Wicked, My Love (8 page)

“Oh, of course.” Mrs. Busby held out her bundle of joy for the nurse. “Do take little-wittle Lionel. You know how Mr. Busby doesn't allow children in his study. Oh and really, must I tell you again to make sure that Reginald keeps his clothes on and stays in the nursery? We have guests. What they must
be thinking.”

The handed-off infant immediately began wailing, a piercing, eardrum-bursting, nerve-shattering sound. Isabella jumped, her shoulder crashing against Randall's. He clasped her hand to still her. She twined her taut fingers through his, digging her nails into his palm. Her body was rigid, and perspiration was streaming down from her forehead.

Until two minutes ago, Isabella had bemoaned her childless existence. Now the thought of jumping off high cliffs or repeatedly being run over by trains seemed more pleasant than childbirth. She struggled to stifle her sneezes. She kept the fingers of one hand laced between Randall's and the other clenched at her side, refusing to scratch.

But the itching was killing her. It felt as if wasps were building a hive on her skin, and that baby's wails were like little jolts of electricity shooting through her nerves.
Somebody
rock
the
baby!
she wanted to scream.
Get
it
some
milk! Make it stop crying!
Through her watering eyes, she could see Mrs. Busby smiling pleasantly over her shoulder, immune to the bloodcurdling cries of her dear little-wittle baby.

Mrs. Busby lightly knocked on a closed door at the back of the hall. “Mr. Busby, my dearest,” she called. “We have guests.”

The three waited for several moments. Isabella released two violent sneezes.

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Busby leaned close and spoke in a low, knowing voice. “If you need it, the necessary is on the right,” she said for no reason that Isabella could discern.

Don't scratch yourself. Don't scratch yourself. Well, maybe a little under your neck when she's not watching.

Mrs. Busby rapped on the door again. Isabella heard the lock turn, the clink of a chain lock being released and then another. The door opened and a man in blue-and-gray plaid pants and a deep gray coat peered out. His graying hair was brushed forward over his balding forehead, and thick whiskers grew along the sides of his face. Granted, she and Randall had spent the better part of the day stuffed in train carriages, hiked for miles in the heat of the afternoon, and hay now filled her corset, but surely they didn't smell badly enough to warrant the man's pinched nose.

Randall didn't wait for an introduction. He stepped past Busby, pulling Isabella into the inner sanctum of the man's library. Oak shelves neatly lined with leather books and globes towered along the walls. The chamber possessed a drowsy peace, a quiet order that was entirely at odds with the chaos in the remainder of the house. A large, polished oak desk rested in front of a massive arched window that looked out onto a labyrinth of boxwoods trimmed in even ninety-degree angles. Farther on lay a bucolic pasture of lush grass, white sheep, and two girls rolling about, pummeling each other.

“Nice place you 'ave,” Randall said, releasing Isabella's hand. “You must be one of them learned men on account of all these books. I always wanted to meet a smart don type.”

She marveled at how easily Randall slipped into the Mr. Randy character, but then, Mr. Randy was a bit of a horse's backside, so it couldn't be that much of a stretch. Meanwhile, Isabella stood about awkwardly, keeping her hands clenched for fear of scratching her skin off, her nose and eyes running, while a tiny beetle scrambled up her thigh.

“Mr. Busby was a teacher before he inherited this estate, married, and started a family,” Mrs.
Busby explained.

“Being fruitful and multiplying, are you?” Randall picked up a book that was cracked over the sofa cushion and made a show of struggling to read the title. “
The
Marquis
and
the
Naughty
Debutante
. Aye, must be some of that fine literature you Oxford types read. Full of astronomy, Latin, and whatnot.”

In spite of the itching, the running eyes, and the roving beetle, Isabella giggled.

“May I ask what business brings you here?” Mr. Busby asked in a dark tone.

“Aye, I was gettin' to that. Me name's Mr. Randy, and I'm a respectable man. Goes to church every Sunday, I does. And this is me sister, Miss Izzy May.”

