“How is your secret project coming along?” Iris asked Isabel.
Isabel almost dropped her glass of lemonade. “Secret project?”
“The poor widow and her little boy,” Iris clarified. “The ones you took out of Bishopsgate when you rescued your maid’s cousin.”
Wiping her lemonade-sputtered hands on a napkin, Isabel replied in low tones, “Very well. I’m teaching Molly her letters and basic arithmetic. She’s an apt pupil. And little Joe is a joy.”
“What will you do with them?” Sophie asked. “You can’t adopt all the waifs and strays in London. Before you know it, you’ll have an army on your hands.”
“You might as well open your own almshouse—St. Isabel of Mayfair.” Iris smiled.
“The idea is not to keep them dependent. I hope to provide Molly with enough education to help her find a good position somewhere so that she would be able to provide for her son.”
“Let’s find her a husband,” Sophie proposed. “We’ll open a matchmaking service and—”
“Dear Lord!” Iris jumped. She snatched her shawl off the back of the chair, looking as pale as though she had seen a ghost. “I must go. I…promised Chilton I’d be home before one o’clock and…it’s nearly two.”
Isabel stood up and caught her hand. “Iris, take my coach and send it back for us.”
“No need. I’ll hail a hack.” Iris ran out of the café and disappeared in the milling crowd.
Sophie cursed in French. “That awful man! I should like to strangle him and throw him in a ditch. How dare he keep Iris like a pet in a cage? She must present him with a detailed schedule every day and ask for his permission to leave the house. She cannot dance or converse with other gentlemen. She needs the ogre’s consent to breathe. Why does she put up with this treatment?”
“You know as well as I do that Iris has nowhere else to go,” Isabel said sadly. “A husband is not always the answer.” Their friend was a prime example of the unhappy lot of women who lost their male protectors in the war. It amazed her how Iris never once lamented her situation.
“Good God! Little Izzy Aubrey!” A deep, male voice chuckled. “I don’t believe it.”
Isabel looked up and felt the blood draining from her head. Yet the tall, handsome, auburn-haired hussar attired in the 18th royal blue uniform was neither Will nor Ashby. A smile that was equal parts relieved, pleased, and disappointed spread on her face. “Why, if it isn’t Captain Ryan Macalister! What a pleasure it is to see you here, of all places. Why don’t you join us, captain?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” He smiled dazzlingly and sketched a handsome bow before Sophie. When he straightened, rich brown hair fell rakishly over his eye. He settled in Iris’s vacant chair. “I must say it is a pleasure to see you, too, Izzy, eh, beg pardon, Miss Aubrey.”
“Isabel will do,” she returned warmly. “Captain, allow me to introduce my dear friend, Mrs. Fairchild. Sophie’s husband was a navy lieutenant. We deeply mourn his loss.”
Ryan’s expression turned grim. “You have my deepest condolences, Mrs. Fairchild. I lost a sad number of good friends in the war.” He looked at Isabel. “Your brother was the hardest loss.”
“You are very kind.” Isabel smiled bravely.
“Thank you, captain,” Sophie echoed. “I understand you served with Major Will?”
“Indeed.” Ryan nodded proudly. “Major William Aubrey made our lives tolerable when it was intolerable. I dearly miss his quick wit and friendly smile.”
Isabel swiped a tear off her cheek. “So tell me. What brings you to London? I was under the impression you took a commission in India.”
“I did. I am stationed in India, a major now.” He showed her his new rank distinction.
The déjà vu was almost too painful. “Congratulations, major. And is India to your liking?”
“Hardly. The weather is hot. Every rock is some snake’s residence. The spicy food whittles away at my stomach. The company in my new regiment leaves a lot to be desired…”
“A new regiment?” Isabel scowled.
“Yes. They are disbanding the 18th. Didn’t you know?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“We suffered too many losses, among them our finest officers.” He held her gaze, revealing just how deeply he shared her grief. “And now that Ashby is retired…Well, he is a tough act to follow. Even my regimentals are becoming obsolete. I am to acquire new ones.” He grimaced.
Isabel felt like crying. “Is this the reason you are here?”
The handsome major leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “I’m supposedly consulting a doctor regarding a foot injury, but between you and me, I’m hoping to fall upon a reason that would keep me here for good.” He winked.
“A reason?”
Sustaining her gaze, he rested an elbow on the table and cupped his chin. “A fair reason.”
Her cheeks bloomed with color. “Well, major, I pray your hunt shall be successful.”
“I have every reason to believe it will be, Isabel. In fact—” he grinned lopsidedly “—I feel encouraged already.”
Averting her gaze, Isabel caught sight of Sophie’s knowing smile.
“I must say,” he went on flirtatiously, “I should have anticipated you would turn out to be a beauty. Pity I didn’t speak to your brother years ago. You haven’t been snagged yet, have you?”
“No, major. I haven’t.” Isabel bit her lip to keep from smiling like a dolt. Ryan Macalister had always been a charmer, but the effect of his regimentals was almost…irresistible.
“Excellent news. This calls for a toast.” He raised his hand, signaling for a waiter. “What are you having, ladies?”
Sophie gestured at the large, nearly empty plate. “You may have the last sandwich.”
“Thanks.” He snatched the sandwich and popped it into his mouth. A waiter approached. “Kindly bring us a bottle of your finest Hock and another plate of sandwiches.”
“And an ice,” Isabel put in. “I should like to have a cherry ice.”
“A cherry ice for the lady. Lively, man!” Ryan dismissed the listless waiter. “Incidentally, I saw a third lady leaving your table. I hope I didn’t scare her off.”
“Lady Chilton had to leave early,” Sophie replied.
Ryan’s gaze dropped to the brief resting beneath his elbow. “What’s this?”
“A bill proposal for Parliament,” Isabel explained, gaining a raised eyebrow.
“Indeed? Tell me about it.”
Sophie and Isabel discussed the charity and its goals. Ryan seemed genuinely impressed.
“The trouble is,” Isabel went on, “without the lists our proposal is worthless. Do you by any chance have access to the army’s personnel files?” she asked hopefully.
He shook his head. “But I know someone who does. And so do you.”
Isabel prayed her expression didn’t give her away. “Who?”
He filled their glasses with wine. “Ashby.”
Isabel’s hand shook as she lifted a spoonful of cherry ice to her mouth. “Colonel Lord Ashby hasn’t been to Seven Dover Street for many years.”
“Who is this Ashby, Izzy?” Sophie inquired.