7
FOR THE FIRST hour of her trip home from Carlisle, Isa did nothing but cry. It was always so hard to leave her baby at school. Oh, she knew it was necessary, even more so with Victor in town, but it still broke her heart every time.
Amalie never fussed over being left, which only made it worse. Was she just being stoic? Was she secretly grieving the loss of her mother and her home for three more months? Or was she so happy to be back at school that she’d already forgotten her mother?
That thought sent Isa into another bout of tears. Fortunately, she wasn’t the only one crying. Two other inhabitants of the mail coach had left their children at school, so they commiserated together.
By the time she reached Edinburgh, she’d found some measure of peace. In truth, it was much better for Amalie to be away just now.
It was dark when the mail coach pulled up at the inn. Mr. Gordon was waiting for her, the dear man, as he always did. He’d offered before to drive her and Amalie to Carlisle, but she wouldn’t hear of it. No point in closing the shop on a day they were generally open.
He helped her down. “How’s our girl? Settling in well?”
“She was her usual buoyant self. I swear that she . . .” She trailed off when she noticed he wasn’t paying attention. The look in his eyes definitely boded ill. “What’s wrong?” she asked as he led her to his carriage. “Has something happened?”
“A man came looking for you today at the shop.”
Her heart sank. Victor. It had to be. What if he’d revealed himself as her husband? “Who was it?”
“Some damned cousin of the Lochlaws by the name of Cale.”
Mr. Gordon surely wouldn’t call Victor a Lochlaw cousin if he knew the truth.
Her partner scowled. “You know he’s been asking the other shopkeepers about you, don’t you?”
“No, but I’m not surprised.” Blast him.
“You know him?” Mr. Gordon asked as he handed her in.
You could say that. “We’ve met. What did he want?”
By the time Mr. Gordon got done relating the entirety of their conversation, Isa wanted to scream. How dared Victor hint at the old theft? Was that his sly way of threatening her? Was he implying that if she didn’t cooperate with whatever his blasted plans were, he would ruin her?
Oh, she was going to throttle him with her bare hands the next time she saw him!
“I didn’t tell him about Amalie, though,” Mr. Gordon added. “No point in letting that witch Lady Lochlaw learn that you have a child. She would never approve a marriage between you and her son then.”
Not bothering to remind him yet again that she and Rupert were merely friends, she let out a long breath. “I appreciate your discretion.”
After Amalie was born in Edinburgh, Isa had kept private the fact that she had a child because she’d wanted to establish her credentials as a jeweler. It was hard enough for a woman to be taken seriously, and people also assumed that a mother would be more slack with her business than a man would. Only Mr. Gordon knew her situation, and he had no concerns.
Once a few years had passed and Victor hadn’t followed the bread crumbs she’d left for him, she’d had a different reason for caution. After so many years of ignoring her, he would only show up if he wanted something from her. And she’d been determined that the something wouldn’t include her daughter—not until she knew she could trust him.
Keeping her life private hadn’t been hard. She and Amalie lived in a cottage outside Edinburgh proper, and Mr. Gordon was circumspect by nature. Betsy had been with her since Amalie was born, and she, too, was discreet. And Rupert had never mentioned her daughter to Lady Lochlaw.
So, thank God, Victor still didn’t know about Amalie.
But if he kept pressing her friends and acquaintances, he might find out. It was time she reminded her husband that he had something to hide, too—and if he tried to interfere in her life, he would ruin himself in the process.
Mr. Gordon settled back against the squabs. “Don’t you go worrying about what that fellow will say to Lady Lochlaw. I made sure that he understood how things were with you and his lordship.”
Oh, dear. “What did you tell him?”
“That the two of you were in love, of course.”
“Mr. Gordon!”
Her old friend thrust out his chin. “Well, I couldn’t let him think you were after the baron’s money. I couldn’t have him looking down his nose at you. Especially when Mr. Cale has even loftier friends than the Lochlaws.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I recognized that phaeton he was driving. Belongs to a duke.”