“This is her—” Mrs. Busby stopped midsentence, her eyes widening. “D-did you just say
Miss
Izzy May?”

Despite the sun shining high and bright outside the window, an ominous cloud passed over the room. The Busbys stared at her.

Oh God, they wanted her to speak. She opened her mouth to say something about a baby and bringing it frankincense.
No! Stop!
That was the Christmas play. This was a different play. She wasn't a sheep; she had lines.
Oh, fudge, what are they?
The shelves, books, globes, the Busbys, and Randall all blurred in her wet, itchy eyes. Her body felt like it was on fire.
Say
something!
“But I thought Anthony Powers was going to marry me!” she wailed.

Mrs. Busby shrieked and buried her face against her husband's arm.

“I swores I'd find 'im for you, Sister,” Randall cried. “And 'ave 'im makes an 'onest woman of you. I swores I would.”

“H-he said he was going to call on Sunday.” Isabella dug her nails into her gown just above the protruding hay-baby, desperate to stop the burning itching that was driving her insane.

“I waited and waited and waited. He never came! I thought I loved him. He had such a beautiful chart.”

“Chart?” Mr. Busby repeated. “Did you say chart?”

“Heart,” she heard Randall intercede. “She was always carryin' on about his beautiful
heart
and such. There, there, Sister. Don't upset yourself.” He gently tried to push her onto the sofa. “You just sit 'ere on this nice sofa and
be
quiet
.”

But Isabella remained rigid—except for her mouth, which gushed forth. “He was a lying cur! Sweet-talking about rising assets and assured projected growth. I was under his spell. Then he stuck me with his—”

“Now, Sister, I think you might be sharing a bit too many unnecessary details.” Randall gave her a gentle shove, landing her on the sofa.

“Oh, but I let him do as he pleased,” Isabella yammered on. “So trusting. You see, it was going to be such a good investment. But in the end, he just took what he wanted and left me with the debt.”

“Investment?” Mr. Busby said.

At the same time his wife cried, “A darling baby-waby is a debt?”

“Oh!” Isabella's eyes widened. Did she really say “debt” and “investment”? Dear God, she had ruined their ruse.
Quick, think, Isabella! You have to fix what you've done. Think! Think! Why can't I think?
“I meant—”

“Aye, my sister is so peculiar 'cause she's always speaking in those metaphors. That's why I have to do
all
the
talkin'
.” He gave her foot a soft, furtive kick.

“Yes, metaphors!” she cried. “That's it. Engaging in the act of love before marriage is like…like…investing in options. Yes, options! You're assuming that love will grow, building confidence in the market, the market of…of love, that is.”

Randall groaned.
What
am
I
saying
that
is
so
wrong?

She kept going, hoping to make it right. “But then the market loses confidence because maybe love's expected growth wasn't as big as you had projected, never achieving the anticipated rise in…in ardor, or the initial gain rises sharply but then sags o
ff prematurely.”

“Oh God,” she heard Randall mutter.

“So, so the shares in love go down,” she explained. “People start sticking their assets in other promising openings in the market…the love exchange, that is. Meanwhile, you're left holding options that you can't sell. You're stuck holding a…a baby.”
Wait, that didn't sound right.

The room went silent. Mrs. and Mr. Busby stared at Isabella, their mouths gaping. She couldn't see Randall's face because he had buried it in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Was that rogue laughing at her?

She scratched her neck. “M-maybe this wasn't the best metaphor,” she conceded and then sneezed. “Perhaps I should say—”

“You have said quite enough, miss,” Mr. Busby interjected. “I'm sorry to inform you after that entertaining show that I don't know where to find Mr. Powers, nor do I intend to find out.”

“He used my husband abominably,” Mrs. Busby explained. “Mr. Busby lent him money to help him begin a new life, since he had inherited a position in a bank from his uncle. He promised Mr. Busby that he wouldn't gamble ever again.”

