Wicked, My Love (29 page)

“Now, my little finch, just come down and cooperate, like a good girl,” Harding called. “A gentleman who may be of interest to you has been returned to my safekeeping. Someone whom you thought you once loved until he betrayed you. He could be very useful now.”

“I don't trust you.” Isabella kept the bust against her chest like armor. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“Tell me a story, darling,” she heard Randall say.

“Randall! I can't see you!” she cried, coming to the lip of the stage, searching the audience. “Where are you?”

“I'm here,” he called.

The ladies parted, revealing the viscount pressed to the floor. He struggled against his captors, coming to his knees. A ruddy and sweating policeman punched him straight in the mouth.

Isabella shrieked. “No! Lord Randall is innocent!” she shouted to the officer who was now massaging his fist in his palm.

The large man flinched. “I just punched Lord Randall?!” He began bowing. “I'm sorry, my lord. I didn't know—men, get your hands off him.”

Randall rose to his feet and hissed through his clenched teeth. “Just—just tell me a story. Our story,” he said, edging down the aisle, keeping his voice calm and controlled even as blood dribbled from the side of his mouth and the police followed closely behind him. “Just look at me, forget about the others, and tell me a story.”

“Tell him the story about how you will go to Newgate,” Harding barked.

“Don't listen to him, darling.” Randall's eyes held hers, safety and acceptance in their depths. “Tell me about your father and his bank. Tell me.”

“I—I loved my father.” Her voice creaked like a tight, unoiled hinge. She didn't know what she was doing except that she trusted Randall, the great and determined orator. “His share of the Bank of Lord Hazelwood was the only thing I had, because I didn't have a husband or children—none of my own dreams had materialized. I clung so strongly to that bank and told myself to be strong, as my father had done. I wasn't supposed to show when I was scared but…” She glanced at all the women staring up at her. Her eyes watered. “At this moment, I'm very scared.”

“Then just step down before you make another mistake,” Harding barked. He jerked his head to the policemen. “Somebody get her off that stage. She's embarrassing herself.”

“Don't listen to him,” Randall countered. “It's natural to be scared.” His swollen lip blurred his words. “We've all been terrified, haven't we?
We understand.”

“I was scared and had nowhere to go,” a woman called out. “And then I read your book and you gave me strength.” The audience clapped.

Every fiber in her body shouted for her to run and hide, but she remained, feeling terrified and vulnerable before the audience. For her beloved Randall, she had to keep going, pushing through her fears.

“Tell them about us,” Randall prompted. “Tell them how we fell in love.”

The female audience released an “aww.” Isabella even heard some deeper male voices joining in.

“Growing up, I despised Lord Randall.” She released a nervous bark of laughter. “I mean, how can you compete with someone everybody loves and who is as charming as the devil?” The audience's laughter made her jump with surprise. Were they laughing at her or something she said?

“Well, I was jealous of her too, and she didn't know it,” Randall said. He talked to the ladies as if they were old friends. “In truth, I was probably in love with her then. You know how thick we men are.”

“Oh, but I was bitterly jealous of you,” she replied, not even seeing the audience anymore. “Because I'm so odd and different.”

“Why does she think that?” he asked the ladies, shaking his head, his palms out. “I've told her a thousand times that she's beautiful and she won't be
lieve me.”

“Yes, she's simply stunning,” Harding agreed. “It would be a shame if such loveliness wasted away i
n Newgate.”

Anger surged through Isabella. “But then, Lord Randall dared to stand up to one of the most powerful men in England—our unwelcome visitor Mr. George Harding—justly questioning Mr. Harding's proposed rail line and financial stability, as a good politician should, humiliating Mr. Harding before his investors.” She gazed directly into the eyes of the women. “This entire false stock debacle involving our bank was Mr. Harding's attempt to destroy Lord Randall's honor and integrity in the face of a pending election.”

