London
September 1828
VICTOR CALE PACED the foyer of Manton’s Investigations in an unassuming town house on Bow Street, praying that his longtime friend Tristan Bonnaud was here today. Tristan had to convince Dominick Manton, owner of the investigative concern, to try Victor out as an investigator.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t have useful skills—he was fluent in six languages, he had decent aim, and he’d already done some investigative work. It might even be considered an asset that he’d recently been discovered to be cousin to Maximilian Cale, the Duke of Lyons and one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in England.
Most important, Tristan wouldn’t hold the crimes of Victor’s father against him, which was refreshing. Sometimes he felt as if he wore his father’s actions like a brand, even though Max never so much as alluded to them. Indeed, Max went out of his way to treat his newfound cousin well.
That was the trouble. Max seemed determined to show him off in high society, where Victor could never feel comfortable. A childhood spent in English regimental camps and three years in the Prussian army had hardly prepared him for such a life. Nor had his brief, ill-fated marriage to a lying thief.
He scowled.
“Mr. Manton will see you now.”
Victor turned to find Dominick Manton’s butler, Mr. Skrimshaw, standing there in a bright salmon waistcoat, blue Cossacks, and a coat so over-braided and frogged in gold that he looked like a soldier from some war of fashion. “I’m not here to see Dom,” Victor pointed out.
“‘Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles.’” With that curt and curious statement, Skrimshaw headed for the stairs, clearly expecting Victor to follow.
Only then did Victor remember that Skrimshaw not only acted in the theater sometimes but had a penchant for quoting lines from plays. He wished the irritating fellow had a penchant for speaking and dressing plainly, instead. The man’s coat was an assault on the eyes. Though perhaps it was a costume. One never knew with Skrimshaw.
When the butler ushered him into Dom’s study, Victor relaxed to find both Dom and Tristan waiting for him. Whenever he saw the two half brothers together, he was struck by the family resemblance. Both men had ink-black hair, though Tristan’s was longish and wildly curly, while Dom’s was cropped shorter than was fashionable. Tristan’s eyes were blue and Dom’s green, but they were of the same shape and size. And both men had the sort of lean attractiveness that made women blush and stammer whenever either entered a room.
That was where the resemblance ended, however, for Tristan liked a good joke, a fine glass of brandy, and as many pretty females as he could tumble without compromising his work as an investigator.
Dom liked work and naught else. The man meant to make Manton’s Investigations a force to be reckoned with. Apparently jokes, brandy, and pretty females were unacceptable distractions.
So it was no surprise when Tristan was the one who came forward to clap a hand on Victor’s shoulder. “How are you, old chap? It’s been a few weeks, hasn’t it?”
“A few.” Victor shot a glance at Dom, who remained seated. The man’s expression gave nothing away.
He wished Dom weren’t here, too. That might make this very awkward.
“Sit, sit,” Tristan said as he leaned against the desk with arms crossed. “Tell us why you’ve come.”
With a sigh, Victor settled into a chair. In for a penny, in for a pound. “It’s simple, really. I was hoping you might take me on as an investigator.” When both men looked surprised, he went on hastily, “You won’t have to pay me, just cover my expenses. Max gives me an ample allowance. But I need something to do.”
He’d spent enough time playing the role expected of him as Max’s long-lost cousin. He had to get back into the world of investigations. To start looking for his betraying wife again.
Tristan exchanged a glance with his older brother. “Tired of the ducal life already, are you?”
“Let’s just say that nobody warned me what it would entail. I’ve done naught but attend dinners and parties and balls where I’m bombarded with questions about my life abroad, none of which I can answer without bringing down scandal on the house of Lyons.” Victor shifted in the small chair. “And when people aren’t interrogating me, they’re talking about fashion or who placed the latest wager in White’s betting book. Or, worst of all, about whether waltzes really are morally reprehensible.”
“What, you don’t have an opinion about the moral implications of the waltz?” Tristan quipped. “I’m stunned.”
“I don’t like dancing,” Victor grumbled. Especially since he didn’t know how. Though one of these days he probably should learn.
“I loathe dancing myself,” Dom put in, “but it’s the primary way to meet ladies in good society.”
“Victor doesn’t need to meet ladies,” Tristan said dryly. “They throw themselves at him. Always did. And he always ignored them. Of course, now that he’s the duke’s first cousin once removed, he’s eminently more eligible.”
