2
ISA WANTED TO throttle him. She’d known something was up when Lady Lochlaw, who didn’t seem to like her, had invited her for tea. But she’d never dreamed that the woman had somehow unearthed her worthless scoundrel of a husband!
How dared he show up now, after she’d finally accepted that he would never return? She had a good life. She and Angus Gordon had built their jewelry shop into one of the preeminent ones in Edinburgh; she had friends who cared about her; and, most important, her daughter, Amalie, was happy and healthy and doing well at an expensive boarding school in Carlisle.
Yet now, after years of abandonment, he meant to trample on all her achievements by insinuating himself into her life as her husband. As Amalie’s father.
Oh, Lord, he could take Amalie away! It was his right under the law in every country. Especially if he revealed her part in the theft years ago.
Though he could hardly do that without implicating himself, could he?
Suddenly Lady Lochlaw’s words registered—May I introduce my cousin . . .
Victor couldn’t possibly be related to the baroness. He was Belgian, not English.
But what reason would the baroness have to lie about it? And as her sister had pointed out years ago, Isa didn’t really know much about the man she’d once been in love with.
After a decade of parsing every interaction for clues to his real nature, she still didn’t. But the cold, calculating look in his eyes told her that he had known that she was here. He had come here specifically for her, curse him to hell.
How had he found her? And how much did Lady Lochlaw know? Was Isa about to find her business concern compromised because the baroness had learned that she was living under a false name? Or worse yet, that her family had been involved in a crime?
If he revealed that, Amalie would be taken from her for certain. Oh, Lord!
She squeezed the reticule that held the hatpins she’d made for Amalie, who was to start her new school term on Monday. Sending the girl away tore out part of Isa’s soul every time, but Edinburgh had no schools for girls, and she was determined to see Amalie well educated. Now she rejoiced that her daughter would soon be back in Carlisle, safe from her blackguard of a father.
Victor could never have Amalie!
Stay calm. He doesn’t know about her, and nobody else may even know about those imitation diamonds. They could still be sitting undetected in the palace in Amsterdam. And if Lady Lochlaw knew who you really were, she would have done this with Rupert present.
She relaxed. His mother had some wild notion that Isa was after her son’s fortune. So the fact that the baroness hadn’t done this in front of Rupert meant she didn’t know about Isa’s past at all.
“Mrs. Franke?” Lady Lochlaw asked, a note of bewilderment in her voice. “Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” she said swiftly. “I’m just surprised. Your son never mentioned that he had a cousin coming to visit.”
“It was rather sudden,” Lady Lochlaw said smoothly. “And Mr. Cale is a very distant cousin; I’m not sure Rupert even knows him.”
“Well,” Isa choked out, “any cousin of yours is a welcome addition to our society. I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Cale.”
Would he reveal their past connection? Her blood beat a fierce tattoo in her veins.
A second passed, then two. Then Victor gave an abbreviated bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Mrs. . . . Franke, is it?”
He was taunting her, but she didn’t find that nearly as unsettling as hearing his voice for the first time in ten years. Especially since he was speaking English flawlessly, with no trace of an accent. As if he were English.
Perhaps he really was Lady Lochlaw’s cousin. Wouldn’t that be a cruel twist of fate? She let out a breath. “Yes, Sofie Franke.”
“My mother’s maiden name was Franke,” he said in a sharp tone.
That was why she’d chosen the name in the first place—so he might find her through it. But she’d never guessed it would take him nearly ten years to do so. Or that she would no longer wish to have him find her. Or that when he did, he would look at her with such anger.
What did he have to be angry about? Clearly he’d engineered this . . . this farce of a meeting. He had come here for some purpose, but what could it possibly be?
A horrible thought occurred to her. What if he’d decided to hunt her down and get her to make more imitation jewels? She wouldn’t put it past him. The sale of those diamond earrings wouldn’t have plumped up his pockets forever, especially if he’d lived extravagantly. Which he obviously had, judging from his fine attire.
Outrage seared her. She had to get him alone, figure out what he was up to. And if another thieving scheme was his purpose, she would threaten to expose him—even if it meant exposing her own part in the previous theft.
She swallowed. Surely it wouldn’t come to that. It couldn’t. She had Amalie to think of.
A servant appeared in the doorway carrying a tray, and Lady Lochlaw smiled. “Ah, there’s our tea. Come, sit. We can all get better acquainted.”
The last thing Isa wanted was to make small talk with her rogue of a husband, but she had no choice. Her ladyship would be watching for unusual behavior.
Besides, for Rupert’s sake, she should be polite. The poor man was her friend, and he had enough conflicts with his mother as it was. Lady Lochlaw’s flagrant flirtations perplexed him, and her dislike of his focus on scholarly interests wounded him. The woman simply refused to accept that he would never be the dashing man about town that she kept pushing him to be.
Isa took a seat and Victor followed suit. As her ladyship poured the tea, Isa seized the opportunity to look Victor over.
He kept his hair shorter these days, and his clothes were the height of fashion. Gone was the rough soldier, and in his place was a fine gentleman. He looked a little older, too, which made him even more attractive, more . . . settled in.
Yet some things about him were exactly the same. She’d forgotten how tall he was, and how well he filled out his coat. She’d forgotten that he had the aquiline nose of an aristocrat and the warm eyes of a sensualist.
She’d forgotten his crooked mouth.
How could she have forgotten that, after all the times they’d kissed—secretly at the shop, heatedly in the alley beside it, passionately in their bed . . .
Drat him, she wouldn’t let him do this to her again!