“Just like men.” A lady laughed. “Always dragging women into their petty battles.” The woman's comment elicited a tiny eruption of clapping.

Isabella giggled despite the tension. The women began to gather beneath her. She leaned down to talk to them. “So Mr. Harding set up our bank partner to sell us false stock in a company called Merckler Metalworks. When we realized the problem, I was terrified there would be a run on the bank. I would lose everything. Lord Randall's political career would fall. And you”—she made a sweeping gesture to the audience—“our clients, would lose your savings and perhaps more. I couldn't let that happen.”

“And if you want them to keep any of it, you'll stop talking this instant,” Harding said, stalking down the aisle only to be stopped by a crowd of sturdy, hard-faced women with ribbons that read “Mary Wollstonecraft Society—Liverpool Chapter.”

One of their more assertive members shook her fist in his face. “She ain't finished speaking.”

“Tell them what we did, my love,” Randall said.

Isabella blushed. “I can't say that aloud!”

“I meant to investigate.”

She clutched Mary Wollstonecraft's head tighter and began to pace, her mind sharpening. She told the society members about Powers's gambling problem, her and Lord Randall's visit to Mrs. Merckler and all her numerous dependents, and the deplorable conditions at Merckler Metalworks under the new manager.

As she spoke, she felt a deep power blossom in her belly, rising through her lungs and resonating in her throat. Her voice echoed back to her—not the timid one she heard in her head, but a strong, assured, and passionate tone. The stage was hers, and she looked her audience members in the eyes as she spoke. “So, you ask, why would Harding falsify stock in Merckler Metalworks to bring down Lord Randall and our bank? Because he wanted to hasten the company's demise anyway. Remember my chapter on futures?”

“That's the one where Fiona, the spinster, was left caring for her eight younger sisters, all dying of typhoid,” a female voice rang out. “And she invested most of their inheritance in safe consuls but put ten percent in futures on a gas company and then sold those options as the company's stock rose—”

“Making enough profit to hire that handsome physician from London to save her sisters,” a lady from the Birmingham chapter finished.

“I loved that chapter, especially when Fiona married the doctor,” gushed a Manchester member.

“Exactly,” Isabella said. “Except, in this case, George Harding has low futures on Merckler Metalworks. He stands to make a fortune if the company fails. And not content to do research like dear Fiona, he is going to make sure Merckler goes down, even if that means creating false stock and putting an incompetent manager in place.”

The audience booed at Harding, calling him an “untrustworthy scoundrel” and “lying blackguard.” The Liverpool chapter had more colorful and profane insults that they complemented by throwing objects from their reticules at him, but Judith quickly interceded, saying, “Ladies, remember your dignity.”

“These are desperate accusations to cover your own guilt,” Harding hissed at Isabella, shielding his face from the last of the flying hairpins and powder puffs. “How could I possibly influence Merckler's board if I own no stock in the company?”

Isabella opened her mouth, but Randall was already answering the question. “If you look at the shareholders in Merckler Metalworks, Lord Mayor, you will find some hold shares in Harding's companies as well, including the more obscure ones.”

“If you look even harder,” Isabella said, “I'll wager you will see that these people actually don't exist. They are all Harding. It's a standard fraudulent practice.”

The lord mayor raised an alarmed brow, putting a little distance between himself and the railroad baron.

“We were all supposed to fall like dominoes, weren't we?” she said, looking Harding dead in the eye. She wasn't scared anymore. “It was a brilliant plan. But”—she clutched her Mary Wollstonecraft head and carefully enunciated each word, letting them thunder around her—“I will not fall!”

“I thought you were different from the others,” Harding hissed, “but you're just another ridic
ulous woman.”

“You think I'm ridiculous?” She drew the stock certificates from her corset and held them over Mary Wollstonecraft's head. “These are real stocks in Merckler Metalworks. Early this morning, Mrs. Merckler gave me half of her shares. Together, we two
ridiculous
women
are going to make the company profitable, giving decent pay to the poor Irishmen and -women teeming into this country, and without having to employ child labor. My stockbroker has instructions to buy more of Merckler Metalworks on Monday morning. I will control the board. I will make the decisions. Your futures will be worthless, Mr. Harding.”

