A Most Unconventional Match
Julia Justiss
A Wanton Widow When Hal Waterman calls upon the newly-widowed Elizabeth Lowery, it is intended to be the chivalrous act of a gentleman. But Hal has secretly adored Elizabeth for years. Elizabeth’s household is in turmoil and she has to support her young son. Hal’s help is more than welcome – but his silent, protective presence awakens feelings in her that she does not understand.Elizabeth’s marriage had been happy, but her husband had never aroused such confusing, exhilarating sensations in her… Elizabeth knows that society would condemn her, but Hal’s attractions may well prove too much to resist!
PRAISE FOR JULIA JUSTISS
The Untamed Heiress
“Justiss rivals Georgette Heyer in the beloved The Grand Sophy by creating a riveting young woman of character and good humour…The horrific nature of Helena’s childhood adds complexity and depth to this historical romance and unexpected plot twists and layers also increase the reader’s enjoyment.”
—Booklist
The Courtesan
“With its intelligent, compelling characters, this is a very well-written, emotional and intensely charged read.”
—Romantic Times BOOKReviews
“I would be honoured to have your escort,” Elizabeth said softly, her blue gaze catching his and holding it.
Hal’s chest expanded until he wasn’t sure he’d be able to grab a breath. Of course, Elizabeth was merely grateful for his help. But the very thought of escorting her, of walking into some public place with her hand on his arm…
Elizabeth Lowery beside him in a carriage, her rose scent wrapping around his head. Her golden curls brushing his shoulder, the warmth of her body radiating towards him, her lips, the delicious curves of her body but inches away…The rush of images made him dizzy with anticipation and desire.
He tried to beat his thoughts back into order. She saw him not as a man, but as someone safe and companionable. He mustn’t make of it any more than that.
A Most Unconventional Match
Julia Justiss
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Also available by Julia Justiss
SEDUCTIVE STRANGER
THE COURTESAN
THE THREE GIFTS
THE UNTAMED HEIRESS
ROGUE’S LADY
Prologue
London 1813
Leaning one broad shoulder against the wall, Hal Waterman exchanged an amused glance with Sir Edward Austen Greeves as they watched the bridegroom pacing in front of the hearth. ‘Wearing out the carpet, Nicky,’ Hal pointed out. ‘Give the bride’s family a distaste of you. Best get the ring on her finger first.’
Nicholas Stanhope, Marquess of Englemere and Hal’s best friend since their Eton days, sent him an irritated look. ‘I can’t imagine what’s taking so long. The priest arrived half an hour ago.’ Halting before a side mirror, he straightened the white rose in his buttonhole and tugged on his cravat.
‘Adjust that once more and you’re going to ruin it,’ Ned said. ‘I expect the ladies will be here shortly. Patience, my man! Every bride wants to look beautiful on her wedding day, even if she’s being married by special licence in a parlour instead of in church after a calling of the banns.’
Nicholas swung his gaze around to glare at Ned. ‘Don’t you dare imply there’s anything havey-cavey about this! You both know—’
‘We do,’ Hal interrupted. ‘Mortgage foreclosure and all that. Had to rescue her. Great lady, Sarah. Good choice.’ He nodded approvingly.
‘Must be eagerness for the wedding night that makes you so testy,’ Ned said. ‘You know we fully support your marrying Sarah and understand the necessity to do so immediately. And her family’s parlour might not be a church, but it’s just as handsomely appointed.’
Ned gestured around the room, indicating the side tables covered with lace cloths surmounted by silver candelabra, the large vases filled with greenery and white roses set beside the rows of chairs facing the fireplace, the mantel where a cross flanked by candles and more rose sprays created an improvised altar. ‘The ladies have outdone themselves.’
Though he’d resumed his nervous pacing, the tightness in Nicholas’s face loosened. ‘I want this day to be beautiful—for Sarah.’
‘Great lady,’ Hal repeated. ‘Wouldn’t mind marrying her m’self. If I wanted to marry. Don’t,’ he added.
‘Your mama still after you with her latest heiress in tow?’ Ned asked. ‘As much as she disparages you, you’d think she wouldn’t be so eager to try to drag you into the parson’s mousetrap.’
‘Wants to “improve” me,’ Hal said glumly. ‘Escaped her house, live in rooms, can’t work on me. Thinks a wife could.’
Nicholas halted long enough to thump Hal on the shoulder. ‘As if you needed improvement! You’re already the most stalwart companion a man could want.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Ned seconded and then shook his head. ‘Women.’
Giving his loyal friends a grateful smile, Hal gazed up at the altar. If he were forced to marry, Nicky’s soon-to-be bride would be almost his ideal choice, he thought. Lovely but not terrifyingly beautiful, competent, accomplished and kind, Sarah Wellingford never made him feel clumsy, tongue-tied and thick-witted the way the sharp-eyed, disdainful Diamonds of the ton his mother kept trying to foist on him did.
The way his beautiful, self-absorbed, society leader of a mother still did.
Since he had no intention, if and when he ever married, of wedding the sort of woman his mother preferred, he supposed he was fated to remain a disappointment to her. He shrugged off the dull ache produced by that old hurt.
‘Ah, here they come at last!’ Ned exclaimed as the parlour door opened.
The three men turned to watch as, led by the priest, the bridal party entered. First came the bride’s sisters, all adorned in white gowns trimmed with gold ribbon and cream rosebuds.
Meredyth, Cecily, Emma, Faith—Hal silently counted them off as they proceeded, trying to match faces to the names Nicky had given him. He’d just caught a glimpse of Nicky’s Sarah, resplendent in a gown of shimmering gold that made her silver-blonde hair glow, when the last sister in line turned toward him after easing the bride’s long skirt through the door.
Elizabeth, Hal thought, before his breath whooshed out and his brain stuttered to a halt.
She was an angel come to earth. Nothing else could explain such perfection, the beauty radiating from her so intensely, as if she were lit from within, that Hal could feel the warmth of it all the way across the room.
His stunned senses took in the pure spun gold of her hair, the pale coral of her cheeks, the rose-petal-soft look of her skin, the pink bow of a mouth with its full lower lip. A slightly pointed chin imbued her face with character, saved it from a mere oval’s bland symmetry.
And her eyes—blue as the summer waves of the lake on his country estate—impelled him to approach, as if he might discover the purpose of his life mirrored in the depths of those indigo pools.
An angel, his numbed wits repeated, or the reincarnation of the Botticelli Venus he’d seen in his well-travelled tutor’s pastel sketches.
Without conscious volition he walked toward her. She turned to him and smiled. A shock raced along his nerves from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.
She was the loveliest thing he’d ever beheld. Flawless. More beautiful even than his mother. His senses clamoured to touch her, taste her.
The realisation halted him in mid-stride.
Beautiful. Like his mother.
Lord in heaven, what was he thinking?
‘Hal, you escort Elizabeth,’ Ned murmured at his shoulder.
Escort her? Panic filled him and a cold sweat broke out on his brow, dampened his fingers. ‘Can’t!’ he replied in a strangled voice. Turning on his heel, he hurriedly paced to the furthest corner of the room.
Chapter One
Seven years later
Elizabeth Wellingford Lowery stood in her studio, brush in hand as she focused on the play of light across the flower in the vase on her worktable.
If she blocked out everything but the change of hues painted across the flower’s surface by the ebb and flow of the clouds in the sky outside her window, she might be able to keep out of consciousness for a little longer the bitter awareness that her life had crumbled into pieces.
She should be able to concentrate. She always painted this time of the morning, while the northern light remained steady, often becoming so absorbed in her work she forgot to stop for nuncheon.
How often had Everitt had to knock at that door and come in to collect her? Her heart squeezed in another spasm of grief as she recalled how he’d approach her, a teasing smile on his careworn face as he coaxed her to put down her brush and join him and their son David for a light mid-day meal.
She needed sustenance lest she slip away, as ethereal as the angel she appeared to be, he’d tell her, giving a loving tug to whichever strand of golden hair had escaped from the careless chignon into which she always twisted it.
But he was the one who had slipped away unexpectedly, taking her secure world with him.
She didn’t want to leave her studio, didn’t want to emerge into the tangle of duties beyond that door where she would have to face how much everything had changed. Even after a month, it was still too much to deal with, losing the kindest man who’d ever lived, who’d cared for her as if she were a precious object too fine and delicate for life on earth. Amelia Lowery, his elderly cousin who’d run their household with great efficiency, had been so incapacitated by the shock of Everitt’s death that, despite her own dismay and grief, Elizabeth had insisted the older woman give up her work and rest, and was therefore compelled to supervise tasks she’d never before had to oversee. To add to all of that, her entire family had gone on a long-delayed Grand Tour of the Continent barely a week before Everitt’s untimely death.
Aside from Amelia, Everitt had no other close relations, so, with her own family out of reach, she’d had no one to turn to, no one to help her bear the agony and the crushing responsibility. The only thing that made life endurable was being able to escape for a few hours every morning into this haven where she might blank from her mind all but the task of capturing with her brush the shape and substance and hue of the subject on her worktable.
Leaving David confined upstairs with his nurse. Her chest tightened again with grief and guilt. He was suffering too, her precious son, missing the papa who had doted on him as lovingly as he had doted on her. How could she help him when she couldn’t even help herself?
Tears welled in her eyes. Angrily she dashed them. Enough! She must pull herself out of this mire of grief and self-pity.
Some day soon she would do better, she promised herself. She’d wake to a new day without the constant, crushing weight of sadness on her chest. But for now, she would fix her mind only on the pure intensity of the hue in the flower before her.
A soft rap sounded at the door. For an instant, her spirits soared before the realisation settled like a rock in her gut. It couldn’t be Everitt. It would never again be Everitt.
She took a deep breath as Sands, her butler, bowed himself in. ‘Sorry to disturb you, madam, but…well, ’tis nearly a month since the beginning of the quarter and none of the staff have yet been paid. I’ve tried to stifle their grumbling, knowing how overset you’ve been, but it would be best if you would take care of compensating them.’
Elizabeth stared at Sands as if he’d been speaking in tongues. ‘Compensating them?’ she echoed blankly.
‘Normally the staff are paid at the start of every quarter,’ he explained patiently. ‘From a cache of coins the master kept in the locked chest in the bookroom.’
Naturally the servants would be wanting their money. But she’d had no idea about quarter day, nor had she the faintest notion what amounts were owed to the various members of her household.
Where could she find such information?
‘Madam?’ Sands prompted, recalling her attention. ‘I suppose I could go and ask Miss Amelia—’
‘No, you were right to come to me,’ Elizabeth interrupted. ‘Miss Lowery must have absolute rest, the physician said, if she is to recover from her attack. Of course everyone must be paid. Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention.’
His task accomplished, the butler turned to leave. ‘Oh, Sands!’ she recalled him. ‘Are there…any coins in the master’s chest at present?’
‘I have no idea, ma’am.’
‘Very well. And…do you know where my husband kept the key?’
‘I believe it is in the top-right drawer of his desk, Mrs Lowery.’
‘The…the amount of each person’s salary,’ she continued, painfully embarrassed by her ignorance. ‘Where might I find that?’
‘I expect it would be recorded in one of the ledgers on the master’s desk. Or his man of business might have a list. Would you like nuncheon served in an hour?’
Numbly she nodded. ‘In an hour. Yes, that would be fine.’
Sympathy in his eyes, the butler bowed again and went out, softly closing the door behind him. Elizabeth put down the brush she was still holding and sank into a chair.
What if she could not find the right ledger? What if there was no more money in the chest? How was she to obtain more? Oh, she did not want to deal with this!
If only, after her marriage to Everitt, she had insisted upon taking over some of the housekeeping duties Miss Lowery performed so well, she wouldn’t be this lost and unprepared. But one look at Amelia’s anxious face as she curtsied to Elizabeth when the newly-wedded couple arrived in London, the elderly spinster’s fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her gown as she assured Elizabeth she quite understood the new bride would want to assume the management of her own household, and Elizabeth knew she could never wrest away from her husband’s poor relation the task that gave her such satisfaction. Especially not after Everitt confided to her that, the Lowery family possessing few close kinsmen, Amelia Lowery really had nowhere else to go.
