia, and what do you think of that?”

  Callum looked about the familiar shop. Listened to a trill of song from George the linnet. And he decided. “I think,” he said, “that it suits them both.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The habits of duty were strong in Isabel, and after an adventuresome week, she was not sorry to retreat onto the firm ground of normality.

  On Monday, after viewing the house in Bedford Square, she had paid calls to all the duennas of society who had offered her an invitation. Determined to win approval for her ward, she dragged along a Lucy who smiled politely and directed pointed remarks into Isabel’s ears at all the wrong times. Thus, Isabel was able to contribute little to the gossip that flowed more freely than tea. However, all that was required of a good caller was an interested expression and the occasional “No!” and “You don’t say!” By the time she returned to her house, Isabel was certain she had acquitted herself well enough to move upward on a few upper-crust invitation lists.

  On Tuesday, she was at home to callers while Lucy pled a headache. Isabel suspected her of wanting to play with Brinley. But no matter: if friends could be won with delicious edibles, Isabel would be the most popular woman in London.

  On Wednesday, there were more calls to pay, including one to Lady Selina and the Duchess of Ardmore to congratulate Lady Selina on her engagement. At last, Lord Liverdale’s heir had bent his knee and asked the lady to do him the honor. Privately, Isabel wondered if Butler’s near arrest, which had forced the duke to admit that he still had his painting, had reassured the marquess’s son that Ardmore would clear his debts.

  Better yet, after paying these calls, Isabel visited a mantua-maker and a milliner. For the first time in a year and a half, she chose colorful garments. She ordered hats in cunning shades of gold and green and red, all of which she liked against her dark hair. A black hat, black clothing, simply made her look vanishing. But in color, she might regain a bit of her brightness.

  She might develop some she’d never had before.

  At the modiste’s she flipped through pattern books, then decided on something entirely different. She’d no interest in the fat, puffy sleeves and fussy trimmings in fashion at the moment. After all, where had following the rules got her? It had
got her a hidden room, a distant marriage, and a clinging, shameful feeling of ignorance.

  No, she would dress in bright color and beautiful fabrics; perfect tailoring and simple lines. In fact, she had the modiste rip changes into a ready-made gown of green silk striped in gold, and once it was stripped of its flounces and tightened below the breasts, she wore it home. She liked the fit of it, spare and sleek. It was neither fashionable nor unfashionable; it was a gown apart from fashion, heedless of it.

  And it made her bosom look marvelous, her hazel eyes dance. It flattered her lean form. Best to dress for the way she looked, not the way she ought to look according to a Parisian designer.

  Did such color make a difference in her appearance? She hailed an acquaintance on the street, a Lady Riordan on whom she had called on Monday. This woman was a generation older, and while she was a bit gossipy, she wasn’t unkind. She also had a son a few years older than Lucy, and he wouldn’t be a bad matrimonial prospect at all.

  “Lady Isabel!” Lady Riordan flicked back a plume leaning from her extravagant hat. “Goodness me, I hardly recognized you, dressed like that. How unconventional of you.”

  This was not exactly a compliment, but Isabel pretended it was one. “Thank you!” she said brightly. “Since it has been more than eighteen months since my dear Morrow died, I thought it was time to dress in color again. He loved color so, you know, with his eye for art. What could honor him better?”

  Lady Riordan seemed not to know whether this made perfect sense or was utter rubbish. “Quite,” she replied. “Well. I must be going, Lady Isabel—the horses are standing. Shall I see you at the Rushtons’ musical evening tonight?”

  A musical evening at the Rushtons’? Catherine Rushton was about the age Andrew had been, fifteen or twenty years Isabel’s senior. She had been quite friendly to Isabel before Andrew’s death, but she’d not called since. Isabel could not remember seeing an invitation in her recent correspondence.

  “I cannot say,” she excused. “My plans are unfixed just yet.”

  Lady Riordan nodded knowingly. “No invitation, eh? Don’t let it get to you, my dear. She is matchmaking for her daughter, newly out in society, and will not want competition from you or your pretty ward. Riordan and I have been nothing of the sort for this thirty years at least! And we shall bring our son, the guest she truly wants.” The older woman laughed, and with a friendly squeeze of the hand, she heaved herself into her carriage.

  Isabel smiled her farewell, but her joy had been dimmed a bit.

  By Thursday, the life of a proper widow had thoroughly lost its savor. She had kept busy, yet had done nothing of value. How many weeks had she carried out these same ceaseless inconsequentialities? And how many more weeks of the same loomed ahead?

  She tried to make a game with Lucy out of their social obligations. They each took the stack of invitations in turn, pulling forth any they wished to attend. If they agreed on any, they would respond with an acceptance.

  There were two problems, though. The first was that Lucy shrank from the sort of ball and ridotto and evening gathering at which one might have a significant chance to meet gentlemen. The second was that Isabel didn’t receive nearly as many of those invitations as she had expected to.

  During her marriage, each day of the Season had brought more correspondence than one could answer and more invitations than one could accept. During her year of mourning, a sparse acquaintance had been forced upon her out of respect for, if not a widow’s grief, the conventions of a society that determined she needed to be shut away.