Except for the fact that he was already married—though no one knew that. No one could ever know that.
He tensed as an image of Isa leapt into his mind, young and sweet and adoring. But it had all been an act. She’d been setting him up for betrayal from the beginning, her and her scurrilous family.
After all these years, he could still hear his inquisitors in the Amsterdam gaol. She used you, you besotted arse! Yet you protect her.
He had . . . at first. He’d remained silent throughout his ordeal, thinking that she couldn’t have been part of it. It had taken him years to admit to himself that she must have been.
So now he searched for her wherever and whenever he could. He’d suspended the search when he’d come to London, in hopes that finding his English family might enable him to forget her and make a new life for himself.
Except that he couldn’t. The injustice of what she’d done ate at him. He had to find her. He needed to find her. He told himself it was because he didn’t want his past with her coming up to harm his cousin unexpectedly, but deep down he knew that was a lie. Finding her was the only way to get some peace. Because she still, after all these years, plagued his dreams.
He gritted his teeth. It was all the fault of the damned duke and his new duchess, with their billing and cooing. Max and Lisette were so deeply in love that doves probably roosted in the canopy over their bed. Victor was truly happy for his cousin, but sometimes envy choked him.
Envy? Ridiculous. The only thing he envied was that their life was settled and his wasn’t. If he didn’t find Isa, he’d be tied to her until he died. He should probably divorce her—the Dutch laws were more lax than the English ones—but he refused to set her free when he was still enslaved to her memory. Besides, he wanted to retain the power of a husband over his recalcitrant wife for when he found her. He wanted to be the one to bring her to justice.
The snide voices of the past intruded on his memories: Tell the truth—it was your wife who made the imitations, who stole the real diamonds.
His inquisitors had probably been right, damn them. And he would make her pay for it, by God, if it took him a lifetime to do so.
“The point is,” he said curtly, “I have no stomach for this life of parties and such. I need a change.”
He also needed to learn the tricks of finding people, something for which Dom was famous. Victor had gleaned a few from his cases with Tristan in Antwerp, but not enough. And now that he had financial resources, he could widen his search. The half brothers might even help him, if he proved himself useful to them.
“We do have that one case you were about to turn down,” Tristan said to Dom.
“Why would you refuse a case?” Victor asked.
“Because it’s odd,” Dom said. “Pays well, but I don’t know what to make of it. And it’s going to take some time, not to mention travel.”
“Victor would be perfect for it,” Tristan pointed out. “He speaks Dutch, he’s lived in Belgium . . . and he’s good at picking out a lie from the truth.”
“Tell me, what do you know about Edinburgh?” Dom asked.
Victor blinked. “It’s a city in Scotland, filled with damned fine soldiers who make damned fine whiskey. Why?”
“How would you like to sample that fine whiskey straight from the still?”
Victor’s blood quickened. “I would if it means you’re offering to send me to Scotland on a case.”
“Does your cousin know you want to do this?” Dom asked intently.
“Does it matter?” Victor countered.
Tristan laughed. “Dom isn’t eager to involve the duke in our affairs any more than is absolutely necessary. He’s still smarting over how everyone insists on calling the agency ‘The Duke’s Men,’ even after all these months.”
Max had been forced to give the press a rather convoluted tale of how he and Lisette had found Victor, and in the process the press had conflated Dom’s agency with Max. Which annoyed Dom exceedingly.
“And how would you feel,” Dom snapped at Tristan, “if the business you’d worked so hard to build were credited to a duke who did nothing?”
“Nothing?” Tristan countered. “He gained us the favorable press that is bringing us all these new clients.” A sudden gleam entered his gaze. “Not to mention, he provided us with a free clerk.”
“Don’t let Lisette hear you call her a clerk,” Dom shot back, “or you’ll find yourself doing investigations at the back of beyond.”
In addition to being Max’s duchess, Lisette was Dom’s half sister and Tristan’s sister. The daft female enjoyed organizing their office as a sort of hobby.
Manton’s Investigations was a family business in every sense of the word.
Victor ignored their usual sparring. “Let me take care of Max. I assure you, he won’t interfere with my involvement in Manton’s Investigations. He has his life; I have mine.”
Dom looked skeptical, but Tristan said, “Come now, Dom, what will it hurt to give Victor a chance? You were going to turn down the case anyway, and now you won’t have to.” When Dom looked as if he was wavering, Tristan added, “We do owe Victor, you know. If not for him and the duke, I’d still be back in France, wishing I could come home.”