Which brought her back to her present problem. She drew a shuddering breath.
It was only a list of employees. It was only a supply of coin. She could manage this. She could.
She’d look in the bookroom later. After nuncheon. For now, it was still painting time. She would remain here in this tranquil space for just a little longer. Smoothing her dull black skirts with a trembling hand, she rose and walked to her easel.
Before she could pick her brush back up, there was another knock at the door and Sands peeped in. ‘Sir Gregory Holburn to see you, madam. Do you wish to receive him?’
Her immediate response was to refuse, but she bit it back. She’d not met her late husband’s closest friend since the funeral more than a month ago, an event that, transpiring as it had in a blur of shock and misery, she scarcely remembered.
She hadn’t stepped a foot outside the house after returning from the interment. And since Everitt had cared more for collecting his antiquities than for mingling with society and she had cared about mingling in society not at all, with her family out of England, she’d not had any callers.
Sir Gregory had always treated her kindly, almost like an avuncular uncle. He would worry if she refused to meet him.
With a sigh she stripped off the full-length apron she wore to save her gown from the worst of the paint spatters. ‘Very well. Show him to the blue salon and tell him I’ll join him shortly.’
She walked to the small mirror over her workbench, frowning as she scraped back the loose strands of hair and tucked them into the chignon. Her face was pale, her eyes dull. Everitt would say she looked like she was going into a decline.
And so I am, without you, my dear, she whispered softly. Gritting her teeth against another swell of useless grief, she forced a smile to her lips and headed for the blue salon.
Sir Gregory jumped to his feet as she entered. A tall, well-built man in his fortieth year, his light brown hair as yet showed no trace of grey, unlike the silver-tinted locks of Everitt, who’d been five years his senior. Friends from their youth, the two men had grown up in the same area of Oxfordshire and attended the same college.
His light brown eyes lighting with pleasure, Sir Gregory took the hand she offered and kissed it. ‘How have you been getting on? I’m sorry not to have come sooner; estate business at Holburn Hall kept me tied up longer than I’d expected.’
‘I hope everything is going well there,’ Elizabeth said politely. Absently she wondered how Everitt’s neighbouring property, Lowery Manor, was faring. Since their marriage, they’d spent little time there, her husband preferring to reside in London where he might more easily acquire items for his collection.
‘Some difficulties with the planting, but well enough.’ Eyeing her more closely, he shook his head. ‘You look tired and careworn. Is Miss Lowery still confined to her bed and unable to assist? My poor Lizbet, I knew I should have come back sooner to check on you!’
‘How kind of you,’ Elizabeth replied, acknowledging his concern. ‘I’m afraid Miss Lowery is so far from recovered she must not even think of returning to her duties. I get on well enough, I suppose, though it is…difficult.’ She attempted a smile. ‘So many things to do! Reviewing menus, inspecting linens, checking silver, ordering coal—I had no idea how much was required to run a household. Did you know there are at least seventeen different recipes for preparing chicken?’
‘Seventeen?’ He chuckled. ‘Who would have thought?’
‘And where does one obtain the coin to pay one’s servants?’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘Miss Lowery and Everitt spoiled me dreadfully, I’m discovering.’
Holburn took her hand and patted it. ‘Dear lady, you are too young and lovely to trouble yourself with such trivialities! Now that I’ve returned to London, I do hope you’ll allow me to lift some of those burdens from your shoulders.’ Letting go of her fingers, he extracted a small purse from the pocket of his coat. ‘How much coin do you need for the servants?’
Tempting as it was to transfer all her tiresome duties into his willing hands, Elizabeth hesitated. Husband’s best friend notwithstanding, there was no link of kinship between them whatsoever. She could not but feel it went beyond the limits of what was proper to accept any of his kindly offered assistance. Without doubt, she knew she must not take money from him, even as a temporary loan.
‘That won’t be necessary, Sir Gregory, although I do thank you for offering. You must ignore my hen-hearted complaining! I shall learn to manage soon enough.’
‘You are sure?’ When she nodded, he continued, ‘Very well, I shall do nothing—this time. But my offer stands. I should be honoured to assist you in any way, at any time.’
As the mantel clock chimed the hour, she rose. David would be waiting for her, anxious for his nuncheon. ‘Should you like to join us for some light refreshment?’
‘You will take it with your son?’
‘Yes. By noon he’s grown quite peckish.’
‘I fear I must decline. Another time, perhaps?’
‘Of course.’ She escorted him from the parlour, secretly relieved he’d refused the invitation she’d felt obligated to offer. But Sir Gregory did not enjoy children—and David, perhaps sensing as children often do the attitude of the adults around them, most decidedly did not like Sir Gregory.
Some time this afternoon, she still must solve the riddle of paying her servants. Turning her visitor over to Sands, with a longing glance in the direction of her studio, Elizabeth walked upstairs to find her son.
In his bachelor quarters on the other side of Mayfair, Hal Waterman frowned at the notice printed in the newspaper. Having returned to London just last evening after spending two months monitoring a new canal project in the north, he was still sorting through the journals and correspondence that had accumulated in his absence.
Carrying the paper with him, Hal dropped into the chair by the fireplace where his valet Jeffers had left him a glass of wine, gratefully settling back against its wide, custom-designed cushions. Taller and more powerfully built than most of his countrymen, after his sojourn in assorted inns over the last weeks, he was thoroughly tired of trying to sleep in beds too short for his long legs and sit in wing chairs too narrow for his broad shoulders.
Scanning the notice again, he sighed. Mr Everitt Lowery, it read, of Lowery Manor in Oxfordshire and Green Street in London, unexpectedly expired in this city on the seventh inst.—almost six weeks ago now. Surviving him are his widow, Elizabeth, née Wellingford, and one son, David.
Elizabeth. Even now, seven years after his first glimpse of her at the wedding of his friend Nicholas to her sister Sarah, the whisper of her name reverberated through his mind, exciting a tingling in his nerves and a stirring in his loins.
Despite knowing Nicky’s wedding service had been about to begin, he’d barely been able to keep himself from bolting from the room that long-ago day. As it was, drenched in panic, he’d had to station himself as far from the enchanting Elizabeth as the confines of the parlour allowed, remaining at the reception afterwards only until he deemed it was politely possible to excuse himself.
Until he had encountered Elizabeth Wellingford, armoured by a lifetime of scornful treatment at the elegant hands of his beautiful mother, he’d thought himself immune to those pinnacles of perfect female form who so easily enslaved the men around them. Which, for Hal, made Elizabeth Wellingford the most dangerous woman in England. Even knowing what she could and probably would do to him, he’d still been…mesmerised.
The only sensible response was to stay as far away from her as possible. Over the intervening years, keeping that resolve turned out to be easier than he’d first feared, given that her sister had married his best friend. A few months after Nicky’s nuptials, shunning a Season, Elizabeth Wellingford had chosen to wed a family friend she’d known all her life, a gentleman more than twenty years her senior.
So, fortunately for his piece of mind, the bewitching Elizabeth had never joined the ranks of the hopefuls on the Marriage Mart, that small section of ton society in which his mother took greatest interest. Each Season Mama had inspected the new arrivals, choosing those she deigned to honour with her friendship, whom she would then parade before her son in the hope, mercifully thus far unrealised, of enticing—or coercing—him into marrying some woman of fashion who might be trusted to try to remake her overly tall, totally unfashionable only child.
A hopeless task, if Mama would just cease stubbornly refusing to concede the fact. In a society that prized dark, whipcord-slender men like that lisping poet Lord Byron, Hal was too big, too fair-haired, and, from his years of fencing and riding, too firmly muscled to ever be considered one of the ton’s dashing young blades.
Prizing comfort and utility above all, he had no patience for coats that required a valet to wrestle him in and out of them, shirts with points so high and stiff they scratched his chin or fanciful cravats that threatened to choke him whenever he swallowed.
And though, with Nicky’s help, he’d overcome the stuttering that had made his school years a misery, he would never be capable of uttering long flowing phrases full of the elegant compliments so beloved by ladies.
He sighed. He would always be an embarrassment to Mama and there was nothing to be done about it.
Shifting his gaze to the matter at hand, he looked back at the funeral notice he still held. So Elizabeth was now a widow. Too young and lovely a lady to be wearing black, he thought, a touch of sadness in his chest at the premature loss she had suffered. Then a startling, highly unpleasant realisation brought him out of his chair and sent him rushing to his desk.
Impatiently he flipped through the papers until he found Nicky’s note. As he reviewed it, a scowl settled on his face.
Hell and damnation! He had remembered the dates correctly. Nicholas, Sarah, their children and all the rest of the Stanhopes and Wellingfords—all of Elizabeth’s family—had departed for Europe, it appeared, barely a week before Everitt Lowery’s passing. The family party was not due to return to England for another three months at the earliest.
There was no help for it. Despite his vow never to willingly place himself again in the same room with the lady who had so shaken his world, that lady was Nicky’s sister-in-law. With her family out of reach, Nicky would expect Hal to call on the widow, ensure that her husband’s lawyer and man of business had her financial affairs well in hand and, in Nicky’s stead, offer to assist her with anything she required.
Going back to his chair, Hal sighed and downed a large swallow of the wine. Please heaven, let Lowery have left a decent will and employed a competent man of business. The Wellingfords had been nearly penniless when Nicky married Sarah, so Hal knew Elizabeth probably hadn’t brought much of a dowry to her marriage. He hoped Lowery’s finances were such that he’d been able to leave his widow a comfortable jointure.
Of course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t easily run herself into dun territory. As Hal recalled, a woman’s response to both joy and calamity involved the acquiring of a large number of new gowns, bonnets, pelisses, footwear and the nameless other fripperies females seemed so fond of. That had always been his mother’s way and he had no reason to expect that a woman as stupendously beautiful as Elizabeth Lowery would react any differently.
With it having been six weeks since her husband’s demise, he’d best gird himself to call on Mrs Lowery immediately to make sure she wasn’t already having to outrun the constable. Lowery’s fatherless son didn’t need to have his mama land them in debtor’s prison.
Taking another deep draught of wine, he recalled sardonically the bulging armoires in his mother’s several dressing rooms. Only the gigantic size of his father’s fortune had allowed Hal to achieve his majority—and assume control of his mother’s finances—with that lady still possessing a sizeable portion. Unless Lowery had tied up his funds carefully and appointed a vigilant trustee, if she spent her blunt as freely as Letitia Waterman, Lowery’s lovely widget of a wife could swiftly exhaust a modest competence.
Fulfilling his duty as Nicky’s stand-in shouldn’t be that burdensome, he reassured himself. He’d probably only need to visit the widow once, after which he’d be able to deal directly with Lowery’s man of business. Besides, it had been a very long time since he’d seen Elizabeth.
Having weathered seven Seasons’ worth of beauties posing, posturing and pouting before him, he was doubtless no longer as impressionable as he’d been that long-ago afternoon. Besides, ’twas likely that, over the years, memory had exaggerated the incident. Wary as he was of winsome women, surely when he met Elizabeth now he’d experience only a mild appreciation for her striking loveliness.
After all, a man could appreciate a masterpiece of art without aching to possess it.
Hal took a deep breath. He could do this. And he would…tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would meet Elizabeth Wellingford Lowery again.
Chapter Two
As early the next morning as Hal imagined a fashionable lady might be receiving—which meant nearly afternoon—Hal arrived at the Lowery town house on Green Street. To his relief, since he wished to get through this interview as quickly as possible, as soon as the butler read his card, he was shown to a parlour with the intelligence that the lady of the house was occupied at present with another caller, but would see him shortly.
Telling himself to breathe normally, Hal paced the small room to which he’d been shown, silently rehearsing the speech he’d prepared. If he took his time and didn’t panic, he should be able to avoid stuttering through the few lines that expressed his condolences, offered his assistance in Lord Englemere’s stead for the duration of her family’s absence, and asked the direction of her late husband’s man of business so he might consult this gentleman without having to intrude again upon her privacy.
