Wicked, My Love (3 page)

Stop
that
throb, tingle, whatever, this instant,
she ordered her body.
This
is
Randall
. Even if he weren't wildly attracted to ladies who had difficulty understanding any pesky words with three or more syllables, he was still, unfortunately, a ravishingly handsome viscount. And that was an entirely different genus of miscreation that never cross-bred with awkward spinsters possessing a rather unnatural ability with numbers. All that withstanding, she stood still for his perusal of her face…and lower.

Tingle. Tingle. Throb.

“Hmmm,” he considered, stroking his chin with his index finger and thumb. “I would say above vision of luscious splendor but not quite ethereal loveliness. It's your hair.”

Her cheeks burned. “W-what's wrong with it?”

“Why is it being attacked by two jellyfish?”

“Judith was right!” She dashed to the mirror over the mantel. “They're tentacles. I have to get these off. He's going to be here any minute.”

“He?”

“Oh, never mind.” She began to tug at the coils but the two-dozen pins she used to keep them captive refused to budge.

“Let me help.”

She felt his fingers digging into her scalp. “Ouch! That's my real hair.”

“Your real hair?”

“Just let go!” she ordered.

“Wait. Don't move. My cuff link is stuck in what may or may not be your real hair!”

“Pardon me,” a servant said. “Mr. Powers
has arrived.”

Isabella whipped around. Pain flared on the left side of her head. In Randall's hand dangled a black coil and hairpins were scattered on the carpet. He stared at the creation, his bright eyes wide. A snort of laughter erupted from his lips and then he quickly shoved the thing behind his back.

Mary stood by the door. Beside her, holding a small box wrapped in a loopy, intricate pink bow, was Mr. Anthony Powers.

Isabella opened her mouth but all that came out was a squeak. Randall, that ever-smooth devil, performed a sweeping bow, the tendril behind his back hanging down like a tail. “Good morning, Mr. Powers.”

Isabella wasn't talented at reading people the way Randall was, but even she could discern the anger in Mr. Powers's pursed lips and lowered brows. The man's gaze shifted from her to Randall and back.

“Good morning, Mr. Powers,” she cried, her voice finally deciding to cooperate. “I'm so glad to see you. I've…I've been waiting for you.”

A smile broke across Powers's face, and she relaxed.

“I say, I adore your new coiffure,” Powers said, performing a low, graceful bow. “So unique and delightful, like you.”

Her face heated and she squirmed as she always did when receiving a compliment. Well, a true compliment. Randall's didn't count because he always said one thing and meant another. She was terrible at figuring out his other meanings, but she felt sure they were veiled insults.

She was struck by the difference between the two men when they stood almost side by side. Of course, Randall was nauseatingly perfect: strong, lean shoulders; strong, lean legs; strong, lean almost everything with a hard, chiseled faced softened by vivid blue eyes. Meanwhile, Powers wasn't as handsome or tall, but nonetheless his tousled brown curls falling over his warm, chocolate eyes reminded her of snuggly puppies and nights by a warm fire. His face was rather thin and discolored on the left side of the jawline—darkened skin with a cluster of tiny moles like the constellation Charioteer
.
But his imperfections made him all the more endearing.

“And I have a present for you.” Powers winked and offered up his gift.

She thought her heart would burst. “Oh, thank you!” She accepted the box. “No gentleman has given me a present before.”

“That's not true!” Randall protested. “I gave you a locket with a hairy spider inside. Don't forget the melodious rooster, or those sweet mice which nibbled on your pillow, and of course my favorite, the drink I told you was punch.” She flashed him a hot, will-you-just-be-quiet glower. It didn't work. “Oh, and the sheep. I forgot about those.”

“Don't you have a house party to attend?” she said pleasantly through gritted teeth.

Mr. Powers chortled into his hand.

“Bank business takes precedence over mere diversion. And isn't this little call about bank business? Let us all sit down, then. Here, I shall pull up a chair so we can get cozy.”

Many times in the past, Isabella had contemplated killing Randall. But on this occasion she went a step further and chose a murder weapon: the penknife. As she set the present on the desk, she thought how easy it would be to grab the knife from the drawer and lodge it in his handsome throat. Certain political factions might secretly thank her.

Randall took a chair and continued yammering, unaware of his imminent, bloody demise at Isabella's hand. “And speaking of diversion and house parties,” he said, “I hope you both plan to attend our dance on Tuesday.”