A long sigh escaped the older brother. “Fine. But only one case to start with. Then we’ll see.”
“Thank you,” Victor said, a weight lifting from his chest.
“You won’t thank me when you see what the case is.” Dom hunted through a stack of files, then handed one to Victor. “It’s the sort of unsavory work that I hate doing: investigating a man’s prospective fiancée for his meddling mother.”
Victor noted the signature on the letter on top. “The client is a baroness?”
“A dowager baroness, Lady Lochlaw. She isn’t pleased with her son Rupert’s latest love interest, a Dutch-speaking widow named Sofie Franke, who claims to be from Belgium.”
Franke? That was the maiden name of Victor’s mother. How odd.
“Apparently, her ladyship thinks that the widow is suspiciously lacking in a knowledge of Belgium,” Tristan said. “Given your long sojourn there, you ought to be able to tell if she’s lying.”
Victor skimmed the letter, and his heart began to pound. “And this Mrs. Franke makes her living designing imitation diamond jewelry?” Surely not. How could it be?
“That’s right,” Dom said. “You can read through the entire file later, but the main points are that according to the records at Customs, she entered Scotland from France with her business partner, another jeweler, nearly ten years ago. And when we put Eugène Vidocq on the case in France, he discovered that the Paris address listed for her at Customs never had a tenant. Indeed, we can find no record of any Sofie Franke living in Paris before this woman got on a boat in Calais to go to Edinburgh. So you can see the problem.”
He certainly could. Excitement growing in his chest, Victor flipped through the papers. “Is there any mention of the woman’s age or what she looks like?”
“Why?” Tristan asked with lifted eyebrow. “Is how she looks important?”
“Perhaps,” Victor said. Though not for the reason you think, you sly dog.
“The baroness described her as a ‘grasping siren with her hooks in my son,’” Dom said dryly, “so I assume she’s somewhat pretty. As for age, the baroness didn’t mention it, probably because she doesn’t know, but considering that the baron is only twenty-two, his lady friend can’t be too old.”
“Yes, but the woman is a soldier’s widow,” Tristan pointed out. “The Belgians haven’t fought any wars since Boney—and that’s been thirteen years. Depending on when her husband died, she could be well past thirty, easily.”
A soldier’s widow. Victor’s excitement ratcheted up a notch. It made sense that Isa would stick as close to the truth as she could. “She may have married young.” And she might know that her soldier husband was out for her blood.
What were the chances of there being two Dutch-speaking female jewelry designers with a penchant for imitation diamonds and soldier husbands? The timing was right, and Isa could very well have fled to Paris when she left him. There was also the fact that Mrs. Franke was at the very least hiding her real name and place of origin. And that she bore his mother’s maiden name.
Still, it made no sense. The Isa he thought he’d known—shy and hesitant and reliant on her family and him for everything—would never have had the fortitude to travel across the sea and become a partner in a business.
And the Isa of his suspicions—a scheming thief who cared only about money—wouldn’t have settled down in such a place as Edinburgh for ten years. She would have stayed on the Continent to live the high life under her assumed name. With her talent, she might even have gone on to more thieving, and that would have required moving around.
So how could Mrs. Franke be Isa?
“Soldier’s widow or not,” Dom said, “she has to be young enough to bear Lochlaw an heir.”
Victor froze. “So the baroness really thinks her son and this woman mean to marry?” The irony of it didn’t escape him.
“Her ladyship seems very sure of it,” Dom replied. “Her son will inherit a great deal of money, and he has a title besides.”
His blood chilled. Well, that would certainly attract a scheming thief. Still, ten years was a long time to plot to entice a baron, especially since she would have had to start when the man was only twelve. And would she really be fool enough to commit bigamy?
Though perhaps she’d assumed that Victor had gone to prison for her crime. With her false name, she might have felt certain that no one would uncover her past.
“We can’t know the true situation for sure,” Dom went on, “until you get there and assess matters. You know these dowagers—they always think unsuitable women are trying to reel in their eligible sons.”
“Actually, I don’t know these dowagers,” Victor said. “Five months in London society hardly qualifies me as an expert. So you probably shouldn’t play up that I’m the duke’s cousin, because I’m bound to disappoint your client if that’s what she’s looking for.”