As Hal made his third circuit of the room, running a finger under a neckcloth that had grown unaccountably tighter than when he’d tied it several hours ago, a soft scuffling sound caught his attention. Halting by the doorway, he peered out to see a small boy standing in the hallway, a metal toy soldier clutched in his hands as he cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder at the stairway behind him.
When the boy’s eyes lowered from his inspection of the stair landing, his gaze met Hal’s and he gasped. Tightening his grip on the soldier, with another quick look up the stairs, he whispered anxiously, ‘You won’t tell Nurse I’m down here, will you?’
Stifling a smile, Hal gave a negative shake of his head.
Relaxing a bit, the boy said, ‘I shall go back up directly. Only…only the general lost his arm, and I thought Mama would want to know.’ He held up the toy, showing Hal the torso and the detached limb.
A lady’s drawing room was no place for a young boy, as Hal knew only too well. He ought to save the lad a scolding by encouraging his immediate return to the nursery. But looking down at that small woebegone face, he couldn’t make himself utter the words.
‘I was ever so careful, but the arm just…came off,’ the lad continued earnestly. ‘Papa could fix him in a trice, I know, but Papa…’ The boy’s voice trailed off and he swallowed hard, tears appearing at the corners of his blue eyes. ‘Papa has…gone away. He always told me I must never disturb Mama in her studio, but she would want to know about the general, don’t you think? He is my best friend.’
Suddenly a vivid memory engulfed Hal, so searing it robbed him of breath: a pudgy little blond boy weeping in a hallway, denied entry to his mother’s room. Exiled to the nursery, watched over by an unfamiliar, dragon-faced woman who rapped his knuckles when he cried and told him he should be ashamed of blubbering like a girl. Who refused his pleas to speak with his mother, informing him that Mrs Waterman was too busy to see a whiny little boy.
Lowery’s son looked to be about the same age Hal had been when he’d lost his father. He’d never forgotten, could feel vestiges still of the loneliness and devastation he’d suffered.
A deeply buried, smouldering anger welled up to swamp his reluctance to meet Elizabeth Lowery. He might not be the paragon of scintillating drawing-room conversation his mama wished for, but he could make sure this little waif wasn’t shunted aside and neglected, as he’d been. Whether the boy’s beautiful mother wished to deal with him or not!
Without further thought, he stepped into the hallway and went down on his knees beside the child. ‘Hal Waterman here. Your Uncle Nicky’s best friend. Let me see your soldier. Then we’ll tell your mama.’
The boy’s expression brightened. ‘Uncle Nicky talks about you all the time. I wish he was here. Mama cries and cries. She says Uncle Nicky has gone away too—’ Sudden alarm clouded the lad’s face. ‘Uncle Nicky will…come back, won’t he?’
‘Yes,’ Hal assured him. ‘Travelling in Italy. Be back soon. But I’m here.’ Gesturing towards the soldier, he said, ‘Let me look? Maybe I can fix him.’
‘Could you?’ the boy breathed. ‘That would be capital! Then you would be my new best friend!’
If not that, at least the champion of his interests, Hal resolved grimly—until Nicky could take over, of course. Carefully accepting the toy and the arm the boy held out, Hal bent to inspect the mechanism that attached the limb.
Meanwhile, in her studio down the hallway, for the last hour Elizabeth Lowery had been going over the household accounts. She’d found the books in her husband’s desk yesterday, along with enough cash in the chest to satisfy her disgruntled servants, but Sands informed her that he and the cook must soon purchase additional provisions. She would need to peruse the books to determine how much more cash to obtain from the bank.
Sighing as she tried to total a column of figures detailing the costs of tallow candles, flour, lamp oil, coal and a long list of similar household necessities, Elizabeth wished she had paid more attention to her governess’s lessons on mathematics. With her older sister Mereydth and younger sisters Emma and Cecily in the room—the girls two and three years her junior and bubbling over with lively conversation—she’d usually been able to escape Miss Twimby’s attention. Daydreaming through the lesson, she’d merely bided her time until she could abandon her books and return to her charcoal and her paints.
’Twas no use; she’d lost track of the total again. With a huff of frustration, she pushed the book away. Such an interesting pattern the figures made, flowing down the page in her husband’s neat hand. The three at the edge of the page, turned on its side in her current viewing angle, looked like a bird seen at a long distance, its wings curved in flight. While the seven at the bottom reminded her of a tall crane, balanced on one skinny leg, bill facing into the wind as he stood at the edge of a marsh.
She was smiling at the image when a tap sounded at the door. The portal opened to reveal Sands, but before the butler could utter a word, a swarthy, powerfully built man shouldered past him into the room.
‘Needn’t announce me like some toff,’ the man said as he strode in. ‘Smith’s the name, ma’am. I’m here at the behest of my employer, Mr Blackmen. And since my business is with the lady…’ he looked back at Sands ‘…you can take yourself off.’
Despite the intimidating stare the intruder fixed on him, Sands held his ground, looking at Elizabeth. Lifting a hand to signal he should remain, she said coolly, ‘I don’t believe I am acquainted with a Mr Blackmen, sir. Perhaps you have mistaken your errand.’
Smith gave a crack of laughter. ‘Not likely. Old Blackmen, he don’t tolerate mistakes. And you might not be “acquainted”, but I guarantee your lately departed ball-and-chain was. Knew the boss right intimate, Mr Lowery did. If you know what’s good for you and your little boy, you’ll let me tell you what he sent me to say. A personal matter, so you’d best send old long-nose there packing.’
Alarmed—but also angered—Elizabeth hesitated. On the one hand, she didn’t relish being left alone with a man who looked like a ruffian out of a tenement in Seven Dials. But if the matter were sensitive, perhaps she should receive his message in private.
Swiftly making her choice, she nodded at Sands. ‘You may wait in the hall’
The butler bowed. ‘As you wish, madam. I shall be outside the door.’ Despite his advancing years and the fact that the visitor outweighed him by several stones, Sands gave Smith a challenging look. ‘Directly outside the door, if you should need anything, ma’am.’
While the butler bowed himself out, Smith laughed again. ‘As if I couldn’t snap that old coot like a twig if’n I wanted! Got to credit him for gumption, though.’
‘Perhaps you could just deliver your message,’ Elizabeth interposed, unnerved and appalled by her unwanted visitor’s vulgarity.
‘Let me just do that, then,’ Smith said affably. ‘I can see your late husband had a hankering for pretty things.’ He looked Elizabeth up and down, the insolent inspection making her want to slap his face.
‘Didn’t always have the blunt to purchase his niceties, though,’ Smith continued. ‘Which is where my employer came in. Always there to help a gent who’s a little short of the ready, for a modest return, of course. I’d guess your man meant to pay back what he’d borrowed, but then—’ he made a swiping motion at his neck ‘—cocked up his toes afore he could make good on his expenditures. Now, my employer being a soft-hearted man, he gave you a month after the funeral for grieving. But now he’s wanting his blunt.’
Mr Blackmen must be a moneylender, Elizabeth surmised, consternation flowing through her. Why would Everitt resort to borrowing money? Were dealings with a cent-per-center even legal? If they were, could she be held accountable for repaying the debt? And, if so, where was she to obtain the funds?
Desperately trying to mask her distress beneath a façade of cool uninterest, she said, ‘I know nothing of these transactions. You shall have to take this matter up with Mr Scarbridge, my husband’s man of business.’
Smith made a rude noise. ‘Scarbridge—that incompetent? Seeing how deep he’s in River Tick hisself, I doubt he’d know a groat about handling anyone’s finances—if he was to leave off his gaming and whoring long enough to try, that is. No, little lady, my master intends to settle this business with you personal.’
This was too much—she simply couldn’t handle one more disaster. An almost hysterical anger burning through her alarm, she snapped, ‘Do you expect I know any more than Mr Scarbridge does? I’m neither a solicitor nor a banker. You waste your time here, sir! Good day.’
Smith’s genial expression hardened. ‘I wouldn’t be so quick to run me off, Mrs High-and-Mighty,’ he said, advancing on her. ‘Don’t expect you’d be so high in the instep if the magistrate was to come calling, ready to haul you and that boy of yorn off to Newgate.’
Her momentary flash of bravado extinguished, Elizabeth gasped. Newgate! Could this awful Mr Blackmen truly have her imprisoned for debt? Her mind slammed from panic to anger and back like a child’s ball tethered to a string.
What should she do? Nicky was a peer; he would know. Oh, why did he and Sarah have to be away now?
‘No need to get yourself into a pelter,’ Smith said, recalling her attention. He gestured around the room. ‘Got lots of fancy things here—that silver inkpot, them vases on that shelf, those marble heads of soldiers over there by the divan. Fetch a pretty penny, I’d wager. Lowery paid enough for ’em.’
‘Those are classical Greek, my husband’s pride,’ Elizabeth protested.
‘His pride, eh?’ Raising his eyebrows, Smith leaned across the desk and put his hand over hers. With a moue of revulsion, Elizabeth tried to snatch it back.
Laughing softly, Smith seized her fingers, tightening his grip until his nails bit into her skin. ‘You kin lose the fripperies…or yer house. Or,’ he said in a deeper tone, his dark eyes heating as he stared at her, ‘we could deal in another commodity.’
His gaze fixed on her bosom, he lifted his free hand to tug at a strand of golden hair. ‘You’re a fine-looking woman. My master might like that—or I might.’
No one had ever looked at her or talked to her so crudely—as if she were some Covent Garden strumpet procured for his amusement. ‘My husband would kill you for speaking to me so!’ she said furiously.
‘Lucky for me he’s already dead then, ain’t it?’ Smith replied.
Renewed outrage drowning her fear, Elizabeth wrenched her hand free. ‘Get out!’ she cried, her voice shaking with indignation and rage.
Smith made her an exaggerated bow. ‘I’ll leave—for now, Mrs High-and-Mighty, but I’ll be back. You can bet the golden curls on your head on it.’
As if concluding a normal business call, Smith pivoted and walked with a jaunty tread to the door. Opening it, he gave her another mocking bow before shutting it behind him, leaving Elizabeth appalled, outraged…and thoroughly alarmed.
Chapter Three
Hal had just finished his inspection of the Lowery boy’s soldier when a door further down the hall opened and closed. ‘That’s Mama’s studio,’ the child said, excitement in his eyes. ‘Mayhap she’s done now. Let’s go see!’
Hal tried to ignore the sinking sensation suddenly spiralling in his gut. He was rising to his feet when a swarthy man in a freize coat, hat pulled down low over his eyes, brushed past them, a frowning Sands in his wake. Without a backward glance, the man exited through the door the butler hurriedly opened for him.
‘Now!’ the boy said urgently, tugging on Hal’s hand. ‘While Sands is busy!’
Hal tried to summon the words to tell the child that although he might scurry in to visit his mama, Hal ought to wait for the butler to announce him. But when the boy looked up, a pleading look on his face as he whispered ‘Please’, against his better judgement, Hal allowed the boy to lead him down the hallway.
Hal had barely time enough to wonder why such a rough-looking gent had been paying a call on Mrs Lowery before the child had him at the doorway. One rapid knock later, the boy pushed open the door and hurtled into the room.
‘Mama, Mama, look at the general!’ he cried as he ran in. ‘He’s hurt. We need to fix him!’
Halting on the threshold, Hal looked over at the woman he’d not seen in so long. When Elizabeth Lowery glanced up from her son and saw Hal, he felt as if all the air had suddenly been sucked from the room.
She wore a simple black gown, a harsh shade, his mama said, that robbed the colour from a lady. But not from Elizabeth. The midnight hue rather emphasised the fairness of her hair, gleaming gold in the pale light from the window. The flush of peach at her cheekbones set off the cream of her face and the blaze of her eyes, deep cerulean like the noon sky at midsummer. The oval face with its pointed chin was a touch fuller than he remembered, while a few tiny lines at corners of her eyes imbued it with character.
This was no flawless ingénue, poised to begin life, but a vibrant, experienced woman who had lived, loved and laughed. A woman who stole his breath just as easily as she had seven years ago, while the force of the connection he felt to her froze him in place on the doorstep.
Amid the rush of sensation, one disjointed thought emerged: she was even more beautiful now than the first time he’d seen her.