Her husband strode to his desk and slid a letter from under a paperweight. “Then, not a month ago, your Mr. Powers visited, asking for money again. Something about investing in his bank.” With a flick, he opened the letter. “But another old student of mine had written me earlier, informing me that he had learned Powers had played deep at a disreputable London club called the Golden Tyger.” He dropped the missive to his desk. “I have little doubt that the monies I previously gave him and more were lost that fateful night. So I sent him away. I had to.” He rubbed his eyelids. “All his education, his integrity, his living, lost. I believe he might have what some say is an addiction.”

“Thank you, guv'nor,” Randall said, bowing his head several times and turning his hat in his hands. “I'll keep searching for that rascal Powers. You can see me sister needs a 'usband something bad.” He wrapped his hand around her elbow, helping her up. “No needs to trouble yerself. We'll just find our ways out. Don't mean to keeps you from that marquis and 'is naughty debutante. Fine, fine literature, that. Come, Sister.”

***

Randall hurried Isabella from the house. He could feel her skin twitching beneath her sleeve; her face, now swollen and deep red, was shiny with perspiration. By the time they reached the ninth oak on the drive, she released a soul-in-pain cry, shoved her hand down her corset, and screamed, “Get this baby out of me!”

Assuming she needed assistance, he tried to jam his hand in her dress.

“Get away,” she shouted, and smacked his knuckles. “Don't you ever make me pregnant again.” She yanked and yanked hay from her gown, tossing it in the air, letting it stream about her head like falling flakes of gold. “And you laughed at me in there. For God's sake, Randall, we are inches from ruin. What were you thinking?”

“Well, I was thinking about finding Powers until you started talking about expected growth sagging off prematurely and…and…” He couldn't help himself, letting a few chuckles trickle out before finally giving in to wholehearted laughter. “Sticking assets in other promising openings,” he choked out.

She flung up her arms. “I was using basic economic theory as a metaphor for love. But perhaps your minuscule brain couldn't comprehend it.”

“Oh, my so-called ‘minuscule' brain caught your meaning and much, much more, you dirty-
minded minx.”

“I am not dirty-minded!” she cried, and then paused to consider. “How am I dirty-minded? What did I say that was so lewd?”

“Never mind, love, let's just get to London and find out about the Golden Tyger.”

He reached to clasp her elbow, but she yanked
it away.

“I'm never letting you touch me ever again,”
she hissed.

They walked side by side in silence, except for the rough swishing noise of her nails scratching her skin and gown. Randall felt horrible as he watched her wobble on her sore feet, but she bravely soldiered on, head high, refusing to acknowledge his existence. Whenever he tried to help her over an expansive cow patty or forge a deep puddle, she would flash a frigid glare that could shrivel the bollocks of the most hardened Newgate murderer.

With his companion refusing to speak to him, he lapsed into more anxious thoughts. Every minute that he wasted tromping past sheep and cows, he felt Powers slipping further from their reach, and Randall's own doom barreling toward him at breakneck speed.

After two miles, when they were climbing the rickety fence separating a sheep pasture from a newly plowed field, his partner came to an abrupt stop on the top rung. “Oh, dear Lord!”

“What's wrong?” he asked, alarmed. “Did you hurt yourself climbing? Do you need a physician? Tell me, what is the matter?”

“When I said that part about sticking assets in other promising openings in the market, do you think that they thought that I was talking about…about a man's dangly part and a woman's sacred vessel?”

He kept his chuckle inside. “‘A man's dangly part'?” he asked, feigning confusion as if he had no idea what she was talking about. “‘A woman's sacred vessel'? No, no, love, of course not.”

She released a low breath, relief easing her features.

“No doubt they thought you meant sticking a man's stone-hard penis into a woman's throbbing, love-oiled vagina. At least, that was my interpretation.”