“The baroness didn’t hear of us because of the ‘Duke’s Men’ connection,” Tristan put in, “but because of a referral from someone in Edinburgh whose case Dom handled a few months ago. She may not even recognize your name.” He cast Victor an amused glance. “So you can be as boorish as you please, old chap. She won’t know you as anything but one of our investigators.”
Victor let out a breath. “Good.” Because if Mrs. Franke did turn out to be his missing wife, he would prefer that Isa not learn of his grand connections—not at first, anyway. The last thing he needed was for the thieving chit and her family—if they were still about—to try insinuating themselves into Max’s life on the basis of Isa’s marriage to Victor.
A marriage Victor meant to put an end to once and for all . . . assuming the woman in question was Isa. If he could prove that she really had been involved in the theft of the royal jewels, then no court in Europe would contest a divorce.
And he damned well would see her and her relations prosecuted for it.
The image of Isa’s last stark note to him flashed into his mind:
Dear Victor,
Our marriage was a mistake. I want something more than you can offer, so I’ve taken a position with a jeweler elsewhere. One day you will thank me.
Isa
Thank her? Even then, he’d known that would never happen, though he hadn’t quite believed her note. Even after she didn’t come home, even after her family disappeared, supposedly going off to look for her, he’d thought she was just suffering a case of new wife’s nervousness. That she would come back to him soon.
All of that had changed a week later, when someone at the palace discovered that one of the commissioned parures was imitation. When the authorities had come after him, he’d realized that Isa had really left him. That she’d intentionally sent his life spiraling down into hell.
Only then had he looked back to see the little signs he’d missed. Yes, she’d been an innocent on their wedding night, but that had been the only truthful thing about her. And perhaps she’d lied about that, too, sprinkling pig’s blood on the sheets or something. He’d been so stupidly in love that he would have believed anything she told him.
Not anymore. After her desertion—and his weeks of “interrogation”—his heart had grown hard as stone. He’d taught himself to be cold and thorough and unmoved by feminine wiles. So this time he would be prepared. He would turn the tables on her.
Perhaps then he could purge her from his mind once and for all.
♦ ♦ ♦
A FEW DAYS later, Victor arrived in Edinburgh. He hadn’t been surprised to learn that Max owned a house here, but he’d been touched when Max offered to let him stay in it as long as necessary.
He’d almost refused the offer, in case his quarry found out his connection, but it was hard to say no to the cousin he was just getting to know, and even harder to say no to the man’s meddling wife.
Fortunately, the house wasn’t a large, imposing palace in the center of town, but a villa outside the city proper. He should be able to stay there relatively anonymously, especially after he made it clear to the servants that his presence in Edinburgh needed to be discreet.
As soon as he got himself situated, he headed off to Charlotte Square to meet his new client, driving a phaeton from his cousin’s stables. But Lady Lochlaw proved to be not at all what Victor had expected, and not because of her relatively young age, either. Though the term dowager baroness might have led some to expect a doddering old lady, he’d known better. She was newly widowed, barely out of her mourning period, and with a twenty-two-year-old son; it made sense that she be in her forties.
He had, however, expected a woman very aware of her consequence and wealth. It was why she was hiring him to investigate her son’s “friend,” after all. And since describing another female as a “siren” generally showed a woman to be secretly envious, he’d also assumed she was unattractive.
Nothing could have been further from the truth. The moment he was shown into the drawing room of her fashionable town house, he was taken aback to find Lady Lochlaw tall and handsome, with honeyed curls, crystal-blue eyes, and a smile that would make any man feel at ease. Or the opposite, if the man happened not to be interested in what she was selling.
Which was why, when she ran her gaze down him familiarly while he was being announced, he had to grit his teeth. “My lady,” he said with a little bow.
“Please, Mr. Cale, do not stand on ceremony with me,” she purred as she approached to take him by the arm and guide him to a settee. “This isn’t stuffy old London, you know.”
When she sat down and patted the place next to her, he picked a spot at the other end of the settee and said firmly, “Ah, but you are still my employer, my lady. I wouldn’t dare to presume.”
It was a phrase he’d picked up at those London parties, though he’d never had to use it before.
“How very decent of you.” She cast him a dazzling smile. “Still, if I’d had any idea that dear Mr. Manton would send me such a braw fellow, as we Scots say, I would have insisted that you stay here at the town house.” With a fluttering of her lashes, she leaned forward to run a finger down his arm. “His letter of introduction said you fought at Waterloo. You must have been quite a sight on the battlefield.”