While his pulse thrummed in his ears and he struggled to breathe, Hal dimly noted the child holding the soldier up to her, his words tumbling over each other as he tried to explain what had happened to his toy.
Rising to her feet, Elizabeth Lowery hushed her son with a gesture of her hand. ‘David, you are being impolite. First you must introduce your visitor.’
Hal forced his body into motion and found his tongue. ‘Hal Waterman, ma’am,’ he said, bowing. ‘Nicky’s friend. Just returned from the north and read of your loss. My sincere regrets.’
‘He’s going to be my friend, too, Mama,’ the boy interrupted. ‘He says while Uncle Nicky is in It-tal-lee he can fix the general for me.’
‘David, you mustn’t impose on Mr Waterman,’ his mother reproved. ‘And what are you doing down here? Where is Nurse? And Sands?’ Rubbing her hands together distractedly, she gave Hal a tremulous smile. ‘I do apologise, Mr Waterman. You must think you’ve stumbled into Bedlam.’
At the subtle correction, the child drooped, his eyes lowering, his hand with the broken toy falling back to his side. ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll go back up. But I thought you would want to know about the general. So we can fix him. Like Papa would.’
Elizabeth’s eyes sheened and she took a ragged breath. ‘I know, dearest. Papa fixed everything. We’ll see what we can do, but later.’ Giving her son a quick hug, she clasped his shoulders and gently turned him toward the door. ‘Go back up now, there’s a good boy.’
His small shoulders hunched, David nodded. Chin wobbling, he walked towards the door.
The child’s anguish, clearly visible on his woebegone face, burned through Hal’s haze of bewitchment. In the figure of Elizabeth he could almost see his own mother, brushing him off, sending him away, too obsessed by her own wants and needs to spare the few moments necessary to comfort a distressed child.
Sympathy—and anger—reviving, he held out his hand as the boy walked past him. ‘Still be friends,’ he said, taking the small fingers in his large ones and shaking them. ‘Come back and fix the general.’
The boy’s eyes widened. ‘You will?’ he asked. When Hal nodded, a smile broke out on his face. ‘Then you will be my new best friend!’
‘David, you mustn’t trouble Mr Waterman—’ his mother objected behind them, but Hal silenced her with a shake of his head. ‘No trouble. Glad to do it. Until later.’ He gave David and his soldier a salute.
Giggling, the boy returned it before scampering from the room. Setting his jaw with firm purpose, Hal turned to face Elizabeth Lowery.
Trying to mentally regather the now-scattered bits of the speech he’d rehearsed, Hal said, ‘Sorry to intrude, but know your family is away. My best friend, Nicky. He’d want me to act for him. Check with your man of business, help in any way I can.’ Champion the interests of your son, he added silently.
‘My…my man of business?’ Putting her hands to her flushed cheeks, Elizabeth laughed disjointedly and her lips trembled. ‘You’re terribly kind, Mr Waterman, but I couldn’t bother you with our problems.’
Hal frowned. Something wasn’t right here. One of the few benefits of his verbal affliction was that his enforced silence had made him a keen observer of the people and events around him. Suddenly he recalled the rough man in the freize coat. ‘Did previous caller upset you?’
Tears gathered at the corners of her lovely eyes and she pinched her trembling lips together. Swiping a hand over her eyes impatiently, she said, ‘Well…yes, but I cannot ask you to—’
Hal waved a hand, his mind already going over the implications of a bully-boy tough calling on a lady at her home. ‘Pretend I’m Nicky. Here to help. ’Tis what Nicky would do. Sarah, too.’
She seemed genuinely distressed. Maybe that excused her brushing her son aside—this time, Hal thought, still studying her.
Her tear-glazed eyes inspected his face. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘You’re right, I would turn to Nicky, were he available. I know I ought not to involve you, but I truly have no idea what to do. And Nicky and Sarah have both spoken so often and so highly of you, that, although we are but little acquainted, I feel as if I know you.’
Hal shrugged. ‘Simple. Do anything for Nicky. Nicky do anything for you. Family. Besides, son’s new best friend.’
That earned him a feeble smile. Finally she nodded. ‘Very well, I shall tell you.’
‘What did the man want?’
‘Though it seems incredible, the caller, a Mr Smith, claims my husband borrowed money from his employer, a Mr Blackmen. Money he now wants back, with interest, if I correctly understood his implication. He said if I do not pay him, he could have my son and I evicted from this house and sent to Newgate.’
Her eyes went unfocused as she stared into the distance. Bringing her arms up, she crossed them over her chest and hugged her shoulders. ‘He said he might…’ Her voice trailed off and she shuddered.
Viewing that defensive pose, Hal had no difficulty imagining what the brawny interloper might have demanded of this beautiful, vulnerable woman who’d had only an elderly servant to protect her. That some low-born ruffian dared even imagine he could despoil Elizabeth Lowery’s genteel loveliness sent fury rushing through Hal’s veins..
If the miscreant had so much as touched Elizabeth, he was a dead man.
‘Did he hurt you?’ Hal demanded.
Evidently startled by the volume and intensity of his voice, Elizabeth jumped, her gaze darting back to Hal. ‘N-no. He…he only frightened me a little, as I’m sure he meant to do.’
‘Sure you are unharmed?’ Hal persisted, already envisioning his hands around the tough’s thick neck.
He must have looked as fierce as he felt, for her eyes widened and a smile quirked her lips. ‘There is no need to track him down and tear him limb from limb, I assure you.’
‘Won’t bother you again, swear it. Check my contacts at Bow Street. Take care of him.’
Her wry smile gentled. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘I feel safer already. To reiterate, he said his name was Smith and his employer a Mr Blackmen, although I cannot be sure those are their actual names. He said that Mr Lowery had borrowed money to fund his antique purchases.’
She frowned, her gaze thoughtful. ‘My husband delighted in his collection. I know he bought several fine new statues just the month before his…his death. Shall I make a note for you of what he purchased and when?’
Hal gave a negative shake of his head. ‘No need. Have it here.’ He pointed to his head. ‘Not much conversation, but good memory,’ he said, his mind racing through the possibilities.
Bow Street knew most of the moneylenders. Even if the man had given a false name, Hal was confident they could run him to ground.
If Lowery had indeed borrowed money from a usurer, there was no legal way the lender could recover more than the principal. Whatever that sum had been, Hal would repay it at once to ensure Mrs Lowery received no further friendly little visits. If upon review the Lowery estate hadn’t the funds to reimburse him, he knew Nicky would pay him back when the family returned from their holiday.
And despite Elizabeth Lowery’s reassurance that she was unharmed, he still intended to pay a little visit on the man who’d invaded her house today.
‘I don’t know why Everitt would resort to consulting a moneylender,’ Mrs Lowery’s troubled voice recalled him. ‘He’s always been an avid collector—’ she gestured toward several marble busts on the shelves in the studio that even to Hal’s untrained eye looked particularly fine ‘—but I had no idea we were in financial difficulties.’
‘Man of business said nothing?’ Hal asked. ‘When he called to read the will?’
Her eyebrows winged upward in surprise. ‘He hasn’t called. Nor, to my knowledge, has there been a reading of the will. I suppose Everitt had one, but I know nothing about it.’
‘Who is solicitor?’
‘Mr Scarbridge.’
‘Eustace Scarbridge?’ Hal echoed, astonished and taken aback.
‘Do you know him?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘He is—was—a distant cousin of Everitt’s. They attended Cambridge together. Though I don’t believe Everitt consulted him very much.’
Unsure what to reply, Hal remained silent. Eustace Scarbridge. He barely refrained from groaning. So much for his happy vision of paying a single visit on the bewitching Elizabeth and being able to conclude the rest of his dealings about the Lowery estate with the deceased’s solicitor.
Hal was not surprised Lowery hadn’t consulted Scarbridge often. He would have to have been dicked in the nob to have confided anything of importance to a man Hal knew to be a gambler and a ne’er-do-well always looking for a high-stakes table at which to lose his blunt—if he wasn’t throwing it away on some expensive barque of frailty. Hal hadn’t even known the man was a solicitor, rather eloquent evidence in itself of the amount of time Scarbridge spent pursuing his supposed vocation.
Hal considered himself as reverent of the bonds of kinship as anyone, but he couldn’t help damning Lowery for feeling so constrained by them that he’d not retained a solicitor worthy of the name.
‘Should Mr Scarbridge have called?’ Elizabeth asked anxiously, recalling Hal from his consternation. ‘I’m sorry to keep asking questions, but as I suppose is quite obvious, I know nothing about finances. Or anything else useful,’ she added with a twisted smile.
She looked weary and cast-down, almost as woebegone as her son. ‘You know the state of household accounts,’ he replied, wishing to encourage her.
She brightened imperceptibly. ‘I was just looking over them. And I have paid the servants.’
‘Know balance? After expenditures for house, mourning clothes.’
Her momentary look of confidence faded. ‘I’ve only begun to look over the accounts and…I’m afraid I’m not very good with numbers. Besides, Sands, our butler, took care of ordering the wreaths and mourning dress. I already had some older gowns that would do, so I have no idea what all the necessities cost.’
‘Old gowns?’ Hal echoed, astounded. His mama never missed an opportunity to expand her wardrobe. For the death of a close relative or acquaintance, she invariably purchased at least half a dozen new gowns, plus bonnets, scarves, stockings, pelisses and slippers to match. After all, she’d told him on the last occasion, styles had changed since she’d last worn mourning, and he couldn’t expect her to appear in public shabbily dressed.
Mrs Lowery, however, looked distressed. ‘Are you thinking I should have purchased new ones? I assure you, I meant no disrespect to Everitt. Perhaps I should have made the effort, but I was already so beside myself, I couldn’t bear the thought. Shopping is so taxing, all the material so lovely, with so many different textures, weaves and colours ’tis nearly impossible to choose.’
‘Mama has same problem,’ Hal replied. ‘Chooses one of everything.’
That elicited a brief smile, though Hal’s reply had been entirely serious. ‘And it’s so time-consuming. My husband and his cousin Miss Lowery, who lives with us, have always been kind enough to handle those purchases for me. Miss Lowery delighted in discussing the latest fashions with Everitt, who was always willing to escort her to the dressmaker’s. Since I care little about what I wear, as long as ’tis comfortable, I’ve been happy to let them.’
‘Don’t like to go to the shops,’ Hal repeated. Staring at her incomparable loveliness, he just couldn’t get his mind around that incredible statement.
‘No,’ she admitted with another apologetic shrug. ‘I expect it was unkind of me to foist such a…a feminine matter off upon my husband. He…he spoiled me dreadfully, you see,’ she said, her voice hitching.
A beautiful woman who didn’t delight in spending a man’s blunt. Hal shook his mind away from that conundrum back to the matter at hand. ‘First, I’ll call on Scarbridge. See what he knows.’
‘What of the loan?’ she asked. ‘Mr Smith said he would be back.’
‘Won’t be. I’ll take care of it.’
‘But what if Mr Scarbridge tells you there’s not enough money to repay the loan?’
The anxiety in her eyes cut at his heart. Wanting to reassure her and unable to voice a sufficient number of appropriately soothing words, without thinking, Hal stepped over and took her hand.
Immediately he realised what a bad idea that was. He looked at it, her small slender fingers, gloveless as if she’d just put down one of her paintbrushes, clasped in his big ones. Her skin softer than he’d imagined, the feel of it sending shivers of fire straight to his loins. Her scent, some attar of roses that reminded him of the flowers he’d had planted in the gardens back at the Hall, wafted through his nostrils and clouded his head.
He wanted to wrap her in his arms, tell her everything would be all right, that he would protect her from every danger, watch over her and guard her with all the strength he possessed for the rest of his days.
All after the mere touch of her hand. This was going to be even worse than he’d feared; a death knell of warning tolled in his brain.
He released her fingers and staggered back a step, his heart pounding so hard, he knew she must be able to hear it. ‘Will take care of it,’ he managed to mumble. Desperately he made her a bow and turned to go.
‘Mr Waterman,’ her voice recalled him. Urgently needing to escape, he halted long enough to look back over his shoulder.
‘Thank you for offering to protect us. I don’t feel quite so alone and helpless now.’