She gaped at him. How could Victor possibly know a duke well enough to borrow his phaeton? “Are you sure that it wasn’t Mr. Cale’s?”
“Yes. I asked him right out. He said it belonged to his host. I recognized it from years ago, when the heir to the duke came to the shop to have a bracelet repaired for his mother. Everyone on Princes Street came out to have a look at that phaeton, since back then there weren’t too many hereabouts. We were all mightily impressed.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You weren’t there. It was around the time Amalie was born. Anyway, rumor was that the family had come up to stay at their villa in Edinburgh while they consulted with some doctor on account of the duke’s going mad. Turned out to be true.”
Victor knew a duke. Oh, Lord. “What was the duke’s name?”
A frown knit Mr. Gordon’s brow. “Kinloch, as I recall. No, that was the son’s title. The duke’s was Lyons.” His face cleared. “That’s it. The Duke of Lyons. Though I think he’s dead now, and his son has the title. The young heir couldn’t have been any older then than Lochlaw is now. He looked a sight, poor lad, so troubled. Must be hard to have a father lose his wits like that.”
Isa tightened her hands into fists. Yes, it would be hard. And a newly minted duke in such a difficult situation might be vulnerable to someone as clever as Victor. Someone looking to further his own interests once he realized the proceeds from those diamond earrings wouldn’t go very far.
Was that what Victor had done? Insinuated himself into the Lyons household by implying that he was a distant cousin? Was that what he was doing with the Lochlaws now? She wouldn’t put it past him. She knew better than anyone how he could show two faces at once—that of a loving husband and that of a conniving thief.
Well, all that was about to change.
“I presume that Mr. Cale is staying at the duke’s villa, since he referred to the owner of the phaeton as his host. Do you know where this villa is?”
Mr. Gordon went still. “Why?”
“I think it’s time I speak to Mr. Cale and find out what he’s up to.”
“You can speak to him in the morning. The fellow said he’d be there to greet you when we opened, and I don’t doubt that he will.”
She didn’t, either. The trouble was, she did not want to have this conversation in front of anyone else. It needed to be private.
“Besides,” Mr. Gordon went on, “I know what he’s up to, and I set him straight. Don’t you worry.”
“I am worried. What if he goes running off to Lady Lochlaw to whisper poisonous accusations in her ears? I’d like to know where he lives, at least, just in case that happens. Please, Mr. Gordon? This is my future we’re talking about.” She steeled herself for the lie. “My future with Rupert.”
Mr. Gordon let out a long breath. “Very well. My coachman may remember from delivering the bracelet all those years ago, after it was repaired. I’ll ask him when we get you home.”
“Thank you.”
The full moon was high by the time they reached her cottage. It had to be nearly nine o’clock. She was exhausted from her trip, yet she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep while this was unsettled.
To her relief, Mr. Gordon’s coachman did remember where the Duke of Lyons’s villa was. Best of all, it was on her side of town but farther west, near Calton Hill. Indeed, she’d seen the Palladian mansion a number of times and wondered to whom it belonged, since it was so lovely.
Leave it to her wretch of a husband to latch onto such a wealthy host.
Mr. Gordon accompanied her inside, where Betsy was waiting to take her cloak. Isa could smell supper cooking; Betsy always had a warm meal ready when she returned from these trips, and Mr. Gordon sometimes joined them.
Isa forced herself to offer him supper, relieved when he said he’d already eaten and was heading home. As he bade her good night, she kissed his papery cheek and whispered, “I do so appreciate your finding out where Mr. Cale is staying. I know you think I’m being silly, but I will sleep much better knowing that I can call on him if I need to.”
“I don’t think you’re silly,” he said gruffly. “I think you’re mad. Then again, since you’re generally sensible, I suppose you can be allowed to be daft once in a while.”
She laughed. “Thank you, I think.”
“See you in the morning?” he asked as she saw him to the door.
“Of course.”
