annoyance seething under her words. âA destination? An address? A name?â
âYou donât have to get all snippy,â Alice protested. âItâs not my fault Tony likes me better. Anyways, he told me that he was visiting a friend. Someone namedâ¦Rigsby? Saxby? Danby? Sumpinâ with a âby.ââ
âBusby?â Randall asked. âNicholas Busby?â
Aliceâs face lit with recognition. âThatâs it! Me Tony said that kind Mr. Busby always helped him, lending him money and such. A good sort of fellow, he was.â
âDid Mr. Powers say when he planned to come back?â Isabella asked.
âNo, but Iâm sure he will.â She began twisting at her ankles, side to side like a three-year-old. âHe said he wouldnât miss seeing me for the whole wide world. Ainât that the most romantic thing you ever heard?â
Isabella groaned.
âThank you, Miss Owens,â Randall said, because he feared Isabella was beyond the power of speech. He stepped into the bedchamber to retrieve his lantern. âNow if you will excuse us, I fear Miss St. Vincent has an excruciating headache.â
âMaybe when Iâm Mrs. Powers, all proper, I can come to one of your fancy balls,â Alice said, as Randall escorted Isabella down the stairs.
He flashed a charming smile. âI look forward to it,â he told her, knowing full well Powers had left her, the bank, the village, and Isabella for good.
In the scullery, Isabella yanked her elbow from his grasp and tromped out the back door. He jogged to keep up.
âMilton, I told you to go home,â she cried, taking out her anger on the furry feline still perched in the window, howling for the lady cats. âClearly this village doesnât need any more naughty kittens.â He watched her clench her hands and stomp her foot. âIâm so embarrassed. How could I have liked him?â
He couldnât help himself. âWell, you werenât the only one.â
The glower she gave him could have boiled the Thames.
âDonât feel so bad.â He rested his arm on her shoulder and continued without thinking. âI have made some very poor choices in lovers myself lately.â Ceceliaâs beautiful face filled his mind, tears streaming down her cheeks as she told him that she was leaving him for Harding.
âMr. Powers wasnât myâmy lover.â Isabella blushed. âNot like your lovers. We neverâ¦I mean, Iâve neverâ¦you know.â
âPlayed the Whoâs Papaâs Naughty Pussycat game?â
Her gentle laughter sounded like rain on a windowpane. âNo, thank heavens.â
Randall winked. âWell, itâs my favorite pastime when Iâm not trying to track down a Mr. Nicholas Busbyââhe drew out the manâs letterââof Itching-by-the-Ditch.â
She looked at the letter and then at him, her eyes glowing with admiration. âYou are so clever!â
âI need to note that somewhere.â He patted his coat, pretending to look for a notebook. âOn this day and year of our Lord, Isabella said something nice about me,â he quipped, giving her a dose of her own medicine before turning back to the matter at hand. âI guess Iâll take the first train out tomorrow.â
âNo, I will. You need to get married. Your future depends on having the perfect wife of the appropriate political connections and financial soundness.â
He was about to protestâ No, my future depends on slowly eviscerating Powers before he can open his damned mouthâ but realized he would be wasting precious time that could be better spent arguing with his mother. She wasnât going to take his early departure from the house party well. He foresaw a fierce clash, Mama deploying her huge arsenal of tears, veiled and outright threats, and spiky guilt traps. He handed Isabella the letter, having