Forty-five minutes later, Isabella arrived at the train station, her feet blistered, her body covered in perspiration and itching from the pregnancy episode, and her fists balled into rocks, ready to give Randall a facer if he said “promising openings” or “sags off prematurely” one more time before breaking
into laughter.

She pushed through the small crowd of tired, bedraggled people exiting the station, lugging their bags and greeting waiting loved ones. Despite her raw, hurt feet, she rushed to the ticket window, desperate to get there before Randall could catch up. He would only start into his Mr. Randy routine again and have them shoved into second class. Izzy May wanted a first-class sleeper all to herself. Her “husband” or “brother” or whatever relation Randall decided to call himself could sleep on the roof for all she cared.

The green curtain on the ticket window shut as she approached. How could the ticket master not have seen her? She rang the bell on the counter. “Excuse me. Pardon me. Hello in there. I know you saw me. I need to purchase a first-class ticket to London. I'm willing to pay a great deal.” A hand slid out a wooden bar with “Closed” painted on it.

That
rude
— A hand clasped her elbow and a familiar male voice said, “Miss Izzy May, dearie, wot seems to be the problem 'ere?”

Not
again.
“I know you're in there,” she cried, pounding on the bell. “I need a first-class ticket to London! My life depends on it. You can't leave me with this man.”

“Ey, you just missed the last train,” said a ragged woman, sweeping away dirt from the empty benches. “Not another one leaving until seven fifteen tomorrow morning.”

“What!” Isabella wailed. “W-we have to spend the night
here
?” She thought she might dissolve into real, non-hay-induced tears.
Be
strong,
her father's words echoed in her brain.

“Where is the porter with our bags?” Randall demanded in his normal voice.

“You mean those?” The woman pointed to their baggage, which was sitting atop a rubbish barrel. “I was just about to take them home with me, seeing as nobody wanted them. And such nice bags they are.”

Isabella watched Randall stalk across the room and snatch up their belongings. “Capital,” he muttered. “Just capital.”

The woman stopped sweeping. “If you're needing a place for the night, Mrs. Sutton across the road runs the only inn in the village—a nice, clean place.” She waggled her broom handle at Isabella. “But, mind you, she don't approve of any hanky-panky. You'll have to be quiet about it.”

“What? Hanky-panky w-with him? I—I would rather drink from a filthy, worm-filled mud puddle, get sucked under some soggy, swampy moor, or be bitten by a hundred venomous adders.”

The woman raked Isabella up and down and then shook her head. “Aye, like me grandmamma always said, there's no accounting for taste.” She
resumed sweeping.

“I have extremely good taste,” Isabella assured Randall as they left the station.

“Hence your attraction to Anthony Powers,” he retorted as they stepped onto the road running through the middle of the tiny village. On one end sat a falling manor house; on the other, a church. In between were old, sloping, timbered buildings. “That cur is probably on his way to Calais for a nice holiday. Meanwhile, we're stuck in this bumhole of a place.”

They crossed the lane to a rambling establishment that spanned the width of three normal town houses. Bull's-eye windows ran across each of the building's four uneven stories. Six or so dormers jutted out at odd angles from the slate roof. The wooden sign that hung above the torch by the ancient door read “Mrs. Sutton's Arms.” Below it hung a smaller one that said “public house” and below that, another with “post office” printed on it, and nailed to that was a sheet of paper with “We sell thread, fabric, jam, bread, and eggs in the back” written in a slanting hand.

Randall stopped at the door, his hand poised on the knob. “Now, Sister, can we agree that I will do
the talking?”

“Just as long as your talking includes ordering me a hot bath and a glass of wine.”

He opened the door, and they entered a parlor filled with the woody, acrid smell of a drowsy, low-burning fire, mingled with the scents of dried lavender, coffee, tea, and beefy broth. The timber ceiling was low and slanting; the walls were crammed with paintings of various subjects: portraits, horses, dogs, and pastoral scenes. A matronly, thick woman sat at a desk by the left wall. Her black-and-silver hair was twisted into a neat bun, and glasses perched on her short, button-like nose. Her face was dotted with tiny moles. She was so engrossed in the book she was reading that she didn't hear them enter.