She waited until Mr. Gordon was well down the road, then told Betsy, “Have Rob saddle my mare.” Isa rushed upstairs to change. When Betsy followed her, obviously bewildered, Isa explained, “I have to pay a call on someone.”
“Tonight?” Betsy said, clearly shocked.
“Something urgent has come up. Help me into my riding habit.”
Though Betsy did as she was bade, Isa could feel the older woman’s disapproval like a chill wind.
“I hope this don’t got naught to do with the baron,” Betsy said as she finished. “Wouldn’t be fitting for you to meet with him at night.”
“Betsy!” she cried in her best tone of outrage. “Surely you are not implying what I think you are.” She headed out of her bedchamber.
Betsy hurried behind her. “I’m just saying that it’s a sad day when a woman as respectable as you starts going about late at night paying calls.”
“Not that it’s any of your concern,” Isa bit out as she hurried down the stairs, “but it’s nothing of that sort. It’s something having to do with Amalie, and it will not wait until tomorrow.”
“Well, then,” Betsy said, her entire tone changing, “if it’s for the little mite, you’d best be going.” She caught Isa’s arm. “But first you must eat something. Can’t have you fainting in the saddle.”
When Isa started to protest, Betsy added, “I’ll see to rousing Rob, and by the time you’ve got something in you, he’ll have your horse ready to go.”
“Fine,” Isa said with a sigh. When Betsy got her mind set on something, there wasn’t much use in fighting her. And it probably would help to have some fortification before she confronted her husband.
Still, when she rode off half an hour later and the moon was lower in the sky, she wished she hadn’t lingered. The last thing she needed was to be stuck at the duke’s villa once the moon set and there was no light to ride by.
But she had to settle this once and for all. If she ended up being turned away by the duke’s staff and spending the night in some haymow, she would survive. She always survived.
That thought cheered her a bit. When she knocked at the door of the villa and a stiff-necked butler opened it to scour her with a critical glance, she held her head high.
“I’m here to see Mr. Victor Cale,” she announced.
The man glanced to where she’d tethered her horse. “And who should I say is calling?” he asked, his voice dripping with condescension.
“Mrs. Sofie Franke. A relation of his.”
She let down the hood of her cloak and the butler’s gaze fixed on the jewelry she still wore. Though she wasn’t fool enough to wear diamonds when she traveled, her small earbobs were gold with real emeralds.
Clearly the high-in-the-instep butler could tell quality when he saw it. “It is very late, madam,” he said, his tone a trifle less condescending this time.
She forced hauteur into her voice. “Trust me, if Mr. Cale is in, he will see me. And if he hears that you turned me away, he will not be happy.”
The man took in her cloak of good-quality wool and her fashionable hat, then stepped aside to allow her to enter. “I shall see if Mr. Cale is in to visitors.”
Relief swamped her. She’d breached the fortress.
And what a fortress it was. As a jeweler, she’d seen plenty of grand halls, but this went beyond grand. The floors and staircase were of fine Italian marble, the curtains were of damask with gold threads, and the chandelier sparkled so brightly that it could only be crystal.
She couldn’t help gawking as the butler left. Was that a Rembrandt? She tried to look casual as she strolled over to look at it. She’d seen a Rembrandt once at a museum, but she wasn’t that familiar with fine paintings.
“Where the hell have you been these past two days?” demanded a hard voice from the stairs.
Isa stiffened, then turned to face her husband. “Why, good evening, Mr. Cale.” She cast a meaningful glance at the servants. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
Victor went rigid. Which had to be difficult, since he was already stiff as a starched cravat. Sadly, it only made him look more dashing. Despite the fact that he wore only a figured blue banyan over his shirt, waistcoat, and trousers, he looked every inch a man of distinction as he came down the last few steps.
It would be too much to hope that he had turned out to be a long-lost duke, and wanted to be rid of her so he could marry someone more appropriate. That would suit her nicely.
“Jenkins,” he barked as he marched toward her. “Mrs. Franke and I will be upstairs in my sitting room. We have urgent business to discuss, and we do not want to be disturbed.”