Powers looked at Isabella, his head slightly bowed and brows low, a glow in his eyes that sent a giddy quake through her body. “I wouldn't miss it for the world. And if Miss St. Vincent desires to attend, I hope I am not too forward in asking if I may secure a dance in advance.”

“Of course you can…you can have them all.” She laughed nervously, wringing her hands in her lap. “Well, except the quadrille. I can't do that one. And certain cotillions give me problems. But I can waltz, even though once I accidently knocked over that elderly couple and the dance leader asked me to leave the floor.”

Powers clapped his hands together. “Perhaps all you need is proper guidance. Shall I give you a lesson
after church?”

“I would like that above all—”

“Sorry, old chap, you'll have to wait,” Randall cut in. “I believe Miss St. Vincent agreed to join my house guests and me for shuttlecocks on the lawn Sunday.”

What?
She would never agree to visit Randall unless her very life depended on it, and she could hardly walk without tripping over herself, much less play shuttlecocks. She turned to tell him as much only to find him wearing her tendril atop his blond head! “What are you—”

“I do say,” Randall said, patting his tendril, “I desire some tea. Where is that servants' bell, Isabella? I can never find the thing no matter the dozens of times I've been in your library.”

“Here, let me show you,” she said in sugary tones, taking his offered arm and driving her nails into it. She escorted him across the room. “What are you doing?” she hissed, and snatched her tendril from his head. “Leave now before I kill you.”

“I'm just giving him a little competition,” he whispered. “Be coy. Flirt. You're being too eager.”

“Well, you're being… I don't know what you're being, but whatever it is, stop it this instant.” She jammed the detached tendril back into her hair, pricking her scalp with pins, and forgetting to ring the servants' bell.

Flirt
, she said to herself, smoothing her skirt.
Be
coy
. But she didn't know how to flirt or tease or be coy or coquettish, or any of those things other ladies seemed born knowing.

Powers wore a crooked smile as he gazed at her. She couldn't tell if he was bemused, annoyed, or just feeling sorry for her.

“So, did you bring the stock certificates from our Merckler Metalworks purchase?” she asked.
No, no, that's not flirting; that's bank business. You're hopeless.

“Why don't you open the present?” Powers winked again, making her tingle around the heart region.
Did
you
just
tingle
for
two
men
in
the
space
of
fifteen
minutes?

She retrieved the gift and took a seat. Meanwhile, Randall remained standing, lurking about like some vulture over the conversation. She ignored him—her usual policy—and removed the ribbons, savoring her first present from a man that wasn't a nasty prank involving rodents, reptiles, or farm animals. Nestled deep in the box was a stack of lovely illustrated stock certificates featuring a woman standing amid many curling lines, clad in revealing Greek clothes and raising a fork. Below her bare feet were printed the words “Merckler Metalworks.” Isabella gasped and lifted the stocks from the box. “They are so lovely. Have you ever seen such lovely stock certificates?”

“But there's more,” Powers prompted, leaning forward in his seat, his grin widening.

She drew out the financial report. “Oh my!” She flipped through the pages and gushed. “Just look at that lovely chart of returns.” She turned the pages so the other two could see the chart and the steady line moving upward across a span of twenty years. “Such a staid company. A great investment for our bank.”

“We were wise to buy deep in Merckler now.” Powers sat and draped his arm over the chair back. “Given that they just modernized their factory, the stock is going to take off with the railroads' current demand for metal. At least, that's what George Harding thinks.”

“George Harding,” both she and Randall echoed in unison.

“What the hell does that rogue have to do with this?” Randall barked.

“What?” Powers blinked, his lips twitched. Then he banged the heel of his palm on his forehead. “That's right, Lord Randall's railroad committee problem.” He gave a short, fast chuckle. “Sorry, old chap. I just happened to overhear Harding in a club, discussing the matter. Of course, I had already bought the stocks then.”

“Ah, well, if he endorsed the stocks, that can only be a good thing for us,” Isabella said. “His approval will drive up the price, regardless of any political differences he and Lord Randall may have.”

The viscount muttered something under his breath that sounded rather impolite as she began to put the stocks back in the box. Then she saw
it
. “Oh.”

She held the certificates in question end to end to end. “Oh,” she said again.

“What do you mean ‘oh'?” Randall asked. “What is this ‘oh'?”