‘Pleasure,’ he replied. As he paced toward the exit, he tried to ignore the little glow her words had ignited in his heart.
Thoughtfully Elizabeth watched the big man walk away. She rubbed her hand, which still tingled strangely.
She wasn’t sure what to think. She did feel much less anxious, as she’d told him. Though she probably shouldn’t have confided in him, since, despite being Nicky and Sarah’s good friend, he was no more closely related to her than Sir Gregory.
Still, as he’d assured her in that odd, clipped way he had of speaking, he was a family connection, while Sir Gregory was merely a friend of Everitt’s. Though she had dispatched a note telling Nicky and Sarah of Everitt’s death right after the funeral, she had no idea when or even whether her missive would find them. She knew Mr Waterman was right in asserting that Nicky would expect his best friend to assist her until he returned himself.
Though Mr Waterman had seemed almost…hostile when David first brought him in, her heart warmed as she recalled the scene. Even if she’d not heard glowing avowals of his character from her sister and brother-in-law, she would have trusted Hal Waterman based simply on the way he’d treated her son.
He’d knelt down to David’s level, coaxed a smile to his solemn little face, then actually made him giggle. How her heart had leapt to hear it! After this awful, interminable month, poor David was desolate for attention, hungry for the company of a man upon whom he could depend.
Even as she was.
She did feel she could depend on Hal Waterman to handle the distressing matter of Mr Smith and the loan. Now that she thought about it, she recalled Nicky telling her Mr Waterman had a keen mathematical mind and was an expert in matters of finance and investment. Quite likely not even Nicky himself would be better situated to resolve whatever tangle Everitt had left in their financial affairs.
So she would be seeing Mr Waterman again. The idea made something stir within her. Though she’d felt nothing but grief and regret for so long, she wasn’t sure just what.
Probably it was that he presented such an arresting figure—she could almost feel her fingers itch with impatience to find a brush. Though he was taller and broader of shoulder than any man she’d ever met, he carried himself with an athlete’s easy grace. The muscles of his thighs and calves revealed by his knit breeches and form-fitting boots attested to time spent in the saddle, while the abdomen beneath his plain waistcoat appeared firm and flat. As for his face, with his golden hair worn just long enough to curl over his brow, a high forehead, well-formed nose and square jaw, he reminded her of the Roman bust of Apollo her husband had recently acquired.
Although with his size and air of authority, she would rather paint him as Zeus, king of the gods. For a moment, she smiled at the idea of ordering him to strip off his garments and dress in a toga, the better for her to capture the likeness.
Something about the image made her feel suddenly overwarm. She reached up a hand to fan herself. Hal Waterman was quite as attractive as he was arresting, she realised.
He found her attractive, too, she knew. By now she was used to seeing the interest flare in men’s eyes when they looked at her. She could identify every degree of attraction, from the gentle love and respect that had always shown in Everitt’s, to the slavish eagerness to impress of some of the young men he’d sometimes brought to dinner, to the hot-eyed lust in Mr Smith’s that she’d found so disconcerting and repellent.
That might have made her current situation more difficult, except that the masculine appreciation in Mr Waterman’s eyes had not made her feel at all uncomfortable, overlayed as it was by a quaint shyness and a respect bordering almost on reverence. With utter certainty she knew that admire her as he might, he would never say or do anything to distress or discomfort her. Even the clasping of her hand that she’d found so oddly disturbing had been meant only to reassure.
Yes, she could depend upon him utterly. And if something else tickled at the edges of her consciousness, some little niggle in the pit of her stomach she couldn’t quite identify, she needn’t regard it.
Mr Waterman promised to keep her and David secure until Sarah and Nicky returned. For that favour, she would owe him her warmest appreciation.
Chapter Four
Still shaken from his encounter with Elizabeth Lowery, Hal returned to his bachelor quarters on Upper Brook Street. Feeling the morning’s events called for stiffer reinforcement than a glass of wine, he headed straight for the brandy decanter in the library.
The satisfying bite of the liquor burning its way to his belly helped relax the knots in his nerves. Breathing easy for the first time since leaving the widow’s presence, he tried to shake his mind free of her lingering spell.
All right, so she was still beautiful. Dazzling, even. And, yes, he burned as fiercely to possess her as he had the first time he’d seen her. Except now, moved by her plight and that of her fatherless son, he also wanted to protect them and ease the small boy’s misery.
He could handle his lust. For six years now he’d had a comfortable, mutually agreeable arrangement with a big-hearted lady he’d met at one of London’s most exclusive brothels and who now resided in a discreet house on Curzon Street he’d purchased for her. Sweet Sally would keep his masculine urges slaked.
He’d just have to work on leashing his emotions.
It was unfortunate that Lowery hadn’t entrusted his business affairs to someone capable of managing them. It appeared that Hal was going to have to tap his contacts and do some investigating to determine exactly how things stood so he could restore the Lowery finances to good order before turning everything over to Nicky upon his return.
Which meant he would probably see a lot more of Elizabeth…far more than was good for his heart or his senses. Hearing himself sigh at that conclusion like an infatuated moonling just up from Oxford, Hal straightened and squared his shoulders.
All right, so it was unlikely, given her professed dislike of shopping—a description Hal still had a hard time believing—that Elizabeth Lowery had got her household into financial difficulties. But just because, unlike his own mama, she didn’t visit the shops more regularly than she did her son’s nursery didn’t mean she was born to bear his children.
If he tried to focus his visits to Green Street on spending as much time with the boy and as little as possible with the widow, he might still escape this tangle intact. Surely he could manage to remain sensible for the two-or-so months remaining until Nicky came home?
He had just knocked back the last measure of brandy when a tap sounded at the door and his valet Jeffers entered, bearing several boxes.
To the unspoken question of his lifted eyebrows, Jeffers said, ‘Your lady mother called while you were out.’
Hal groaned. ‘Praise God I was out.’
Jeffers smiled. ‘Having called so early on the expectation of finding you at home, Mrs Waterman was…less than pleased to discover you away. It took a glass of Madeira and some of Cook’s best biscuits to convince her you’d not deliberately conspired to have her quit her bedchamber at nearly dawn and go out in the early morning damp so prejudicial to her complexion, all the while knowing she would fail to find you here. Though she did condescend to leave these packages, I believe it would be accurate to infer that you are still in her black books.’
‘Always am anyway,’ Hal mumbled.
Jeffers nodded sympathetically. ‘Quite.’
‘What’s in ’em?’ Hal gestured to the boxes. ‘Know you’ve looked.’
Jeffers cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Waterman purchased some garments that she felt might assist you in updating your wardrobe to present a more fashionable appearance.’
Hal rolled his eyes. ‘How bad are they?’
Jeffers opened the first box. ‘Wellington pantaloons are quite stylish now,’ he said, shaking out the garment and holding it up.
Grimacing, Hal inspected the long pants that featured side slits from calves down to ankles, where they fastened with loops and buttons at the heel. ‘Not so bad, but keep my breeches.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The valet opened the next box, and with a determinedly straight face, held up a waistcoat.
Alternating blue and yellow stripes, each nearly three inches wide, met Hal’s incredulous view.
‘Mrs Waterman said it was all the crack,’ Jeffers informed him.
Hal snorted. ‘Don’t doubt. On man my size, look like curtains out of bordello.’
The valet’s lips twitched. ‘I believe this last item meant to avoid that by giving you a more…slender look.’ He removed the garment from its box and held it out.
‘What the—?’ Hal exclaimed.
‘’Tis a Cumberland corset,’ the valet explained. ‘The body contains whalebone stays, which, once placed about the waist, cinch in with these strings…’
Hal nipped the garment from his servant’s hand, looked it over briefly—and burst out laughing. After a moment, Jeffers lost the battle to maintain an expressionless demeanour and started laughing as well.
Finally containing his mirth, Hal wiped his eyes and tossed the corset back in its box, where it collapsed in a clunk of whalebone.
‘I’d give ’em to poor, but poor not sapskulled enough to wear ’em. Take ’em, please.’ Hal stacked the boxes and handed them back to Jeffers. ‘New, and if know Mama, highest quality. Suppose you can sell ’em somewhere.’
‘Should I place the money in the household accounts?’
‘’Course not. Abominations yours now. As you well know, you damnable pirate. Sold enough of Mama’s gifts over years to fund retirement.’
Jeffers grinned. ‘Thank you, sir, ’tis very generous.’
‘Off with you,’ Hal said, grinning back. ‘One thing, Jeffers…’
Already carrying away the boxes, the valet halted. ‘Sir?’
‘Catch you wearing that waistcoat, you’re discharged.’
Jeffers swallowed a chuckle. ‘If I should ever don a garment even remotely resembling that waistcoat, sir, you may have me taken straight to Bedlam. Oh, Mrs Waterman did mention she hoped you’d have the manners to return her call.’
Hal sighed as he watched the heavily-laden Jeffers walk out. That was surely the purpose of his mother bringing gifts—besides her unslakeable urge to make purchases, of course. She knew that should she not find Hal at home, he would be obligated to call and thank her for her kindness.
At which time she would probably chastise him for his ingratitude in not wearing the new trousers and waistcoat. Recalling the latter, Hal grimaced. He’d suffer a hundred jawbonings before he’d wear a monstrosity like that.
Did Mama really think that a whalebone contraption and one hideous waistcoat could turn him into the pattern-card of fashion she wished him to be? Or was she merely trying to irritate him beyond bearing?
Unhappily, he was going to have to call on her and find out. Best do it first thing this afternoon and get it over with, before he went to Bow Street to investigate Mrs Lowery’s unsavoury caller.
Setting his lips in a grim line at the prospect, Hal tugged the bell pull to call for luncheon.
Several hours later, after dressing with a care that would doubtless be lost on a lady who was anticipating lace-tied pant legs and a boldly striped waistcoat, Hal presented himself at the large family manse on Berkeley Square. Holmes, his mother’s butler, showed him to the Green Parlour, assuring him his mother had been anticipating his call and would receive him directly.
Palms already sweating, Hal propped one shoulder against the mantel, hoping his mama’s social schedule was full enough that the time she’d allotted for this visit would be correspondingly brief.
He heard the door open, heralding his mother’s arrival, and took a deep breath. As Mrs Waterman swept into the room, Hal walked over to make his bow and kiss his mother’s proffered hand.
‘Lovely gown, Mama. Look enchanting.’
As, in truth, she did. Through arts jealously guarded by that lady and her dresser Hayes, though she was well passed her fortieth year, Letitia Waterman contrived to appear decades younger. Her intricately arranged blonde curls were as bright, her body as slender and her pale skin almost as unlined as when she had been the brightest new Diamond in society’s Marriage Mart, a society over which she ruled still.
One of the scores of beaux she’d dazzled her first Season had been Hal’s father, Nathan. And since, though the Watermans were untitled, the family was related by blood or marriage to half the great houses of England and possessed more wealth than most of them put together, it hadn’t been thought surprising that, from the scores of offers she’d reportedly received, she had condescended to bestow her hand upon Nathan Waterman.
Hal sometimes wondered if his father had ever regretted that.
‘Thank you, dear.’ His mother’s eyes, blue where his were grey, inspected him before she made a small moue of distaste and waved him to a chair. ‘I see you failed to avail yourself of the more fashionable garments I selected for you.’
‘Sorry, Mama. Most kind of you. But not my style.’
‘That’s precisely the point, son,’ she replied, a touch of acid in her tone. ‘I was attempting to replace “no style” with something more befitting a man of your stature, but I see that, once again, you have rebuffed my attempt.’
There was no point answering that, even if Hal were tempted to try to make an explanation. She’d only interrupt his laborious reply, wincing slightly as if his halting speech pained her, which he supposed it did.
Really, son, must you be so blockish? Her oft-repeated reprimand echoed in his head. Just state what you mean! If only it were that simple, Mama, he thought.
It wasn’t that he didn’t immediately formulate a reply. He just couldn’t get the words out. Not for the first time, he regretted that humans didn’t communicate by note.