The butler didn’t so much as lift an eyebrow. “As you wish, sir.”
Well. Victor certainly had the aristocratic arrogance down pat.
Pausing only long enough to let the footman take her cloak and hat, Victor grabbed her arm and urged her toward the stairs. “You and I need to talk.”
“I couldn’t agree more, so there’s no need to manhandle me,” she snapped as she wrestled free of his grip.
“Forgive me,” he said acidly. “I forgot how independent you’ve become.”
I had to be; my husband left me, she wanted to retort, but the servants were listening with obvious interest.
“How did you find me?” he asked as they ascended the stairs.
“Mr. Gordon recognized your phaeton as belonging to the Duke of Lyons, with whom he’d once had dealings. He directed me here.” She shot him a sideways glance as they reached the next floor. “How do you know the Duke of Lyons?”
“He’s a friend,” he said tersely, but he wouldn’t look at her.
“He must be quite a good friend,” she said as Victor showed her into a well-appointed sitting room.
She spotted a bedchamber through an open adjoining door, and realized that the sitting room was part of a large suite. No doubt there was a dressing room connected to it as well.
“Very impressive,” she murmured. “How did you manage to make a duke’s acquaintance?”
Ignoring the question, Victor shut the door, then rounded on her with a black look. “Where were you today? Attempting to flee me?”
She glared at him. “I had business out of town. It had nothing to do with you—the trip was planned long before you came here. I wasn’t going to put it off simply because you decided to show up and make trouble.”
“What sort of business? Where?”
The suspicion threading his voice inflamed her. “Where were you?” she countered. “Oh, wait, I already know. You were at my shop, attempting to poison my partner against me.”
Victor scowled. “Is that what he told you?”
“He told me you made all sorts of wild speculations about how I was breaking into houses and stealing diamonds and trying to sell them to him.”
He had the good grace to look uncomfortable. “I didn’t say that . . . exactly.”
“Then what did you say, ‘exactly’?”
“Nothing that wasn’t true.” He raked his fingers through already mussed hair. The gesture was so familiar that it sparked a reaction deep in her belly.
She forced herself to ignore it. “You mean you told him the parts of the story that would make me look bad, and left out anything about yourself. Because you hoped that if you went around spreading rumors about me, you could bully me into doing your bidding. Why else would you wait years to come after me?”
Eyes alight, he stalked up to her. “I waited years because I didn’t know where the hell you were.” He seemed oddly sincere. “Your note said you were leaving me. You didn’t bother to mention where you were going. So how the devil was I supposed to—”
“Note?” she broke in. “What note?”
He glowered at her. “The note you left for me in our apartment that night you were sick. The note that said our marriage was a mistake, and you wanted something else out of life than being my wife.”
He’d muttered the same sort of accusations the night of the play. “Victor,” she whispered, “I never left you any note.”
Shock lit his face. Then his eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me. It was written in your hand.”
“It’s not possible, I tell you!” Her mind whirled. “I would never have written such a note, I swear.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “It was sitting on our bed. Jacoba fetched me at the shop in the middle of the night. She said you’d left her house to return to our lodgings while she was asleep. When she woke to find you gone, she went there but you wouldn’t let her in. She said she was worried about you, afraid you might be delirious from the fever. So I hurried back to our apartment. But you weren’t there. And that’s when I found it.”
“A note saying I’d left you?” she asked incredulously. What he was suggesting was unbelievable. Who would have written—
“Jacoba . . .” she whispered. Could Jacoba have forged such a note? Could she have feigned Isa’s hand well enough to persuade Victor?
Her distress seemed to sink in, for he stiffened. “Stay here,” he ordered and headed for the door to the bedchamber.
“Where are you going?”
“To get the note.”
“You . . . you kept it?”
“Of course.” His eyes darkened to a smoky brown. “Did you think I would have thrown the evidence away? I kept it so I would remember,” he growled, “and learn from my mistake in ever trusting you.”
