Lady Rogue

To what end? Callum Jenks had said to Isabel. To what end?

To what end had she kissed him—or he kissed her? The night that followed his unexpected visit had been a confused one of broken sleep. But it was not the insomnia of recriminations Isabel had struggled with so often since finding Andrew’s hidden room. There were no shouldn’t haves and should haves, not with kisses. There was only a sweet recall, a yearning for . . . what? For more?

To what end?

Maybe the closeness, the pleasure, was the end in itself. For there must be an end. He was work, all work on London’s roughest streets, and she was a proper widow in a bubble of funds and fashion. A proper widow who would find herself new lodging. A space of her own, maybe to become a person of her own too.

Only after a broken night’s sleep were manners and mores faded enough for a daughter of the ton to think in such terms.

She arose early and wrote busily at the small desk in her bedchamber. Not invitations to the dinner party she had suggested to Callum. No, the dinner had been nothing more than a nebulous inkling, so she would place it on hold.

Instead, she seized upon the promise idly made to the Duke of Ardmore that she intended to move houses. That was something she could do, to fill the time between invitations into society—or until the time she became a thief and housebreaker. A note to Septimus Nash, the house agent the duke had recommended. Lady Isabel had a desire to move households and would await Mr. Nash at his earliest convenience.

Next, she wrote her father, knowing that the letter would instead be opened and read by her brother. Lord Martindale would be annoyed that she was moving households; he cultivated normalcy as gardeners cultivated roses. But if one acted like everyone else—wasn’t that ordinary, rather than normal? Isabel was not sure of the difference.

She was not sure she wanted to be either one.

By the time her lady’s maid had clucked over Isabel’s breakfast and helped her into another gray gown, a reply had arrived from Mr. Nash. He would be pleased to meet her ladyship at a certain address in Russell Square at a late hour of the afternoon, should that suit her. The property was most attractive and would be an excellent situation for a friend of the Duke of Ardmore’s.

“Hmm.” Isabel knew she sounded like Callum Jenks, her brow creasing as she read this reply. Russell Square—surely that would be a stately, costly address.

But she might as well look. She returned a note of agreement to Nash’s reply.

She spent the early afternoon paying calls with Lucy. To Lady Teasdale, of course, and to Mrs. Roderick and the Dowager Lady Mortimer—all women with sons of marriageable age. So often, a mother was looking harder for a possible bride for her son than he was looking for himself. Lucy conducted herself quietly—always so quietly!—but with pretty manners. If they were not striking, at least they did not offend.

Perhaps she was regretting her failed attempt at training Brinley, though Isabel had assured her she thought it was quite funny.

They returned to Lombard Street briefly to refresh body and clothing, then retrieved Brinley and clipped him to a long leather leash. The coachman, Jacoby, brought around Isabel’s landaulet, and women and dog clambered in.

The journey to Russell Square was not long by foot, but in the crowded London streets, it took some minutes for Jacoby to thread the bays through the clutter of carriages and street sweepers and servants on foot. When they approached Russell Square, the accustomed noise of the city dimmed gradually, filtered out by the trees in the central garden.

The landaulet pulled up before the given address. Brinley leaped out, yipping, his short legs a blur of hops and jumps, as Jacoby aided Isabel and Lucy in climbing down.

Septimus Nash awaited them at the front door of the house, keys in hand. He was tall and spare, and he had a raven’s way of tipping his head and regarding one with skeptical eyes.

“Lady Isabel. Miss Wallace.” Once the ladies had ascended the steps to join him, he made his bow, all the time regarding Brinley with a look of distaste. “The animal should remain outdoors while I escort you about the premises.”

Isabel had intended to leave Brinley with the groom, but Nash’s nasal certainty set her teeth on edge. “The animal,” she replied, “will be accompanying my ward and me, as he is to live here too.” She caught up the end of the leash, wrapping it around her hand, and ignored the fact that Brinley had lifted his leg beside one of the gray stones framing the tall wooden doors.

“Very well. Doubtless you noted the desirability of the neighborhood? The garden square? We could tour it if you wish.”

