Free Wicked, My Love by Susanna Ives

annoyance seething under her words. “A destination? An address? A name?”
    â€œYou don’t have to get all snippy,” Alice protested. “It’s not my fault Tony likes me better. Anyways, he told me that he was visiting a friend. Someone named…Rigsby? Saxby? Danby? Sumpin’ with a ‘by.’”
    â€œBusby?” Randall asked. “Nicholas Busby?”
    Alice’s face lit with recognition. “That’s it! Me Tony said that kind Mr. Busby always helped him, lending him money and such. A good sort of fellow, he was.”
    â€œDid Mr. Powers say when he planned to come back?” Isabella asked.
    â€œNo, but I’m sure he will.” She began twisting at her ankles, side to side like a three-year-old. “He said he wouldn’t miss seeing me for the whole wide world. Ain’t that the most romantic thing you ever heard?”
    Isabella groaned.
    â€œThank you, Miss Owens,” Randall said, because he feared Isabella was beyond the power of speech. He stepped into the bedchamber to retrieve his lantern. “Now if you will excuse us, I fear Miss St. Vincent has an excruciating headache.”
    â€œMaybe when I’m Mrs. Powers, all proper, I can come to one of your fancy balls,” Alice said, as Randall escorted Isabella down the stairs.
    He flashed a charming smile. “I look forward to it,” 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.
    â€œMilton, I told you to go home,” she cried, taking out her anger on the furry feline still perched in the window, howling for the lady cats. “Clearly this village doesn’t need any more naughty kittens.” He watched her clench her hands and stomp her foot. “I’m so embarrassed. How could I have liked him?”
    He couldn’t help himself. “Well, you weren’t the only one.”
    The glower she gave him could have boiled the Thames.
    â€œDon’t feel so bad.” He rested his arm on her shoulder and continued without thinking. “I have made some very poor choices in lovers myself lately.” Cecelia’s beautiful face filled his mind, tears streaming down her cheeks as she told him that she was leaving him for Harding.
    â€œMr. Powers wasn’t my—my lover.” Isabella blushed. “Not like your lovers. We never…I mean, I’ve never…you know.”
    â€œPlayed the Who’s Papa’s Naughty Pussycat game?”
    Her gentle laughter sounded like rain on a windowpane. “No, thank heavens.”
    Randall winked. “Well, it’s my favorite pastime when I’m not trying to track down a Mr. Nicholas Busby”—he drew out the man’s letter—“of Itching-by-the-Ditch.”
    She looked at the letter and then at him, her eyes glowing with admiration. “You are so clever!”
    â€œI need to note that somewhere.” He patted his coat, pretending to look for a notebook. “On this day and year of our Lord, Isabella said something nice about me,” he quipped, giving her a dose of her own medicine before turning back to the matter at hand. “I guess I’ll take the first train out tomorrow.”
    â€œNo, I will. You need to get married. Your future depends on having the perfect wife of the appropriate political connections and financial soundness.”
    He was about to protest— No, my future depends on slowly eviscerating Powers before he can open his damned mouth— but realized he would be wasting precious time that could be better spent arguing with his mother. She wasn’t 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