She tightened her grip on her reticule. No, she would take this chance to find out as much as she could about his purpose. “So, how long do you intend to remain in the city, Mr. Cale?” she asked as Lady Lochlaw handed her a cup of tea.
His brutally intense gaze speared her. “I haven’t decided. It depends on . . . a number of factors.”
“But he’s staying at least through my house party,” Lady Lochlaw put in. “Aren’t you, my dear?”
He stiffened. “If that is what your ladyship wants.”
Her ladyship clearly wanted quite a bit more, which sent a surge of jealousy through Isa that annoyed her exceedingly. She no longer cared whose bed her wretch of a husband shared. She didn’t.
The baroness flashed him one of her not-so-coy smiles. “Don’t be so formal, cousin. You must call me Eustacia.”
“As you wish, my la—Eustacia,” Victor said. But his eyes were on Isa, scouring her as if trying to flay the flesh from her bones so he could see every secret in her heart. “And shall I call you Sofie, Mrs. Franke? Or do you have some nickname you prefer?”
Her temper flared at his blatant attempt to bait her. Did he think she would crumble into weeping and confess her real name just because he was tormenting her?
Of course he did. He’d always thought her easy to get over. “My late husband called me Mausi when we were first married. I suppose he thought me so meek and helpless that I would endure any insult to keep his affection. But he soon learned I wasn’t a mouse after all.”
His eyes burned into her. “Was your husband German? Because just as the English endearment ‘my lamb’ doesn’t really mean a bleating, four-legged creature, Mausi as a German endearment doesn’t really mean ‘mouse.’” A haunted expression crossed his face. “It means something small and fragile and innocent. Precious, even. Perhaps that was how he meant it.”
The words made her ache for the way they had been, which was probably what he’d intended. “I doubt it, or he wouldn’t have—” She broke off, horrified that she’d nearly said abandoned me. “My husband was Belgian, Mr. Cale. Or so I thought.” Her tone hardened. “I really didn’t know him very well. He didn’t let me know him very well.”
“My, my, Mrs. Franke,” Lady Lochlaw put in, “while this is a very intriguing conversation, it is hardly suitable.”
Isa pasted a smile to her face for the baroness. “I’m sorry. I forget that you’re a widow, too. No doubt talk of husbands pains you as much as it does me.”
It was clear from the woman’s arch smile that it wasn’t talk of husbands that pained her. It was the fact that Isa had diverted Victor’s attention from her.
“So,” Lady Lochlaw said, “how is your little business doing, Mrs. Franke?”
Isa gritted her teeth. “It’s doing quite well, thank you. We’re about to unveil some new designs for our imitation work. You should come to the shop sometime, and I’ll show them to you before we offer them for sale.”
Lady Lochlaw looked horrified. “My dear, what need have I of jewelry made with imitation jewels? I can afford real jewels.”
“We have those, too,” Isa said, undaunted, “but you might enjoy our imitation ones as well. They look so real that half the women in town are wearing them, and no one even knows. These are no Vauxhall glass, I assure you.”
“Is that what you do, Mrs. Franke, make paste jewelry to fool people?” Victor asked in that faintly accusatory tone that was beginning to get on her nerves.
She stared him down. “No. I make beautiful works of art for women who wish to dress well for dinner and the theater, but who would rather spend their funds on more important pursuits than adorning themselves.”
“So you actually sell your imitations?” He smiled thinly. “I would have thought the only people making imitation jewelry are those who do it for some criminal purpose.”
Rage boiled up in her. The blackguard had the audacity to hint at her involvement in the theft, after he’d taken advantage of her skills? “Actually, I learned from my father, a respectable clockmaker. He liked to embellish his works with gems, but not everyone could afford clocks so elaborately decorated, so he sometimes resorted to imitation diamonds made of a higher-quality glass called strass. He always delineated which was which, of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed with faint sarcasm.
She glared at him. “He taught me the rudiments of crafting them, but I soon learned there were ways to improve them. Which I did. And I, too, always delineate which is which in my shop.”
“So they’re clearly not intended for a criminal purpose,” he said with a joking air, though his eyes weren’t joking in the least.
“No,” she shot back. “That would be wrong, sir.”
“Certainly, no one here is accusing anyone of wrongdoing, are we, Mr. Cale?” her ladyship put in, clearly bewildered.
Isa feared she couldn’t contain her temper much longer. Setting down her empty cup, she rose. “I don’t wish to be rude, my lady, but if I am to attend the theater tonight, I must return home. My gown required some alterations, which my maid is working on, and she may need to make additional ones after I try it on. It’s not every day I go out with such fine companions.”
“I understand completely,” Lady Lochlaw said. “And I do look forward to our little expedition. Mr. Cale is joining us as well. We’ll make a merry party.”
“I’m sure we will,” she lied. If she could keep from throwing him off a balcony.
“How are you getting home?” Victor surprised her by asking.
“I’ll take a hackney.” Mr. Gordon had been kind enough to bring her here, but she didn’t want to impose upon him for the return trip since he had things to do.
“You can’t take a hackney around the city alone,” he said. “You must allow me to accompany you. I have my phaeton waiting right outside.”
That was his phaeton she’d seen? Lord, he really was living high. She was surprised he still had any stolen funds left.
Or perhaps he’d found a more lucrative way to add to his income—like insinuating himself into the life of a rich and lascivious widow like Lady Lochlaw.
Hope filled Isa. What if he hadn’t come for her? What if this was just a chance meeting born of some other scheme?
Well, she would find out. And she’d start by letting him drive her around a bit. She did not want him to know where she lived—not with Amalie still home.
“Thank you, Mr. Cale,” she said brightly. “That is very kind of you.”