“I do like the garden square.” Raised in the country seat of her father, Isabel sometimes felt starved for the sight of growing things in the city. “And there is no question that the neighborhood is fine. But let us have a look at the house first.” She took up another loop of the leash as Brinley sniffed circles around Nash’s patent-leather shoes.

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t show this house to two females,” Nash confided as he unlocked the door. “But I have made an exception for a friend of the Duke of Ardmore.”

Lucy darted a sideways glance at Isabel. Is that all right? Are you going to let that comment pass?

Of course it wasn’t. And she wasn’t.

“The dog is male, if that helps,” Isabel replied. “And why would you not show this house to delicate females such as ourselves?” She leaned in, eyes wide, and whispered, “Is there something improper about it?”

“Heavens, no!” He pokered up. “But it is a large house and will require a steady hand with staff.”

He wasn’t wrong about this; she could tell by looking at the broad stone façade. Three stories plus an attic, and who knew how many rooms?

“If you swear it’s not improper,” she granted, “I suppose we will have a look.”

With a sniff from Nash and the satisfying silence of well-oiled hinges, the door opened on a spacious entryway. It was at least three times the size of the one in Isabel’s current house, marble-tiled and silk-papered and pleasantly scented of beeswax and lemon oil. Bare of furnishings, it looked even larger than it truly was, and the staircase that lay ahead loomed just as wide and grand.

Isabel knew at once she wasn’t going to take this house. “It is lovely,” she said over the sound of Brinley’s claws clicking over marble. “I am not certain, though, that it will suit.”

She would bring a dog inside to disoblige Nash, but she wouldn’t purchase a house.

“I understood you to want a tonnish neighborhood.” Beside her, Nash tipped his head and fixed a beady dark eye on her.

Isabel handed Brinley’s leash to Lucy. “Tonnish, yes, with the emphasis on the ish. I don’t mean that I wish to have Angelus as a neighbor, but I don’t mind if I’m outside of Mayfair.”

Nash waved a hand. “Of course you want to be in Mayfair. Now, have a look through this door. I believe you will be pleased at the size of this drawing room. I say this one, because there are several, all elegantly appointed. Come, come! Do not hang back. You must have a look at the house you intend to buy.”

Lucy dropped the end of the leash. With a yelp and a skitter of claws over smooth stone, Brinley took off—first for Nash’s shoes, then, after he’d rejected them, into the drawing room to sniff about its perimeter.

“Oh, dear!” Lucy clapped a hand to her mouth, looking almost genuinely distressed. “I am so sorry, Mr. Nash. I was overcome at the sight of the room. Truly, it is beautiful.”

The house agent made a strange noise.

Isabel fought to keep a solemn expression. “How embarrassing,” she cooed. “I must apologize, Mr. Nash! Truly, we should have let you hold the leash. You have the firm hand that we ladies lack.”

Nash looked suspicious, as if he suspected he were being led by the nose but could not see the rope.

Crossing the drawing room—which really was elegant and spacious—she took Brinley’s leash in hand. He whined a protest as she marched him back across the room, away from what had evidently been a fascinating smell. “Mr. Nash, would you mind holding him while we tour the remainder of the house? Excellent! I do appreciate it. You will know just how to handle him, I am sure.”

The house agent looked at the leash in his hand, and the little dog winding it in a circuit around his legs, with some dismay. “Lady Isabel, I cannot—that is, it’s not done for you to look about the house without my supervision.”

Again, she widened her eyes. “Oh, dear! But you assured us it was not improper! What ever will we find? Oh, Lucy dear, come take my hand.”

Lucy’s mouth was twitching as she obeyed.

“No, it’s not—I assure you, my lady, there is nothing improper in the house. Nothing that will offend your sensibilities in the slightest.”

Isabel let out a great breath. “How you relieve my mind! Thank you, Mr. Nash. We should not have known what to do without you. Shall we meet you here in—let us say, fifteen minutes? Only I do not have a watch, so you must let me know when it has been long enough.”

And with Lucy’s hand in hers, she turned about and swanned up the stairs, not much caring in which part of the house she wound up. Behind them, Brinley barked and whined. Nash called after them once, but she pretended not to hear.