He was an eloquent writer, all his Oxford professors had agreed. He’d even gained somewhat of a reputation penning amusing doggerel for his friends’ amateur theatricals. And, though he’d never admit it to anyone, occasionally he still wrote sonnets like the ones that had earned him high marks in his composition classes.
Though his mama, were she aware of this talent, would probably find it as shocking as his financial pursuits. A gentleman was prized for his clever, amusing drawing-room conversation, not for sitting alone scribbling verse.
She covered his silence by asking Holmes to pour wine before turning back to him, a smile fixed on her face.
Apprehension immediately began churning in Hal’s gut. He knew that smile. Mama wanted something from him, and past experience warned it wouldn’t be anything he had the remotest desire to give.
Hal waited grimly while the butler served them and then withdrew. As soon as they’d each had a sip, his mama put down her glass and smiled again. Hal braced himself.
‘It’s been weeks since I’ve had you to escort me anywhere. All that travelling about in the north, inspecting some dreadful earthworks or other.’
‘Canals, Mama.’
His mother waved a dismissive hand. ‘It sounds distressingly common. Is it not enough that you must dirty your hands dealing with those Cits on the Exchange? A gentleman simply shouldn’t engage in anything that smacks of trade.’
From the frown on her face, Hal surmised that another of society’s dragons must have been tweaking his mother—jokingly, of course—about her unfashionable son’s even more unfashionable activities. He thought again what a sore trial he must be to her…even though his ‘unfashionable’ activities maintained the fortune she so delighted in spending.
He considered apologising, but, true to form, she continued on without pausing to let him reply. ‘Well, enough of that! I expect I shall soon be seeing much more of you, for I’ve recently met the most charming young lady. Such beauty! Such presence! I simply had to make her my newest companion. I’m positive that once you meet her, desire for her company will lure you away from your tedious pursuits back into the ton gatherings where you belong.’
Gritting his teeth through that speech, Hal barely refrained from groaning aloud. Would Mama never give up? Unfortunately the Marriage Mart each year churned out a never-ending supply of new maidens on the hunt for a husband. Most of whom, he thought sardonically, seemed fully prepared to overlook his taciturn nature and unfashionable proclivities in order to get their lace-mittened hands on the Waterman wealth.
‘It just so happens that my dear Tryphena is visiting this afternoon. I’ll have Holmes escort her in so you two can become acquainted at once!’
Just wonderful, Hal thought glumly. He could try to tell his mother that he didn’t wish to meet her latest protégée, or that he needed to leave immediately on a matter of pressing business. But he knew he couldn’t utter enough words to argue with her, that she would easily overwhelm his limited powers of expression in a torrent of rebuttal and in the end, simply refuse to accept any answer but the agreement she wanted him to utter.
After seven years at this game, he’d long since learned it wasn’t worth his breath to try to dissuade her.
So he simply sat, sipping his wine and wondering how long he’d be condemned to remain before Mama would allow him to escape, while Mrs Waterman chattered on about the exquisite taste, superior accomplishments and well-connected family of Lady Tryphena Upcott.
All too soon, Holmes announced the arrival of the young lady herself. With resignation Hal rose to greet her.
The girl entering the room appeared a bit older than Hal had anticipated. Then the name clicked in his consciousness.
Daughter of an earl, Lady Tryphena had been several Seasons on the town without becoming engaged. The gossip at Hal’s club said she was too high in the instep to accept a gentleman of less than the most exalted rank, from whom, apparently, no such offer had yet been forthcoming. Perhaps, Hal thought, after ending three Seasons unwed, she’d decided great wealth would be an acceptable substitute for elevated title.
With her excellent family connections and exacting standards, it was small wonder Mama favoured the girl. Perhaps since Hal had rejected her attempts to saddle him with a chit fired straight out of the schoolroom, she thought to have better luck with an older candidate.
Though not up to his mama’s usual guage of flawless beauty, Lady Tryphena was attractive enough. Her dark eyes were large, if not brilliant, her face pleasant, her light brown tresses charmingly arranged and her afternoon dress doubtless in the latest kick of fashion.
Hal bowed over her hand. ‘Charmed.’
‘Charmed to meet you, too, Mr Waterman,’ Lady Tryphena replied.
‘I’ve just been telling my son that we’re counting on him to escort us to all the most select functions this Season,’ his mama said, indicating with an elegant turn of her wrist that they might be seated.
Hal took care to select a chair as far from Lady Tryphena as possible.
‘That would be delightful,’ the girl said as she perched beside his mother on the sofa. ‘I’m sure you will know just which entertainments will be the most glittering. Mama has always said you possess the most discerning intellect of any lady of the ton.’
Mrs Waterman smiled and patted Lady Tryphena’s hand. ‘How very kind of you both. Indeed, I’ve just received an invitation to Lady Cowper’s ball for Friday next. It will be the most important event of the beginning Season. Hal, you will be free to escort us, I trust.’
Heart sinking, Hal scrambled to think of an excuse. While he rapidly examined and discarded reasons that would prevent his appearance at this choice social event, Lady Tryphena said, ‘There’s sure to be dancing, of course.’
‘Naturally,’ his mother replied.
Lady Tryphena looked Hal up and down, her gaze as assessing—and faintly disapproving—as his mama’s. ‘He does own the proper attire.’
‘Of course he does. But I shall send his valet a note just to make sure. Though looking at my son you might not always be able to credit it, Jeffers is quite competent.’
Astounded, Hal realised the ladies were discussing him…as if he weren’t even present.
Lady Tryphena didn’t look convinced. ‘Dancing pumps, too? He doesn’t have the look of a man who possesses dancing pumps. Not that he actually has to dance—’ her glance said she suspected he might cavort about the floor like a tame bear if set loose upon it ‘—but he should still be properly outfitted. In any event, I should be delighted to remain at your side, conversing with the gentleman waiting to speak or dance with you, for I’m sure you shall be immensely sought after, as always!’
His mother smiled graciously at that speech. ‘Sweet child, how thoughtful you are! But you must dance as well. My son will be suitably attired, never fear. Besides, we can always purchase the appropriate footwear if necessary.’
This was the worst yet. His mama’s previous candidates had all been too awed in her imperial presence to attempt much conversation, nor had they dared dart more than a few timid glances in his direction.
Perhaps he preferred ingénues after all.
A rising anger submerging his shock—and a hurt he should be long past feeling—Hal rose to his feet.
‘Sorry, pressing engagement,’ he said, interrupting the ladies’ ongoing discussion of the best shops in which men’s dancing slippers might be procured. ‘Pleasure, Lady Tryphena. Mama.’ After according them a bow he had no desire to give, he turned to stride from the room.
Apparently realising she had pushed him as far as she could, his mother made no attempt to stop him. ‘Friday next, Hal. We’ll dine here before leaving for the ball.’
Hot with rage, Hal didn’t so much as nod. As he walked away, Lady Tryphena said, ‘Is his speech always so oddly stilted?’
‘It’s a sad trial to me,’ his mother said with a sigh.
‘Well, if it pleases you, I shall certainly work on that! Perhaps with your help I can bring him up to snuff.’
The closing door cut off whatever reply his mother had offered. Too agitated to wait for the butler to return his hat and cane, Hal brushed past the startled footman stationed in the entry hall and quit his mother’s house.
He’d arrived in a hackney, but at the moment he was too impatient to linger while one was summoned. Besides, a brisk walk might help settle his anger and dispel the lump of pained outrage still choking his throat. Thankful that he had a goal to achieve this afternoon—the investigation of Everitt Lowery’s finances—he set off towards the City.
How should he proceed with his mother? He could simply fail to appear, but in the past that had generally resulted in an immediate summons accompanied by a jobation on his unreliability and lack of consideration for her feelings and sensibilities. It was usually easier to outwardly acquiesce to his mother’s demands.
She knew she could win any verbal battle, so he no longer attempted any, but rather went through the motions of escorting her while according her candidate of the moment so little attention and encouragement that finally either the girl or his mother gave up. After which he would suffer through a painful scene where his mother would rant at him for his unfeeling, ungentlemanly behaviour and ingratitude at her efforts, then wail that she was destined to die abandoned and unloved, denied the comfort of a daughter-in-law and grandchildren, before finally weeping and declaring she meant to wash her hands of him for good.
Unfortunately, she’d never done so. But this attempt was her most embarrassing and humiliating effort yet.
Would she never give a thought to his needs and sensibilities? He laughed bitterly. When had she ever?
Less than a month after his father’s death, at six years of age he’d been dragged off to Eton, still begging Mama not to send him away. At Eton, thank the Lord, he’d met Nicky, and in the harsh and often cruel world of schoolboys, eventually found a place.
He’d never cried for his mama again. The grieving lad’s open wound of need for parental love had closed and scarred over. He’d come home as seldom as possible, often spending his holidays with his friends Nicky and Ned, then moved into a town house of his own as soon as the trustees of his estate gave its management over to him.
Yet in her self-absorbed, quixotic way, he knew his mother loved him, as much as she was capable of loving anyone. She always claimed to have missed him when he returned, first from Eton and then Oxford, and demanded to hear all his news. After a few minutes of his halting recitation, however, she’d interrupt to begin a monologue about fashion and gossip that lasted the rest of his visit. And he’d know that, once again, he’d disappointed her.
Even now, she chastised him if he called too infrequently, though his visits never seemed to give her much pleasure. Still, he supposed her continual efforts to ‘improve’ him and find him a suitable wife were her way of demonstrating affection, a misguided but genuine attempt to make his life better—according to her lights.
As Hal the boy had given up hoping for his mother’s love and companionship, Hal the man knew ’twas impossible he’d ever gain her understanding or earn her approval. He just wished she would leave off trying to remake him into the sort of son she wanted.
Still unsure how he was going to avoid Lady Cowper’s ball—but adamant that avoid it he would—Hal stopped at the first hackney stand he happened upon and instructed the driver to take him to Bow Street.
Chapter Five
Late that afternoon, Hal ducked to enter the low doorway of a ramshackle tavern deep in the district of Seven Dials. The unpalatable combination of hurt, humiliation, frustrated anger and lust that had simmered in him all afternoon settled to a slow, satisfying burn as he spied his quarry in the dim, smoky interior.
He crossed the dirty rush-strewn floor to seat himself at a rickety table against the back wall and signalled the innkeeper for a drink. Keeping his gaze carefully straight ahead, out of the corner of his eye he watched the swarthy man seated at the adjacent table.
Hal waited, every muscle tensed, but, after sliding him one quick glance, Smith returned his attention to his brew. Hal exiled a silent breath of relief. Apparently the man didn’t remember brushing past him in Elizabeth’s hallway during his little visit to Green Street. He’d be able to retain the advantage of surprise.
Of course, the other dozen occupants of the taproom were covertly watching Hal as well. Strangers seldom wandered into the heart of one of London’s worst rookeries. And although Hal eschewed ton fashion and was dressed simply in a plain coat and breeches, the quality of his garments and his well-polished leather boots marked him none the less as a man of means.
Which meant, in this neighbourhood, as a mark who at the least should exit lighter of his purse, if he exited the premises at all.
The avaricious gleam in the eyes of the tavern wench who sashayed over to bring him his glass of blue ruin announced that she intended to get her share before the others pounced him. ‘Tuppence for yer drink, guv’ner,’ she said, leaning low to give him the best view of her assets. ‘Fer another, I’ll satisfy all yer wants.’
Hal slipped a coin in her hand. ‘For drink.’ Adding two more, he said, ‘For not satisfying rest.’
After quickly thrusting the coins into her bodice, the barmaid shrugged. ‘Just tryin’ to be friendly.’ Leaning closer, she murmured, ‘Beings you be so generous, lemme advise ya to scarper outta here afor ol’ Smith there calls out his bully boys. Otherwise, be lucky to leave the Dials with yer skin, much less yer fancy duds.’
Hal slipped another coin into the girl’s hand. ‘Thanks. Kind of you.’
The girl smiled, revealing cracked, stained teeth. ‘Sure about them needs? Be a pleasure to handle a big…hearted gent like you.’
Hal patted her hand. ‘You leave. Might get rough.’
The girl raised an eyebrow before sauntering back to the far side of the bar with a flagrant display of swaying hips that for a few moments captured the attention of every male in the room. After tossing the innkeeper a coin, she looked back at him.