“Afternoon to yer, ma'am.” Mr. Randy pulled off his hat, clutched it to his chest, and performed two quick bows. “I'm Mr. Randy and this is me sister. We desire two rooms in your fine establishment 'ere.”

The woman glanced over the top of her glasses, and her small, stony eyes swept over Isabella. Isabella could just imagine how she must appear: her dress was torn from where she had itched, her loose hair was stuck to her face and neck, and her skin was red
from scratching.

“I'm full this evening,” the woman said. “Mr. Eggleson who lives in the red farmhouse further down the road rents rooms in his outbuilding for a shilling.”

Randall reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of shiny sovereigns. “I guess I can pays
a shilling.”

“Well, now.” The woman smiled. “I just remembered that we had two guests leave early.” She closed her book and propped it against the lamp. The gold-embossed title glinted in the light.

“Pardon me,” Isabella piped up, before she remembered her agreement to Randall concerning opening her mouth. “Are you reading
From
Poor
to
Prosperous, How Intelligent Widows, Spinsters, and Female Victims of Ill-fated Marital Circumstances Can Procure Wealth, Independence, and Dignity
?”

The innkeeper's lips parted with an audible inhale. “Oh, yes, my sister. I've read it at least six times. And every time, I always find some new bit of wisdom that I had missed before.”

“Six times?” Isabella blinked. “Really?”
How
can
anyone
read
that
drivel
one
time, much less
six
?
“You don't think it's rather overly sentimental, or that the stories are a bit too melodramatic or unrealistic?”

“What!” The innkeeper grabbed the book and cradled it to her bosom as if it were a baby-waby. “Unrealistic? Melodramatic? How dare you!”

Randall gave Isabella a nudge in the ribs. “Sister, now wot did we agree about me doing
all
the talkin'?”

But it was too late; Isabella had stirred up a beehive.

“Now, you listen to me.” The innkeeper pointed a wrinkled, reddened finger at her. “Miss St. Vincent saved my life. When my husband ran off with that trollop parlor maid—always waving her round backside at him—taking what little money we had, then dying in that tart's bed, leaving me with three hungry children and my papa's rundown house, it was Miss St. Vincent who taught me how to take care of myself. She may be a spinster, but I tell you she knows the hard life of a woman. She knew better than to marry or fall for some lying, no-good cur.”

Isabella swallowed. She felt like a fraud. She fell for lying, no-good curs right and left, and the only reason she wasn't married was because no such cur had a
sked her.

“Did you say the author was a Miss St. Vincent?” Randall asked, staring at Isabella, his eyes all glittery. “A Miss Isabella St. Vincent?”

Isabella flushed beneath her flush. She didn't want him to know about that book. In fact, she didn't want
anyone
to know about it. Now he would tease her mercilessly. As if the “promising openings in the love market” wasn't bad enough!

“Yes, she is indeed a saint.” The innkeeper raised the book as if it were the King James Bible. “She helped me realize that I had an opportunity, seeing how I was across from the new railroad station. Like she wrote, it's all about realistically assessing a need and situation. I'm so successful that now I've expanded, adding that post office and a public room, and I have a little shop with anything the villagers could want.” She glowered at Isabella. “How dare you insinuate that—”

“I'm sorry.” The heretic held up her palms, backing away. “I didn't mean—”

“My children and I are alive today because of this book,” the woman thundered. “Overly sentimental? My foot. I can tell you're a bit dull-witted—”

“Wait a minute! I am rather intel—”

“Aye, we'll just take the two chambers.” Randall squeezed Isabella's elbow. “Being it's the
only
inn in the village and me sister desires a bathing room.”

“Bathing room? This isn't the Royal Palace. Miss St. Vincent would never approve of such an extravagant use of capital.”