“Aunt Isabel,” Lucy breathed as they reached the first story and stepped onto a floor of polished wood, “you were marvelous.”

“I can’t imagine what you mean. All I did was act in the way he expected. Dim-witted and helpless.” Isabel paused, looking about the corridor. Good lines. Wide, spacious. Far too many rooms for her needs. “Perhaps I took it farther than he expected. But you know, Andrew—Mr. Morrow—used to treat me as if I were helpless sometimes. I wish now that I’d turned it about on him, instead of lodging a protest to which he didn’t listen in the slightest.”

“But you’re so brave. You traveled all those places with him, and you were so young.”

Isabel smiled at that, but it was wry. “It was easy to agree and obey. Not to mention it was good manners, and above all I’d been raised to have good manners.” She turned around, looking at the dimensions of the house. “Do you want to look about anymore?”

“Not if you don’t.”

“It would be more entertaining to poke around if there were still furniture and belongings. In truth, I knew as soon as I saw the place that it wouldn’t suit, but we mustn’t let Mr. Nash know we females can make up our own minds. Not just yet.”

The upstairs was pleasant enough, with filtered sunlight and the same clean scent of lemon oil. But there was not a chair in sight; not a stick of any furniture. So Isabel plumped onto the floor at the top of the stairs, setting her feet on a step as if it were a stool, and patted the floor next to her. “Come, sit by me, and I shall tell you the terrible truth about husbands.”

Lucy looked wary as she sat. “I thought you wanted me to marry.”

“Not if you don’t,” Isabel teased, repeating Lucy’s own words.

“But I do.” Lucy caught one of her blond curls between thumb and forefinger, tugging and twining it about her finger. “Are husbands truly terrible?”

“No, I was being dramatic. Though some are. It depends on the husband.” Her brows knit. “It depends on the wife, too. Some men will take exactly as much power as they’re given, and they’ll give as little respect as is demanded of them.”

“But Uncle Andrew—” Lucy halted; she didn’t often speak his name.

Isabel didn’t either. “I was meant,” she explained, “to be an adjunct to his career without asking too many questions. But once the wedding was done and we were alone on our honeymoon, I had nothing to say for myself. So much was drilled into me in order to get me ready for my come-out in society, I had never thought about what would come afterwards.”

Lucy looked much struck. “You knew how to run a household.”

“Does that fill a person’s days? It could, I suppose. But it felt like treading water. I never accomplished anything of my own.” She traced a vein in the marble of the top stair. “I knew how to paint a pretty watercolor, but I couldn’t discuss paints and shading as Andrew wished. And what good was needlepoint when our home was fully furnished? What use cards when there was no one to play with?”

As if he heard her questions, a fit of yipping from Brinley echoed up the stairs.

“He is enjoying himself.” Lucy frowned. “So what did you do?”

“I read everything I could. I wanted to learn, because if I didn’t learn, I wouldn’t be useful. And if I wasn’t useful, who would I be? I was useful to my parents when they thought I’d train up well and make a good match. But then what?”

“It’s awful to be uncertain,” Lucy agreed. “But men in the ton don’t want useful wives, do they? Lady Teasdale’s son is in politics, and Mrs. Roderick’s son hunts all the time.”

“They don’t want their wives to have to be useful,” mused Isabel. “But a pretty face fades over the years. A sharp mind doesn’t dull. Though as long as I was pretty and sweet, that was all Andrew expected of me.”

Lucy drew up her knees, folding her arms around them. “Then why did you care?”

Isabel rolled her eyes. “Ugh. I couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my life being nothing but pretty and sweet.”

“Yet you can’t help it,” laughed Lucy.

“Dear girl. I should give you more pocket money.”

“You give me more than I could wish for.” Lucy’s brow puckered. “I should like to learn more too. About art. Do you—do you think I could learn enough to teach it someday? If I don’t marry?”

Unspoken was the question: What if no one wants to marry me?

“I think you could. Likely you already can.” I will watch over you.

“If you wish to teach private lessons, we must look for a house with a fine studio space. Or you could teach at a girls’ school.”