Hal sent her a brief smile for the respite she’d offered him in which to make his escape. But he had no intention of leaving until he’d accomplished the purpose that, acting on the information he’d obtained from his friend Mason at Bow Street, had led him here.
Grimacing as the raw bite of the liquor scalded his throat, he swallowed a sip of the blue ruin and waited.
Soon enough, his patience was rewarded. Obviously unable to resist what he considered easy prey, from the table beside him, Mr Smith leaned closer.
‘See you’re a stranger, mate,’ he said, spreading his gums in a semblance of a smile. ‘Looking for someone? Be happy to help—for a small fee, a’course.’
Swiftly Hal reached down to snare the hand that had snaked over to snatch his purse. ‘Robbery not very friendly,’ he replied, pulling Smith’s arm up on to the table and holding it trapped at a painful angle.
Smith’s snarl of anger was followed by a yelp of pain, then the sound of bone cracking bone as Hal countered the right hook the man threw at him with an uppercut to the chin. Smith’s eyes rolled back in his head before Hal dragged him up and pinned him into his chair.
‘Shouldn’t bother widows either. Understand?’
The mere idea of what this oily ruffian had no doubt threatened to do to Elizabeth Lowery made Hal’s fury blaze hotter. Though he’d given the man a way to capitulate, a ferocious desire to punish Smith for invading her home, frightening her and besmirching her with his lecherous gaze made Hal hope the tough wouldn’t avail himself of it.
Fortunately for Hal’s turbulent emotions, a man didn’t survive in Seven Dials by meekly conceding at the first setback. As Hal had expected, Smith snarled and jerked his head.
Four of the slouching inhabitants of the bar sprang up and approached them. Hal saw the flash of at least two blades before, with a roar of satisfied rage, he leapt to his feet, slammed Smith against the wall, then channelled all his strength and outrage into a swift right jab to Smith’s kidney followed by a left uppercut to his jaw.
He released Smith, who slid unconscious to the floor, and turned towards the next attacker, sliding a blade of his own from beneath his sleeve. His blood pumping, ferocious satisfaction stretching his lips into a mirthless smile, he poised on the balls of his feet, daring the man to attack.
Meanwhile, the reinforcements Mason had recruited for him jumped from their positions all around the room to head off Smith’s other three accomplices.
Men didn’t survive Seven Dials by being stupid either. With his leader inert on the floor and the blade-wielding Hal grinning at him like a demon, the tough facing Hal backed away, then broke and ran for the door. The other three, cut off from escape, slinked back to their chairs.
Hal strode to the bar and dropped several coins on it. ‘When Smith wakes up, tend him,’ he told the innkeeper. ‘Goes to Green Street again, finish him. Tell him that.’
Rapidly bobbing his head, the man gathered up the money. ‘Certainly, yer honour. I’ll surely tell him.’
‘Right pretty work,’ the barmaid murmured, brushing her full breasts against his sleeve. ‘If’n you ever git back here, remember me.’
Though his hand hurt and his knuckles were bleeding, Hal made her an elaborate bow. ‘Pleasure, ma’am.’
Feeling much more cheerful than when he’d entered, Hal strode out of the tavern, his confederates filing out after him. ‘Appreciate help,’ he told Mason’s assistants, who nodded before melting away down the alley.
Hal crossed the dim street to the corner where Mason awaited him, passing him a purse of coins under the guise of shaking his hand. ‘All my thanks.’
Surreptitiously pocketing it, Mason said, ‘I trust Mr Smith learned his lesson?’
‘Studying it now,’ Hal replied.
‘No need to call a constable, I suppose?’
‘Come here if needed one?’ Hal asked.
Mason chuckled. ‘Probably not. Nor should we linger with night starting to fall.’
Nodding at that truth, Hal followed the Bow Street man through the warren of alleyways until they reached an area where the buildings looked like they might survive the next windstorm and the pedestrians no longer passed by with a huddled, furtive air.
‘Hopefully you’ve discouraged the enforcer, but I’m afraid nothing can be done to inhibit the moneylender. Blackmen is still entitled to the return of his principal and could bring a motion against Mrs Lowery.’
‘Won’t come to that,’ Hal assured him. ‘Worked out repayment. Thanks for help.’
‘Always a pleasure to contribute to the education of a gentlemen like Mr Smith,’ Mason said before heading off.
His hand throbbed and Jeffers would likely go into apoplexy when he saw the bloodstained coat, but otherwise Hal felt clear-headed and confident. Normally he avoided violence; as a small boy set upon by bullies when he first came to school, he had a sharp dislike for larger, stronger individuals who attacked the smaller and weaker.
’Twas Nicky who’d come to his defence all those years ago, Hal recalled, thereby earning Hal’s immediate gratitude and respect. ’Twas Nicky as well who’d taught Hal the rudiments of self-defence and looked after him until Hal found his feet, earning him his eternal devotion and friendship.
Conscious of his potential to injure opponents who lacked his size and strength, when he grew older Hal abandoned pugilism for the intricacies of the foil, where the need for quickness and dexterity neutralised his advantages of height and reach. Only once before had he deliberately set out to pound a man unconscious—when Nicky’s Sarah had been pursued by a baronet of vicious reputation who’d tried to hurt her.
In that case, as in this, the punishment he’d allotted had been well deserved, though today he’d needed Mason’s kind assistance. Without reinforcements at his back, the confrontation at the tavern might have ended differently.
It helped to have friends in low places, he thought with a grin. If Mama considered his colleagues on the Stock Exchange vulgar, she would have fainted dead away had she seen his confederates this afternoon.
Hal had almost reached the respectable part of Covent Garden when the sound of jeering caught his ear. Down an alleyway, he spied several boys laughing as they pelted rocks toward something hidden behind a stack of rubbish.
Immediately transported back twenty years, Hal turned and charged down the alleyway at them, roaring. Within seconds the startled boys scattered.
Hal halted by the pile of rubbish, but instead of the skinny child he expected to find, a thin, mangy dog cowered under the shreds of some old playbills. Just a puppy, he quickly ascertained, mayhap the runt of some litter.
An intelligent animal, it appeared, for though Hal was almost three times the size of its erstwhile attackers, sensing a rescuer, the little dog immediately limped over to him. Whining and wagging its skimpy brush of a tail, the dog tried to wind itself around his ankles.
‘Down!’ Hal commanded before the animal could jump up and plant its filthy paws on his knee. Recognising the voice of authority, the mutt flattened himself on to the alleyway beside Hal, his tail still wagging.
With a sigh of exasperation, Hal looked down at the muddy prints already marring the shine of his boots. Probably Jeffers would find claw marks gouged in the leather as well. As he gazed down at his footgear, dark canine eyes gazed back up at him hopefully.
What did the silly dog expect him to do? Hal wondered. Though he’d scared off the animal’s attackers, there would be nothing to prevent them from tormenting the animal again later. In the fading light he could see several cuts on the dog’s ears and face where the rocks had nicked him.
If the animal escaped these assailants, he’d likely only encounter others. Or starve.
Hell, Hal thought, sighing again. His coat was probably ruined already and as for his breeches, he could always fall back on the Wellington pantaloons Mama had sent him. Kneeling down, Hal picked up the little dog and cradled him against his coat. Yipping excitedly, the animal tried to crawl up and lick his chin.
‘Still!’ Hal commanded, holding the dog motionless. With a canine sigh, the dog settled against his chest, that pathetic tail still wagging against Hal’s arm.
What would he do with this little dog? Hal wondered. Even washed up and with a bit more meat on his bones, the animal would never win any prizes for beauty. He supposed he could have the dog sent down to his country estate.
But as he reached the hackney stand, another thought occurred and he smiled. Homely or not, once the animal had been fed and groomed, Hal wagered he knew someone who would be thrilled to welcome the little dog as his new best friend.
Chapter Six
Late the next morning in her studio, with a welcome feeling of accomplishment, Elizabeth put down her brushes and took off her apron. Glancing in the little mirror over her workbench as she tidied her hair, she smiled at her reflection, more cheerful than she’d felt since the awful evening of Everitt’s demise.
Perhaps it was knowing she need not fear a return call by Mr Smith or the reassurance of having turned her financial matters over to hands much more competent than her own, but, whatever the reason, Mr Waterman’s visit had energised her. She’d spent a delightful evening with David, reading to him, playing with his soldiers, even teasing him into laughter. As she tucked him in that night, they’d hugged each other tightly and, despite shedding a few tears, for the first time since Everitt’s death she’d felt with deep certainty that somehow they were going to be all right.
Then, when she’d checked on Miss Lowery this morning, she’d found the older woman sitting in a chair. After a month during which her husband’s cousin had scarcely left her bed, her continuing weakness and lethargy such a contrast to her normal cheerful energy that Elizabeth had begun to fear she might lose dear Amelia, too, she’d been thankful almost to tears at that lady’s improvement. They’d shared a cup of chocolate, after which she’d had to command Miss Lowery most insistently to remain in her room and make no attempt to resume her household duties until the doctor certified she was fully recovered.
And now she’d just finished the most productive painting session she’d had in months. Inspired by the loveliness of the sunlight playing on and through the mist—or more often, London’s frequent fog and smoke—over the London rooftops, she’d begun a study of a city scene of the adjacent houses. For the first time, she felt she’d captured the grey mist’s airy, swirling character.
Perhaps, after nuncheon, she might even take David for a walk to the park.
She was about to exit when a knock sounded and Sands bowed himself in. ‘Sir Gregory Holburn to see you, ma’am. Shall I bring some refreshment to the south parlour?’
‘Sir Gregory?’ she echoed, surprised. ‘Y-yes, I suppose. Tell him I shall join him in a few minutes.’
Although Everitt and the baronet had been close friends, she hadn’t expected him to call again so soon, she thought, frowning. Recalling Mr Smith’s disturbing visit and what she’d learned yesterday about Mr Scarbridge’s incompetence, apprehension tightened in her gut. Had Sir Gregory come to warn her of some new disaster?
Anxiety quickening her steps, she decided to dispense with changing her old, worn painting gown for a more suitable dress and went instead directly to the south parlour.
Sir Gregory rose as she entered and came over to kiss her hand. ‘Dear Lizbet, how lovely you look.’
Despite her anxiety, Elizabeth had to stifle a smile, for the pained expression on the meticulous Sir Gregory’s face as he cast a glance at her frayed and rather shapeless gown was anything but admiring. She probably should have changed her dress.
Meanwhile the baronet escorted her to the sofa and seated himself beside her. ‘I didn’t mean to inconvenience you, but my schedule today being so full, I took the one chance I had to call. I heard some news at my club last night that, I must admit, rather distressed me.’
Elizabeth’s amusement evaporated in an instant. ‘What news?’ she asked, her anxiety reviving.
‘Perhaps ’tis only a hum, for I cannot picture you and that great oaf in the same room, but I heard that Hal Waterman had called, offering to look into Everitt’s financial affairs.’
‘Yes. Have you heard there were irregularities?’
‘In Waterman calling upon you? ’Tis not precisely irregular, I suppose, but—’
‘No, no,’ she cut him off impatiently. ‘Irregularities in Everitt’s finances. I’ve only just learned that Mr Scarbridge, his solicitor, is a complete incompetent. Heaven knows, I know nothing about finance!’
‘Well, I should hope not!’ Sir Gregory exclaimed. ‘You, dear lady, have no need to trouble your pretty head over complicated matters that were best left to your husband’s discretion.’ He cast a mildly reproachful look at her dress. ‘All the financial expertise you require is knowing which dressmakers create the gowns that best display your beauty.’
‘Indeed,’ Elizabeth said flatly. Somehow that caveat seemed to have escaped the notice of the tough who’d come to threaten her. Apparently Sir Gregory was more pained by her choice of raiment than by the possibility that the estate’s finances might be in total disarray.
Before she could decide whether or not to tell the baronet about Mr Smith’s alarming visit, Sir Gregory said, ‘I must confess to be feeling somewhat…slighted. I would have hoped that if you felt the need for someone to look into your finances, as Everitt’s closest friend, you would have asked me.’