Her heart was pounding in her rib cage.
Calm
down.
Just
because
stock
fraud
happens
every
day
doesn't mean it will happen to you.
Nevertheless, she hurried to the desk, yanked opened the drawer, pushed away the penknife she was going to use to murder Randall, and found her magnifying glass.
It's probably nothing. You saw it wrong. You can barely see, after all.

“Is-is there a problem?” Powers asked.

She didn't respond but leaned over the certificates until her glasses were almost touching the magnifyi
ng lens.

“Isabella, say something,” Randall demanded. “What do you see?”

“I think…I think the stock issue numbers are overlapping on three of the certificates.”

“What!” Randall snapped. “Let me see them.”

Before she could slide them away, he had slammed his palm down on the certificates. His perfect eyes darted between the stock issue ranges as his breath rushed through his nostrils.

“By God, she's right. You've bought false stock,” Randall thundered at Powers.

“Now see here.” The man shot to his feet. He jutted his chin, putting his face just inches
from Randall's.

“If you've brought one whiff of scandal to my bank, family name, and political career, you will breakfast on dewy grass in a field at dawn, sir.” Randall stepped forward, bumping Powers's shoulder with his strong, lean chest. Powers shoved back. For several long seconds, the two men engaged in a ridiculous dance of circling and bumping, their chests puffed out.

“Just stop it!” Isabella shouted. The men jumped. “It's probably nothing,” she reasoned. “A printer's error. Stop your strange dancing and sit down. You are overreacting.”

“One of us is overreacting,” Powers said, stepping back. “I'll…I'll write Merckler myself and see what I find. That's right. In fact, I'll do that now, and you'll see I'm right.” He twisted his hat in his hand. “And I'll expect an apology, or you'll be the one dining on grass,” he spat. “Good day, Lord Randall.” He stalked to the door.

“Wait!” Isabella cried.

Powers spun on his heel.

She clasped her hand to her chest. “I'm sure it's just a mistake. Are you…you…coming on Sunday to help me dance?”

Powers glanced at Randall and then the side of his mouth slid into a smile. “I wouldn't miss it for the whole wide world, my lovely dear.” He slipped out the door.

He
called
me
lovely.

The viscount seized her elbow. “Do not fall for that lying cur.”

“What? He's not lying. He's our bank partner.”

“That doesn't mean anything. We inherited him. Did you see the small twitching of his mouth when he spoke and how he never looked directly in your eyes? How he tried to appear casual for the entire visit, but his fingers were never still and his feet kept
shuffling about?”

“You saw all that?” Randall could read people by their faces. He could uncover their deepest secrets by merely asking them about the weather. “I'll…I'll have my stockbroker look into it. He's in London and can ask around the exchange.”

“My family name is on the bank.” Randall began to pace in a tight oval, running his hands through his hair. “I advertise it in journals all over England. If there is one hint of scandal before the election… And what the hell did he mean about Harding?”

“Look, you're getting upset for nothing. It's probably just a mistake. You're being too emotional.”

“Don't serve me the ‘too emotional' twiddle-twaddle. You know that deep down inside, you're a swirling, scared, emotional mess.”

She gasped. Could she hide nothing from him? It felt as if he were gazing into the bedchamber of her heart, opening all the drawers, pulling out the intimate garments or reading all the love letters and diaries—never mind that she had never received a single love letter, and she was terrible at keeping a journal for more than a week.

“Banks are failing every day,” he continued. “People are nervous at the slightest whiff of scandal. Hypothetically, if there were to be a run on the bank, do we have enough capital to cover it?”

She swallowed. “Well, since we expanded into London and Manchester, our capital…it…um…”

“Please answer me.”

“M-maybe thirty-six point three percent of
our customers.”

“Oh, hell.” He ran to the door. She chased after him, latching on to the bottom of his coat.

“Calm down. I said I would write to my stockbroker in London. He will look into the matter. You just…just go back to the party and find a nice Tory girl to marry. Leave everything to me.
You're overreacting.”

“The bank has full liability. If it fails, my career is in the cesspool. And you would stand to lose everything—your home and savings.” He pressed his hand to his head. “This is that bugger Harding at work. I can feel it,” he hissed, and then dashed out of the room.

“You're overreacting,” she called after him. “It's a clerical error! Not a scandal! You should be calm like me,” she shouted. “I'm extremely calm!”