Trying not to stiffen visibly, Victor managed a bland smile. “Since I was only seventeen at the time and wet behind the ears, I imagine I was.” He made his tone crisp and professional. “Now, perhaps we should discuss the situation regarding your son.”
She stared at him, then sat back with an exaggerated sigh. “I only mentioned the war because my husband and I toured Waterloo in later years. Since we’d traveled all over Belgium, I found Mrs. Franke’s claim of being from Brussels rather suspicious when she didn’t seem to know much about it.”
That made sense. Isa had never been to Belgium. Assuming Mrs. Franke was Isa, that is.
“I see.” He drew out a notepad and a pencil. “When did your son and Mrs. Franke first become acquainted?”
“Acquainted? I fear it’s more than that. With her being so much older than Rupert—”
“How much older? Or do you know?”
“She looks to be thirty at least.”
Isa would be twenty-eight. “And they’ve known each other how long?”
“Only a year. They met when my son brought my jewelry into her shop to be cleaned.”
“But she’s lived here for ten. Are you sure he didn’t meet her before?”
“He was in school. He only came home after he reached his majority.”
“Ah, of course.” He scribbled notes in his pad. “Can you tell me anything else about Mrs. Franke that’s not in the materials you sent Manton’s Investigations? I gather, from your use of the term siren, that she is attractive.”
Her ladyship examined her fingernails. “She’s pretty in a vulgar sort of way. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“Not really.” He began to dislike the baroness. And feel sorry for her son. “In my experience, women are either pretty or plain, and I find both sorts equally distributed in all walks of society.”
Her gaze turned piercing. “Indeed? In my rather more vast experience, vulgar women lack the fine features and graceful movements of a woman of true breeding.” She leaned close again, as if to betray a confidence. “She walks like a man, as if she’s always in a hurry to get somewhere.” Her voice turned cynical. “And we both know where she’s in a hurry to get: into my son’s fortune.”
He took out the file he’d brought with him and made a show of flipping through it. “My understanding is that she’s a partner in a jewelry shop that does quite well.”
“Exactly!” she said. “A woman in trade? The very idea is appalling!”
“My point is, madam, that she has no need of your son’s fortune.”
“Oh, please do not insult my intelligence.” With an elegant roll of her eyes, Lady Lochlaw laid her arm along the back of the settee. “Any woman would leap to snag a rich young baron like Rupert, but especially a woman of her sort, grasping enough to go into trade.”
Inexplicably, that raised his hackles. “What did you expect a widow to do after she was deprived of the husband who’d provided for her? Starve?”
The minute he spoke the words he regretted them, for her ladyship’s gaze narrowed on him. And why was he defending the wife who’d deserted him, who had set him up to pay for her crimes? Mrs. Franke might not even be his wife. He must remember that, and stop antagonizing the woman who was going to pay Manton’s Investigations.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I have a tendency to speak too bluntly. All those years in the army made me ill-suited for the company of ladies ‘of true breeding’ like yourself.”
She softened. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘ill-suited.’” Her gaze trailed down him. “Even ladies of true breeding sometimes enjoy a taste of wild game, if you take my meaning.”
He stifled a sharp retort. “If you don’t mind, my lady, I have a few more questions about the case.”
Her eyes glittered briefly. Then she managed a smile. “You are all business, aren’t you, Mr. Cale?”
“It’s what I do best.”
“Well, then, I hope that in the midst of your dogged pursuit of the truth, you will do me one teeny-tiny favor.” As he stifled a groan, she bent nearer to whisper, “I need you to keep your true reason for being in Edinburgh secret.”
Oh, that kind of favor. Thank God. “I assure you I am always discreet.”
“Of course,” she said hastily. “You see, I don’t want my son to guess why I’ve brought you here. Technically, he holds the purse strings, though he loans them out to me without a thought. But I should not want to give him a reason to take them back.”
“Right.” He was beginning to get an interesting picture of this baron—young, impressionable, entirely under his mother’s thumb.
Except for his interest in Mrs. Franke.
Lady Lochlaw flashed him her shark’s smile. “But I need you to join us on several social occasions, so you can observe him and Mrs. Franke together. Tonight we three are going to the theater, and I’d like you to accompany us. I was hoping you could pretend to be someone . . . well . . . more appropriate.”
“Like who?” he said coolly.
“Perhaps a distant cousin, come from London to visit me.”
