Oh, how she hated to think of them coming back. They’d been gone for months now. She’d thought herself cured. How very distressing to know she wasn’t. She’d had one of those disturbing dreams that very afternoon, during her nap. It was upon awakening that she realized the dreams had only been on hiatus—not banished. She knew then that she must come to Jacobson for more of the tonic.
“Women gone missing from the Adelphi Theatre,” a boy called as he rang his bell. A group of gentlemen stopped and clustered around the lad for a look at the day’s headlines. The boy held out an issue of the Times to her when he saw her standing on the sidewalk, attempting to move around the group of men. “Read all about the Adelphi mystery in the Times, miss.”
Reaching into her reticule, Isabella removed a shilling and gave it to the lad.
“Thank you, miss,” he said, his eyes growing round. “‘Ave a good day.”
Nodding, she accepted the paper from the boy and unfolded it. Scanning the headlines, she read the blurb of the actresses who had gone missing from the Adelphi, the notorious music and dance hall.
The ladies were last seen in the company of a tall gentleman, his features concealed by the brim of his top hat. An eyewitness observed the ladies being ushered into a black town carriage driven by four black horses …
The Earl of Black had such a carriage, which was drawn by four magnificent warmbloods the color of midnight. The thought stopped her cold. Lucy had mentioned seeing Black leave his town house late at night … the very night, in fact, that the women were seen getting into the carriage.
Nonsense. Black was a refined gentleman. What in the world would he be doing with three women whose reputations were dubious at best? Women were always missing from the Adelphi, and more often than not showed up months later after a sojourn in the country and with a child on their hip.
Silly, overactive imagination, she admonished. At times it could be such a nuisance. And yet, an image of her and Black dancing whisked through her mind, paralleling the opening of her book. They shared the same eyes, Black and her image of Death. As well, they both embodied the blood-heating characteristics of mystery, danger and a luring sensuality. And that, she thought with a little shake of her head, was the most preposterous thought of all.
Folding the paper in half, Isabella tucked it under her arm and continued walking. The three actresses, if they could be called such, were probably listing away as mistresses to some rich man. Everyone knew that the music hall was as infamous for its debauches as it was its musical performances. Still, the streets of London were getting more dangerous …
She rounded the corner of Cockspur and crossed onto Haymarket where stood a short, round man on a box, soliciting interest in an illusionist. She glanced to where a crush of people were gathered around a man standing beside a coach that reminded her of a gypsy’s caravan.
“Step inside and witness for yourself the mystery of Herr Von Schraeder. Come, come,” he said, waving them closer. “For a crown you can witness all the magic.”
Her gaze drifted over the crowd, then down the street that led to the Strand. The Strand was packed with tourists and young men vying for tickets to the numerous theaters and music halls that lined the street. The crowd was turning rowdy—this wasn’t the fashionable part of Mayfair where everything was polite and orderly. This was the gray area of London where the posh West End melted into the slums of the East End.
With the days turning shorter and the nights longer, Isabella reminded herself that it would not do to stand idle and woolgather. She needed to retrieve her medicine and return to Mayfair before dusk. And by the look of the cloud-covered sky, dusk would be arriving far sooner than usual.
Turning away, she stepped onto Haymarket Street, stopping abruptly when she saw a tall man, dressed in black, leaning leisurely against an ebony-and-silver-in-laid walking stick, obstructing her path. He was watching her over the rims of his blue sunshades. She could not help but shudder at the intensity of that unblinking gaze. Or wonder why he was wearing them when there was no longer any sunshine.
“Good day, Miss Fairmont.”
Lord Black.
“Oh, good day, my lord. I did not recognize you with your sun spectacles.”
He smiled as he took her hand, his gaze catching hers over the silver rims of the lenses. “I will forgive you this time,” he teased, bringing his lips to brush against her gloved hand.
“Are you enjoying the autumnal weather?” she asked. “Or are you by chance hanging about for a chance to witness Herr Von Schraeder’s magic show?”
His pupils grew large, engulfing the pale blue of his iris. He blinked, then hid his eyes from her behind the dark lenses of his spectacles. His body appeared stiff now, and he seemed to be watching her curiously.
She was about to speak, when she was jostled by a pack of young men running past her as the Adelphi opened its doors for business. She was pushed into Black’s chest, and he caught her, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist to keep her from falling.
When the ruffians had passed, he slowly released her, and she looked up into his face, which showed none of the lightness that had been there when she first saw him. He was back to being a mystery—a beautiful one.
Pulling back, she put distance between them. Discretion, she reminded herself. It would be so easy to find herself failing against him, and the seductive lure he cast—Isabella couldn’t lie—she was already weakening. Her mother had been weak, and her father had taken advantage of the fact.
“My lord, you were saying?”
“Unless Herr Von Schraeder’s magic is exceptionally potent, I believe the citizens of London have seen the last of him,” he muttered, guiding her with a hand on the small of her back, to the safety of the apothecary’s storefront.
“What do you mean, sir?” she asked. As she looked over her shoulder at the cart, she saw Herr Von Schraeder’s assistant come flying out, bellowing something.
“I believe it was the apothecary you were seeking,” Black replied as he pulled open the door and ushered her through. The bells tinkled, drowning out the rest of the assistant’s words as he ran from Von Schraeder’s cart.
“How did you know I was coming here?” she demanded, her gaze narrowing, just as a fresh flush of gooseflesh erupted on her skin.
“Jacobson’s apothecary is most famous. I guessed that perhaps it was him that brought you to this side of the city.”
“Oh.” She flushed and looked down at her gloved fingers, which were wrapping around the braided cording of her reticule. “Forgive me, my lord, if I seemed short just now. I have a terrible headache, I’m afraid.”
Pulling his spectacles from his face, he caught her chin in his gloved hand and angled her face to the waning afternoon light that filtered in through the large window of the apothecary.
“You’re pale, Miss Fairmont. I don’t like it.”
“Well, I can’t help it,” she snapped, not knowing whether to be touched or embarrassed by his frankness.
“It worries me to see you suffering,” he murmured, his thumb grazing against the apple of her cheek. “Is there anything I might do to relieve you of it?”
She was touched. Not only by his words, which seemed to be spoken without artifice, but also by the concern she saw in his eyes. “No, my lord. I’ve tried everything, and nothing seems to relieve it, except for Mr. Jacobson’s wonderful bergamot tonic.”
Two elderly matrons waiting at the counter were watching them with unconcealed interest. Black dropped his hand at the same moment Isabella took a discreet step back.
“I will drive you home,” he announced.
“Oh, no, I’ve