“What?” Isabella cried weakly. She didn't recall in her draft or Judith's horrific edits any injunction against bathing rooms. She was going to make a revision specifically addressing the issue.

“I'll send my daughter up with a proper, decent tub.” The lady slid two keys to Randall but kept an eye on Isabella. Even as Isabella walked to her room, scratching an annoying itch on her side, she felt the heat of the woman's gaze boring into her.

Randall carried their luggage up a narrow staircase, turned sideways, and edged down an even narrower passage. “Ah, our rooms are across the corridor from each other,” he said. “Do you want the lovely view of the stables or the scenic railroad station?”

“I'll take the one with a view of a clean bed and fresh water.”

He opened a door and announced, “I think this one will be yours.” He let her pass into an excessively floral parlor. The lumpy, slumping walls were covered in pink wallpaper of rose vines and then further layered with framed paintings of periwinkles. The purple violets on the upholstered chairs clashed with the walls and most measures of good taste. The adjacent bedchamber offered little botanical relief, the bedcover fabric being covered with pale yellow daylilies.

On the commode, Isabella slid over three figurines of shepherdesses to make room for her bag. She opened its latch and started to root around. “Where's my lotion? I could scratch my skin off.” Randall didn't remove to his own chamber but stayed planted on her floral carpet. He studied her, his head tilted.

“Why—why are you looking at me like that?”
she asked.

“Like how?”

“I don't know. Just stop. It makes me feel self-conscious.”

“Tell me about this book of yours.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Ah, your standard answer. Well, unless you tell me, I'm just going to stand here, staring at you.” He widened his eyes and moved closer, until his face was mere inches from hers, making her feel all the more uncomfortable, as well as a bit tingly in the sacred female regions.

“It's nothing.” She flicked her hand, trying to dismiss the horrible subject. “I just wrote a small volume about investing in funds and other business matters. Anyway, Judith edited it, turning it into this dreadful, gothic claptrap. Before I could stop her, she had one of the members from her women's society publish it.” She reached for a bottle wrapped in a stocking. Dr. Bate's Miraculous Blemish Wash? Where was her lotion? And why was Randall still staring at her, making her tingle? “There, I told you. Now stop looking at me and go to your own room.”

He didn't. She should have known better than to trust him. “The Mary Wollstonecraft Society?”
he asked.

“Do you know them?”

“The more ardent members enjoy decorating my colleagues' and my parliamentary robes with rotting vegetation and eggs.”

Despite herself, she laughed. “I think it's best if we just forget about the society, the book, my upcoming speech, and all of today. In fact, it would suit me if the entirety of this week could be forgotten.” She shoved aside a petticoat to peer deeper in her bag. “Where is my blessed lotion?”

“Well, you certainly have a devoted follower in the innkeeper, provided she knew your true identity.” He patted her shoulder, sending little jolts of tingling all through her nerves. “You should be proud, Isabella. You helped her.”

“I didn't help her. I can't help anyone. She doesn't know what she's talking about. She didn't need me.” She pulled out a gown and searched beneath. “Don't tell me I didn't pack any lotion!”

“Give yourself some credit. You should be thrilled. Nothing makes me happier than helping people.”

She stopped her hunt. “Really?” she asked, incredulity in full bloom. “
You
enjoy helping people?”

“What did you think?”

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “I thought you liked being in Parliament for the prestige, power, and everyone admiring you.”

Something in his expression changed. Although she wasn't cold, a shiver went down her spine.

“Is that what you think of me?” he barked, causing her to flinch. “You, like the others, really think I'm a self-absorbed, ruthlessly ambitious, empty-headed, handsome boy.”

“I didn't m—”

“I work hard for my country. I stay up all night, worrying, reading, thinking, doing all I can to help this nation. I'm not an idiot,” he thundered. “My thoughts, my ideas are legitimate.”

Her mouth gaped. She didn't recognize the man with all his charming veneer ripped away.