“Don’t you think your son will know that I am not your cousin?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “He pays no attention to such things. I have a hundred cousins.” A scheming smile crossed her lips. “And if you play one, then you can be the concerned male relation, asking questions that no other man could.” Her eyes lit up. “Except, perhaps, a suitor. You could pretend—”
“No, my lady,” he cut in. “I would never presume.” Clearly he’d be using that phrase quite often with his new client. “And if a stranger suddenly appears in your life as a suitor, your son will not only grow suspicious, but may start investigating my suitability for you.”
Her face fell. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Very well, a cousin it is. You needn’t change your name—there must be a Cale somewhere in my line.” She glanced at him. “You don’t mind, do you? The client who recommended Mr. Manton’s services said that your employer actually had to do a bit of playacting to find out his information.”
“I’m accustomed to that,” he said truthfully. “I used to serve as an agent for an investigator on the Continent.” Only occasionally, though she needn’t know that. “But your story won’t hold water for long if your son grows curious.”
“It won’t need to hold up long, because you are going to make sure the matter is resolved quickly. We’re having our annual house party at Kinlaw Castle next week, and I want to have every bit of ammunition against Mrs. Franke by then.” Her voice took on an edge. “In case my fool of a son decides to announce an engagement to her.”
“I see,” Victor said. “That’s not much time, especially if I’ll be spending part of my days and nights at social affairs, as you requested.”
Then it dawned on him. If the widow and Isa were one and the same, Isa would know it was a lie.
Yes. She would.
A smile curled his lips. And she would wonder what he was up to, and she wouldn’t be able to say a damned thing. He liked that idea. Let her shake in her boots for a while. That might prompt her to unveil her real purpose more swiftly.
“I’m sure you can manage it, Mr. Cale.” The baroness flashed him a sultry smile. “It’s what I’m paying you for, is it not?”
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Franke is here, my lady.”
Victor stiffened. What the devil?
“Send her right up, if you please.” Lady Lochlaw smiled brightly at Victor. “When I got your message that you were arriving today, I invited Mrs. Franke to take tea with us. I thought you might as well get right to it, and form your first impressions without my son around and without having to resort to subterfuge. Clever of me, wasn’t it?”
“Quite clever,” he bit out.
His heart was hammering, and his blood had chilled. He’d thought he’d have more time before he came face-to-face with her. He’d assumed he would get a chance to see her without being seen, so he could be sure it was her. Then he’d have time to figure out her game before he revealed his presence.
Damn! If Mrs. Franke was Isa, he couldn’t confront her publicly yet. He still had no proof that she’d ever stolen anything, so he couldn’t take her prisoner. And if he claimed her as his wife, what was to stop her from fleeing on the next boat to America or Canada or Italy?
Besides, he wasn’t ready to open his past to public scrutiny—it might damage Max, who’d done so much for him, or put a stain on Manton’s Investigations.
He needed to play this very carefully.
Tucking his notepad into his pocket, he rose and went to the window, positioning himself where he might get a look at her before she spotted him, since presumably she would head right for her hostess.
As if through a fog, he heard the butler announce her, and he turned to see a woman enter. For one heart-stopping moment, Victor thought it wasn’t Isa. Though the hair was the right color, the woman was too fashionably dressed. Isa would never have possessed the courage to wear such a vibrant red. This woman’s breasts were bigger than Isa’s had been, and she was a bit taller than he remembered.
Then she bent to press the hand of the baroness, who hadn’t bothered to rise, and he saw the high heels of her half boots. The height came from those.
But the trim, pretty little ankles were hers—he would recognize those anywhere. So when he heard her murmur, “Good afternoon, my lady, I hope you are well,” in a lightly accented voice, he wasn’t surprised that it was Isa’s—though her tone was more self-assured than he remembered.
“My dear Mrs. Franke,” Lady Lochlaw said, “we have another guest for tea today, whom I thought you might like to meet. May I introduce my cousin, Mr. Victor Cale?”
With her back to him, Isa froze.
Good. He hoped he’d thrown her into a panic. He was looking forward to seeing her alarm at being caught, after all these years. Or better yet, worried about what vengeance the husband she’d betrayed might mete out.
She began to turn toward him slowly, as if in a dream. He just had time to glimpse the porcelain skin, full lips, and other sweet features he’d found so compelling nearly ten years ago, when her gaze met his.
To his shock, it was ablaze with fury.