‘Did you know Mr Scarbridge was incompetent?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then why did you not warn me? How am I to protect myself and my son when I have no idea what…obligations are currently being pressed against Everitt’s estate?’
Sir Gregory patted her hand.’ ‘You protect yourself and your child? My dear, you needn’t even consider attempting something so alarming! I know how cast down you’ve been by Everitt’s demise, but remember, you’ve not been left entirely alone and friendless. I fully intended to visit Mr Scarbridge and see what needed to be done once I completed the my own estate business. Everitt was a gentleman, after all. If there are obligations against his estate, the creditors can wait until I have time to deal with them.’
At least one of them wasn’t prepared to wait, Elizabeth thought. And though she frankly avowed that she knew nothing about wills or finances, she wasn’t sure she appreciated Sir Gregory’s cavalier dismissal of her ability to protect her son.
Still, it was vastly comforting to know that in addition to Mr Waterman’s competent assistance, she might count upon Sir Gregory as well.
Though she still must consider it fortuitous that his friendship with Nicky had propelled Mr Waterman to come forward, for his sense of urgency in setting the estate to rights seemed to exceed Sir Gregory’s. Indeed, he must have begun asking questions immediately if the baronet had already heard of his investigations.
‘With you at present so preoccupied, I should rather think you would find it very convenient that Mr Waterman offered to attend to my small affairs. You will not need to put yourself out after all, Sir Gregory.’
‘You misunderstand, dear lady! Any service I can render you would be a pleasure!’ he protested. ‘Besides, though I’ve heard Waterman is quite competent, I’m not sure of the…propriety of him investigating your husband’s finances. There are no blood ties between you, after all, and, as a new widow, you must be careful of appearances.’
Since no blood ties existed between herself and Sir Gregory, his meddling in her affairs wouldn’t be any more proper. But though she’d certainly not intended to do so, apparently she’d wounded his feelings, so she refrained from pointing this out.
Instead, she replied, ‘It’s true that we are not blood kin. But you may recall that my sister Sarah is married to Mr Waterman’s best friend, Lord Englemere, who recently took his family and all my siblings on a Grand Tour of the Continent. Before he departed, he asked Mr Waterman to assist me with any difficulties that might arise during my family’s absence.’ Which was not precisely true, but close enough that it should soothe Sir Gregory’s injured sensibilities and his concern over propriety.
‘Oh. Well, no, I hadn’t been aware of the connection. That would render his calling upon you entirely proper, I suppose.’ Somehow Sir Gregory didn’t look as relieved by the knowledge as she might have expected.
‘Nicky—Lord Englemere—has also told me on several occasions that Mr Waterman is most astute in matters of finance. Englemere and my sister hold Mr Waterman in the very highest regard, so you may rest easy knowing that everything dealing with the will and the estate will be handled by someone of absolute skill and integrity.’
‘As I already said, I have no reason to question either Waterman’s skill or integrity. However…well, how can I put this delicately? He isn’t the best ton. ’Tis said he often keeps quite common company and involves himself personally in financial dealings that a gentleman ought to leave to the bourgeois tradesmen bred to handle them. I just hope that association with him won’t taint you with the odour of the shop.’
Had she any desire to figure upon the ton’s stage, Elizabeth supposed such a warning might give her pause. But since she’d never had the least interest in society, Sir Gregory’s caution left her unmoved…except once again to amusement. The baronet’s countenance was so grave, as if Mr. Waterman’s fashionable failings were of genuine importance, that she had all she could do not to smile.
‘I shall be on my guard,’ she replied, working to keep the mirth from her expression.
‘In addition, competent though he may be, I fear you will hardly be able to comprehend any information Waterman tries to convey. It amazes me that anyone manages to understand his cryptic utterances. Even his mother, dear lady, confesses she finds it difficult to grasp his meaning. Indeed, ’tis almost beyond believing that he could be the son of the incomparable Letitia.’
Elizabeth’s momentary humour faded. Apparently Sir Gregory did not much like Mr Waterman. Regardless of the reasons for his disapprobation, Elizabeth was becoming rather annoyed by his subtle disparagement of a man who was not only highly esteemed by her sister’s family, but whom she herself found to be sympathetic, helpful—and quite attractive.
‘How disappointing for Mrs Waterman,’ she said, an edge to her voice. She’d never met Mr Waterman’s mother, but she could not think very highly of a lady, incomparable or not, who would publicly disparage her son. ‘Though I find her difficulty somewhat surprising. I myself had no trouble whatsoever in understanding Mr Waterman.’
‘Truly?’ Sir Gregory blinked, clearly taken aback. ‘Well. You always were rather observant for a female. But,’ he gestured to the mantel clock, ‘my time remaining is short, so let us proceed to a more pleasant matter! I understand there was a sad accident a few days ago. As distressed as the lad already is at losing his papa, I thought he might appreciate this.’
Sir Gregory picked up a wrapped parcel from behind the sofa and handed it to Elizabeth. ‘Go ahead, open it. If it meets your approval, you can give it to the boy.’
Inside the wrapped package, Elizabeth found a new toy soldier, all gleaming paint and shiny brass. ‘How considerate of you, Sir Gregory!’ Elizabeth exclaimed. The gesture was even more impressive when one considered that the baronet was not a man used to dealing with children.
Though she still could not approve his unkind words about Mr Waterman, Sir Gregory could have chosen no better way to redeem himself in her eyes than by this kindness to her child. ‘How can I thank you?’
‘I take it you do approve, then? To bring you pleasure, ma’am, is all the thanks I desire.’
The fervour of his gaze made her a little uncomfortable. ‘How did you know about David’s broken soldier?’ she asked, looking down at the soldier.
‘Oh, I have my little sources,’ Sir Gregory said with a chuckle. ‘I sent my valet out to find a replacement. I’m pleased he chose something suitable.’
Though she shouldn’t have expected a busy man like Sir Gregory to take the time to visit a toy seller personally, her enthusiasm dimmed a trifle. ‘Yes, he did very well.’
‘Shall we summon the boy and let him have his treat?’
‘If you can spare the time, then, yes, I would be happy to.’ At Sir Gregory’s nod, Elizabeth rang the bell pull to summon Sands and have him fetch David from the schoolroom.
While they waited, Elizabeth prompted Sir Gregory to talk about his visit to his estate. A few minutes later, Sands ushered in her son.
Though his widened eyes showed his surprise at finding his mother had a visitor, David made Sir Gregory a proper bow. ‘Good day, sir,’ he said politely. ‘Sands said you wished me to see me, Mama?’
Elizabeth’s heart swelled with motherly pride at David’s impeccable behaviour before a man she knew he disliked. Indeed, it filled her with gladness just to look at him, so grave and correct as he addressed them both.
Dropping a brief kiss on the top of his head, Elizabeth said, ‘Yes, my dear. Sir Gregory has been kind enough to bring you something, and I thought you ought to have the opportunity to thank him personally.’ She handed him the toy soldier.
Solemnly David regarded the toy. With a smile Elizabeth could tell was forced, he bowed again to the baronet. ‘Thank you, Sir Gregory.’
‘You’re quite welcome, my good man,’ Sir Gregory said in the over-hearty manner of adults who aren’t accustomed to conversing with children. ‘Capital little soldier, eh? No need to fix the old one now. Toss him in the dustbin!’
‘Oh, no, sir!’ David’s eyes opened wide with alarm. ‘I could never do that. Papa gave him to me. And he’s a general, not just a soldier. General Blücher.’
‘Ah, I see. Sentimental value. But one soldier’s as good as another, eh? Except on a battlefield, perhaps.’ Sir Gregory chuckled at his own joke.
David did not look amused. ‘They are not alike,’ he replied, frowning. ‘General Blücher was the head of all the Prussian soldiers. Napoleon might have won Waterloo, Papa said, if General Blücher hadn’t come with his men. This soldier—’ he held up the baronet’s gift ‘—is a Royal Irish Dragoon guardsman. They didn’t fight at Waterloo.’
‘Perhaps,’ Sir Gregory said, clearly beginning to lose patience. ‘But it’s only play, son. Would you rather have a working soldier or a broken general?’
David set his chin. ‘I want Papa’s general. Besides, Mr Waterman is going to fix him. I don’t need yours!’
Tears in his eyes, the boy tossed the soldier to the floor and ran out of the room.
Aghast, Elizabeth watched the door slam behind him. In many ways, David seemed so mature for his age, sometimes it was hard to remember he wasn’t yet seven. Still a baby, really, and aching for the father he missed so keenly.
Embarrassed none the less, Elizabeth turned back to the scowling baronet, who was staring at the rejected toy. With a nervous smile, she went over and picked it up.
‘I’m dreadfully sorry. I know when he’s calmer, David will prize the gift. You must excuse him, he’s still so overwrought—’
‘Poor behaviour shouldn’t be excused, Lizbet, regardless of the circumstances,’ Sir Gregory said blightingly. ‘You do the child no favour by indulging him just because he had the misfortune to lose his papa. Society will judge him on his comportment—which, I am sorry to report, in this instance was sadly lacking. But now I must go. Do be on your guard about Mr Waterman. I shall call and check on you later. Madam.’ After giving her a stiff bow, Sir Gregory walked out.
Elizabeth exhaled a trembling breath. She understood only too well how the mere thought of discarding a prized toy his father had given him, an object that represented many hours the two had spent together, Everitt spinning stories about Waterloo, David hanging on every word as they manoeuvred his soldiers in mock battle, would upset her son. It must seem to the boy almost like suggesting he toss away the memory of his father. Small wonder he’d taken Sir Gregory’s well-meant gift so badly.
But it was a gift and it had been well meant. Sir Gregory was correct. Some time later she would have to reprimand David and bring him to realise that his behaviour had been unacceptable. Worse still, she was going to have to induce him to apologise.
How she’d bring that about, with David already so ill disposed towards Sir Gregory, she’d worry about later. With a sigh at having the day that had started out so promising turn suddenly sour, Elizabeth set off to soothe her son and coax him down for nuncheon.
Chapter Seven
Two mornings later, trying to quell the nervousness in his gut, Hal rang the bell at Mrs Lowery’s Green Street town house. Truly, he’d rather face down a dozen Mr Smiths in some low dive in Seven Dials than meet one Elizabeth Lowery in her drawing room.
The butler who answered the door informed Hal that his mistress was presently working in her studio and ushered him to a salon to wait while he informed Mrs Lowery of his arrival. Hal’s request that Master David be summoned from the schoolroom to see him in the interim was unusual enough to surprise a momentary raise of eyebrows from the butler before Sands bowed himself out.
A little shamefaced, Hal paced the parlour. David having mentioned that his mama always worked in her studio in the morning, he’d deliberately timed his visit for this hour. He’d wanted a respite after he arrived in the house to settle his nerves and a chance to visit the boy before he subjected himself once again to Elizabeth Lowery’s unsettling presence.
When he was finally ushered into her office, he must be able to concentrate on getting out the words to accurately describe the state of Lowery’s finances. He could not let himself be distracted by the rose scent that wafted from her or the mesmerising blue of her eyes that beckoned him to halt in mid-syllable and simply gaze into them. Or the perfection of her skin that made him burn to feel the silk of her face beneath his fingertips…
Catching the direction of his thoughts, he shook his head. He’d have to do better than this. He had but to recall her and his body began hardening, his mind losing its grip on his purpose in coming here. For a few panicked seconds, he considered bolting from the house.
But he couldn’t do his duty by running away and delaying wouldn’t make confronting her any easier. He’d never shied from dealing with difficult situations—witness the last seven years of handling his mother—and didn’t intend to let Nicky down by starting now.
As he rallied himself, he heard the rapid patter of approaching footsteps. A moment later, David burst into the room, the broken soldier dangling from one hand.
The glowing look on the boy’s face as he skidded to a halt just inside the threshold temporarily dispelled all Hal’s misgivings. ‘Oh, Mr Waterman!’ David exclaimed. ‘You came back!’
Once again, Hal was catapulted back to a time when he had been small, grieving and friendless. It was worth all the difficulties he would encounter being around the boy’s mama to bring that look of pleasure and relief to the child’s face.
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