When the Rogue Returns (6 page)

“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.”

V
ICTOR FOLLOWED
I
SA
and Lady Lochlaw downstairs. Isa had said that she’d thought her husband was Belgian. He’d forgotten that he’d never told her about his parents, ashamed of his father’s madness and his mother’s early life as a tavern wench. She’d seemed so sweet and gentle that he hadn’t wanted to reveal anything of his sordid past, afraid she would recoil.

But he saw nothing of that in her now.
This
Isa was a stranger. Lady Lochlaw was right: She
did
walk like a man, and it only made her more attractive. This Isa was bold, fearless, independent. There’d been no panic in her face when she saw him, just contempt. She’d actually acted as if
he
had been the one to wrong
her.
It infuriated him.

It shook him.

And that wasn’t the only thing that shook him. In Amsterdam, she’d worn her lush brown hair in a simple braid wound about her head. Now she wore it
in a confection of loops and ribbons that gave her an elegance he wasn’t used to.

His
Isa had been young and naïve and real. It was one of the things he’d liked about her—that she was so practical. That she hadn’t looked down her nose at him.

This
Isa, with her beaded reticule and her ladylike manner and her rigid posture, wouldn’t have given an uncouth young soldier the time of day years ago.

Worse yet, she was even more beautiful than he remembered, if that were possible. Her skin was flawless, her mouth perfect, and the new defiant spark in her eyes . . .

A groan rose in his throat. He’d always remembered them as a melting brown that turned him soft inside. Now they were a mysterious and haunting brown that made him hard—everywhere.

He choked back an oath as he handed her up into the phaeton, all too aware of her attractions. He didn’t know how she’d gained those slightly larger breasts—no doubt some fancy addition to her corset—but he liked them. How the devil was he supposed to interrogate her, when all he wanted was to tear her clothes off and see what else had changed?

Admit it—you let your cock convince you to help your charming wife steal the royal diamonds!
his inquisitors had shouted.

And he’d defended her. Because deep down, he’d known that he
had
let his cock do the thinking.

Never again.

With grim purpose, he leapt into the phaeton and
took up the reins. After a curt farewell to her ladyship, he set the horses going. “Where are we headed?” he clipped out before they’d even turned the corner onto the main thoroughfare.

“It doesn’t matter,” Isa said. “I only wanted a chance to talk to you alone. I have to know—what do you want from me, Victor? Why are you here after nearly ten years?”

The way she acted, as if
he
needed to explain things, made him grit his teeth. “I’m surprised you’re even admitting that you know me,
Mrs. Franke,
since I’m supposed to be dead. Hard to ignore the husband standing right in front of you, reminding you of the vows you made.” He lowered his voice. “Of the number of times we shared a bed before you deserted me.”