“Quite a bold gamble.” Harding's voice was a purr of deep menace. The tenacious man refused to admit defeat. “I approve. But it's all more the magistrate will take from you when your bank fails.” An ugly smile twisted his lips.

“I have one hundred pounds in Miss St. Vincent's bank and it's staying there,” a woman shouted.

“I have fifty pounds in Miss St. Vincent's bank and it's staying there.”

“I have three pounds in Miss St. Vincent's bank and it's staying there.”

“I have forty thousand pounds in Miss St. Vincent's bank and plan to add the ten thousand more that I have made following her sage advice,” a shaky elderly female voice called. “And then I'll invest another five thousand in this Merckler Metalworks. You don't scare an old, rich, ridiculous woman, Mr. Harding.”

“Sir, I would like a few words with you,” the lord mayor said to Mr. Harding, and then beckoned to t
he police.

The ladies clapped, their hands high in the air, and cheers ringing out. Isabella stared at the audience, stunned at the applause; even some of the policemen were joining in. “Thank you,” she cried. “Oh, th
ank you.”

Judith hugged her. “I knew you would be a great leader. I always knew it.”

Isabella's muscles turned goosey, so many days of tension flowing from her. She gazed down at Randall and pressed her hand to her trembling mouth as tears streamed down her cheeks. She didn't try to che
ck them.

***

My
God
, Randall thought,
my
amazing
lady
did
it
. The crowd was on its feet, cheering, but his mind was a silent place as he stared at his beloved—her shoulders were shaking, her eyes large and wet beneath her lenses. He was so humbled by the power that he and Judith always knew she possessed but she could never see until this stunning moment.

He leaped onto the stage, getting to her before the others. “You were brilliant,” he told her. “I'm so proud of you.”

“I couldn't have done it if you weren't there.”

“I will always be there for you. You are never leaving my side again.” He tried to take her into his arms, gaudy plaster bust and all. But she stepped back, lowered her head.

“What—what is it, darling?”

“I love you, Randall,” she told the floor. “I love you so much and I always will. But you are free now. You can be the politician you always wanted to be.”

Randall's heart contracted. “What are you saying?”

The audience, sensing something was wrong, began to hush each other.

Isabella gripped her Mary Wollstonecraft head, running her fingers over the grooves of its hairline. “If I really cared for you, I should set you free to be the man you need to be. The politician, the viscount.” She released a high, soft cry, and raised her head. “I-I set you free because I love you.”

His first reaction was rage. He wanted to shake her.
Who
are
you
to
determine
my
life
and
what
I
want?
Why would she not believe that all the man he wanted to be was her husband? But as tears dripped off her chin, his heart softened. He could stand here and argue with the shrew. But she thought she was doing the right thing and she wouldn't relent, no matter how many times he told her that he wanted to give his old life away for her.

He turned and studied the society members, their faces tensed in worry for their leader. These women had rallied for the most basic rights afforded to men, overlooked their own safety to barricade the police, and let his beloved speak. Not so many days ago, Harding had said to him, “The world is about to change. You need to decide which side you're on.” At that moment, Randall knew his side. He belonged with the voiceless, fighting to be heard. He would give them his voice, letting it thunder in the halls of power.

He had never felt more certain and at peace as when he said, “Hello, ladies, Lord Mayor, police officers, and reporters. I know I look a little different today, but I'm Lord Randall. Some of you may know me from greeting me at the bank or reading about my politics in journals, and others know me from decorating my robes with various rotting vegetation.” Nervous laughter rippled across the room and then died under Randall's serious face. “But I swear, by my undying love for Isabella, I'll continue to be a staunch Tory, and I will argue for the expansion of voting rights for all British men and women.”