With those harsh words, he went into the other room. She sank onto a nearby settee, her hands shaking. His words pounded in her ears. It was sitting on our bed . . . Jacoba fetched me . . . you wouldn’t let her in . . .
Would her sister, her own sister, have lied to her face about him? Torn her purposely from her husband without a whit of remorse?
When Victor reentered, Isa shot to her feet. “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t believe you. You’re lying! This is just a ruse to get you back into my good graces so you can use me again.” She fisted her hands against her stomach.
“Use you? The way you used me?” He thrust a sheet of paper at her.
She took it with shaking hands. Yellowed with age, the paper had clearly once been crumpled, then flattened out. The cruel words written on it, though faint, were still readable.
They just weren’t hers.
“I didn’t write this.” She lifted her gaze to him. “It’s not my handwriting, I swear!”
“It damned well looks like yours,” he ground out.
“I know. It’s a close approximation. But not mine.”
She hurried over to a writing table with a quill and inkwell atop it. Finding some paper, she scribbled the same words as in the note. Then she returned to hand the two sheets to him.
When he stared down at them, the blood drained from his face. “You’re toying with me. You made your writing different.”
“You know it’s not that easy.” She stared at him. “Think, Victor—how often had you seen my penmanship when you got this? Once? Maybe twice? It’s not as if we were writing notes and letters to each other. When we weren’t working, we were in each other’s pockets. And you only courted me a few weeks before we married. We were . . . hasty.”
“True,” he clipped out.
“I’ve never seen this note before today. I most certainly didn’t write it.” When his eyes still smoldered with suspicion, she added, “I swear it on my father’s grave.”
That, at least, had some impact. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Someone wrote it. If not you, then who?”
“Jacoba, probably.” The thought of her sister betraying her so horribly stopped the breath in her throat. “She used to imitate Papa’s hand, too, so we didn’t have to bother him while he was working. He hated being interrupted for what he called ‘silly things’ like paying bills.”
Victor’s breath came in hard, short bursts. “You’re saying that you never left me.”
“Yes. Until this moment, I assumed that you’d left me.”
“I don’t . . . understand,” he said in a guttural voice. “How could she . . . Why would she—”
“Destroy us? Separate us?” A vise tightened around Isa’s chest. “To get what she wanted. Or rather, what Gerhart wanted.”
Awareness dawned in his face, turning his features to granite. “The royal diamonds.”
With a nod, she sank back onto the settee, the note in her hand. “They told me you were gone. They said you took the earrings from the parure in exchange for helping them get into the strongbox; that you wanted us to travel separately to thwart whomever might come after us. They claimed that you planned to meet us in Paris.” She lifted her gaze to him. “But you never came.”
“I never came because I never knew where you’d gone,” he ground out. “And I damned well never helped them get into the bloody strongbox!”
He seemed genuinely outraged. But there was one detail he hadn’t explained. “So how did Gerhart and Jacoba get the jewels?” She searched his face. “Answer me that.”
“I can’t. When I left the shop to check on you, Jacoba stayed behind. I wasn’t worried about that because the cases and the strongbox were all locked up. They were still locked when I returned. If she stole the diamonds while I was gone, I don’t know how.”
He glanced away. “I eventually came to think that you must have switched the jewels out while at work. I had no other explanation for it. Your ‘abandonment’ of me seemed to be tied to the theft of the jewels.”
“I would never have stolen anything!” she protested.
His gaze shot to her. “But you might have made a false key from my keys and given it to your family.”
“Right. Because I was such a master criminal at eighteen,” she said bitterly.
“Someone fashioned those imitation diamonds,” he pointed out. “Neither Jacoba nor Gerhart had the ability. Are you trying to tell me you had nothing to do with that, either?”
She stared down at her hands. The only way to get through this was to unravel the past—and that meant telling the truth. Or as much of it as she dared.
“I think it’s time you tell me what really happened that night,” he said in a cold voice. “Because you and I clearly have very different versions of it.”