  But Lady Riordan had seen more clearly than Isabel had: now that she had shaken off the remainders of mourning and reentered society with a pretty young ward at her side, fewer people seemed to want her at their parties. There were never enough gentlemen, and a rich widow was far less attractive to hostesses than a friendly wife had been.

  Maybe she should arrange a dinner party after all. Though . . . to what end? Whose acquaintance was she attempting to cultivate? Once Lucy was wed, there was no one Isabel particularly needed to know. She wasn’t hunting another husband, she didn’t have a seat in Parliament that required her to exercise diplomacy, and she had an independent income.

  She was sufficient unto herself. She answered to no one. There was nothing she need do.

  Which also meant there was nothing to distinguish one day from the next. No one who needed her, particularly, or who relied upon her, save her servants—and theirs was an impersonal sort of need. Whether they worked for Lady Isabel or for someone else who paid them well and treated them courteously, it didn’t matter.

  She’d never been particularly well churched, but there was a quotation from the Gospel of Matthew that had often caught in her mind—especially since Morrow’s death.

  Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.

  Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

  How apt the wording, for Andrew Morrow had taken thought for the things of himself. Even after his death, his evil remained. Not dramatic evil of the sort that caused death and destruction; evil of the quotidian sort. Selfishness and greed; mistrust and deception.

  He was hardly alone in this. There was not a person alive innocent of these faults; Isabel herself certainly was not.

  How did Callum Jenks walk to the Bow Street court every morning, knowing there would be sufficient evil—more than sufficient—to fill his every hour? Did anything he did or tried or said make a difference?

  Yes. It did. It had made a difference to Isabel, when Andrew Morrow’s body had lain on the floor of his own bedchamber, to be spoken to with sturdy calm. To be looked at with dark eyes that held questions, but no blame. Eyes that saw her as a person, and wondered about her.

  Callum saw stories everywhere. Not only everyday crimes and trespasses, but the people committing them. Sometimes heedless, sometimes needing, hungry, desperate.

  As she walked with him through London streets, he had shown her how to see that too. It had opened her eyes, and they had never quite closed on the same London since.

  There was something she might do, then. Before she thought better of it, she scrawled a note to him. “Have this delivered to Officer Jenks,” she told the footman, Douglas, and gave him the direction.

  For the time until he returned, she paced. Wondered. Sat at the pianoforte and plunked out a few notes, but couldn’t chain them into anything coherent.

  Douglas returned with Callum’s promise to call later. When he arrived, it was long past the dinner hour.

  She had Selby show him into the morning room, remembering how tenderly Callum had kissed her last time amidst the litter of biscuits and nuts. The room was tidy this time, but she thought he hardly noticed his surroundings as he dropped into the chair she offered.

  “Sorry I couldn’t come earlier. I was working.”

  She leaned forward in her own chair, curious. “Another mock auction?”

  “Something like that.” He shut his eyes. Dark stubble stippled his jaw; dark shadows marked his lower lids. He looked unutterably tired, and she understood two things at once.

  First, that his days were as full as hers were empty. He was accountable to many, and he would go without sleep or food before he would let them down.

  Second: she was one of those people. He would never refuse to come when she asked him to.

  “You didn’t have to come,” she excused. “I didn’t mean to tire you further.”

  “You are not a frivolous person, Isabel. If you wanted to speak to me, I assumed you had something of import to say. You’ve got another scheme, haven’t you? That’s why you summoned me here.”

  She had, yes, but it wasn’t the sort he imagined. “It’s not more stolen paintings.”

  I want to become an investigator, she almost said. But now that she saw the hard slashes fatigue had made at the corners of his mouth, it didn’t seem to matter after all.

  “Maybe I just wanted to se
e you,” she teased. Not that he would smile, because he hardly ever smiled, but maybe he’d get that lighter look on his face that was even better than a smile.

  With an effort, he opened his eyes. “To what end?”

  She blinked. “I . . . well, because . . .”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Never mind. That was ungracious. Forgive me, please.”

  “Of course.” Yet it was a fair question, and one he was far more willing to ask than she.

  To what end?

  To become friends? To pleasure each other? To concoct another scheme? What could a marquess’s daughter and a Bow Street Runner be to each other?

  She could put the question a different way, though. What could become of a gentleman’s widow and a man who’d made arrests in the Royal Mint crime that had captivated all England?

  What could become of a woman who wanted to learn everything and a man who wanted to help everyone?

  Anything. Maybe something quite wonderful.

  Maybe everything she’d never dared to dream of. Respect. Devotion. Trust. Love.

  She wasn’t quite sure, yet, which of these questions she wanted to ask. It depended on the answer he would give, she thought—and she wasn’t at all sure what that answer would be.

  So she said none of this. Instead, she said, “Come and have a rest.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Not at all. I’ve a spare bedchamber. Are you due back in court? Surely not, for it is . . .” She checked the clock on the mantel. “Eight o’ clock in the evening.”

  “There’s something I could be doing.”

  “But must you?”

  He looked at her, then away. “I suppose not. I like your gown. You look lovely in green.”

  “I’m glad you like it. I do, too.” She smiled. “Have you eaten?”

  “Enough.” Every syllable seemed wrenched from him.

  Now she frowned. “Callum Jenks. You never run off at the mouth, but this is too much. Are you angry with me?”