Lucy was shaking her head already. “Too many people.” She unfolded, sat up straight. “I think—I should like to get married. To the right sort of person.”

“I would not want you to wed any other sort.” She couldn’t look at Lucy when she said this. A husband and wife’s private life was their own, and she hoped Lucy knew nothing of the realities behind Isabel’s marriage. Andrew Morrow had been Lucy’s cousin, and one never wished to speak ill of the dead. Or think it.

With a ringing bark and a whirl of little churning legs, Brinley rounded the curve of the stairs. The leash trailed behind him, loose.

“Brinley!” Lucy shot to her feet. As the beagle ran up the steps and skidded past them, she snagged the end of the leash. He halted at once, quivering with delight, and yipped again.

“You imp,” said Isabel. “You’ve been leading Mr. Nash on a merry chase, haven’t you? We might as well descend now and relieve the poor man of his anxieties.”

Lucy kept hold of the leash, and as a sedate trio, they descended to the ground floor. At the foot of the stairs, Nash awaited with disheveled hair, his breath coming in quick pants. “Little fellow . . .” He strove for good cheer. “Got . . . away from me. Never seen . . . such a little . . . animal move . . . so fast.”

“He is part thoroughbred.” Isabel smiled pityingly, as if this made any sense at all. “You mustn’t blame yourself, Mr. Nash. But I don’t think this place would suit him, and I am sure it will not do for us.”

Color rose in his cheeks. “Lady Isabel! I urge you to reconsider.”

“All right.” She tapped at her chin with a forefinger. “No, my decision is the same. I am afraid we have wasted your time. So sorry. Two women, you know, we are doing our best.”

“Do you not wish to set up your own household after all?”

She dropped the feather-witted act, lifting her chin. “I already possess my own household. I merely wish to move it to someplace smaller.”

“Because it is too much for you.” Nash was all sympathy at once. “I could show you a set of rooms in Cheapside. They are over a linen draper’s shop. Most respectable.”

“Mr. Nash, come now. I haven’t the income of the Prince Regent, but I needn’t live in a set of rooms. I would prefer a house.”

He was smoothing his hair, regaining his composure word by word. “You might consider the rooms, truly, if you seek to economize. The rent is most reasonable, and the widow who lives in the attic rooms is quite willing to cook and serve as charwoman.”

“I am not in financial difficulty,” Isabel said. “I wish to move households because my husband died in the house I live in now.”

Lucy looked embarrassed by this. But then, Lucy often looked embarrassed.

Isabel knew this reason would satisfy Nash. Let him believe her sentimental and fearful—though in truth, Isabel had rarely entered Andrew’s bedchamber before his death, and she had no reason to now. The physical signs of his death were entirely gone.

No, it was the physical signs of his life that bothered her. The fussy, fragile antiques on which one had to sit gingerly; the silks that could not be touched; the paintings that turned the house into an art gallery curated by someone whose tastes differed entirely from Isabel’s.

“I understand.” Nash looked pitying, which was a sliver better than condescending. “I shall inform you if anything suitable comes on the market.”

They parted ways outside the house, descending the steps to the landaulet as Nash relocked the door. At the carriage, Brinley sat on his haunches on the ground and looked up mournfully.

“Hop in!” Lucy patted the carriage step. “Come on, boy. You love to ride in the carriage.”

His long tongue lolled out of his mouth. He flopped over and lay on his back with his legs splayed out, looking as if he’d been pressed by an iron.

“Oh, now you’re quiet,” Isabel groused. She clambered up and took her seat, then asked the groom to pick up the dog and hand him in after her and Lucy.

As the bays set off at a trot, and Brinley rolled into a sleepy ball at their feet, Lucy turned to Isabel. “He’s not barking. He’s not even jumping. Have we found the answer to training him?”

“Sheer exhaustion, after he runs away from everyone all morning and most of the afternoon?” Isabel laughed. “Perhaps we have.”

It didn’t help her determine how to deal with the Duke of Ardmore’s dogs. And she hadn’t found a suitable house. But at least it meant the afternoon had not altogether been a waste, even as the time remaining before the switch of the paintings was growing assuredly short.