by Betina Krahn
“What do you think? Have we convinced them?” she asked.
“If I hadn’t been there,” he said with that wry smile she found so irresistible, “I would believe every word we said.”
She laughed. It felt so good to be with him, sharing the secrets of all that transpired in the last two weeks. She looked up and was enveloped unexpectedly in his gaze. There was something between them now, something more than kisses and body heat. This was a part of her life she would share with him and no one else. He knew it, too, she could see it in his eyes as he reached for her hand.
A stir went through the salon as a late-arriving pair of guests were shown into the company. A short, balding man with prodigious muttonchops and fierce, dark eyes was accompanied by an excessively slender woman whose plain, dark gown and doleful expression gave the impression of deep mourning. They were announced as Mr. and Mrs. Creighton Ledbetter to curious looks from the assembled guests.
Lauren felt Rafe stiffen at her side and looked up to see his face set and his gaze intent on the newcomers.
“Who is he?” she whispered.
A muscle in his jaw flexed as he dipped his head to answer. “The Undersecretary of Tariffs and Other Bad Ideas.”
It was more judgment than identity. She knew too well Rafe’s opinion of tariffs and knew his father and hers felt the same. When she looked around for her father, she found him beside Lord Drummond and being approached by Ledbetter. He was forced by decorum to accept the man’s offered hand.
Barclay Howard appeared at Rafe’s elbow and uttered quietly, “This is a surprise. I didn’t think the old boy ever left his office.”
“He doesn’t,” Rafe said a bit too calmly, ushering her toward the other guests. “Unless he has business to do. Which begs the question . . .”
Moments later the undersecretary was standing before them with a twist to his mouth that resembled a smile.
“How interesting to meet you, Miss Alcott,” Ledbetter said, ignoring Rafe’s presence. It was a cut that Lauren feared might require an answer. “I have read so much about you in the papers.”
“I am surprised to find that you would bother with such accounts,” she said, forcing a smile. “Surely you have more pressing matters to occupy you.”
His amicable mask slipped for an instant; if she had blinked, she would have missed it.
“My wife is to blame,” he explained with a sardonic laugh. “She is a devotee of the ‘evening wheezes.’ Always scouring the gossip rags.”
Lauren glanced at the severe-looking Mrs. Ledbetter, standing awkwardly beside their hostess, as silent as a post. To Lauren’s eyes there never existed a woman less likely to enjoy reading, even for the vicarious thrills of gossip and scandal.
“And you may know my fiancé, Rafe Townsend.” She smiled up at Rafe and found his face set like granite.
“I know his father, of course,” Ledbetter said with a purse to his mouth that was pure condescension. “And I’ve seen young Townsend’s name bandied about of late . . . something about that debacle down by the docks. Got the worst of it, I heard.” He tut-tutted. “Well, you seem to have gotten over it. It has yet to be seen if your father will do as well.”
That provocation landed on the air just as dinner was announced and Lady Anne called for all to accompany her into the dining room. She took Lawrence Alcott’s arm and Lord Drummond took Mrs. Ledbetter’s. For a moment it looked as if Ledbetter might offer Lauren his arm, but Barclay Howard stepped in to rescue her and lead her into the dining room. She gave Rafe a glance over her shoulder and was relieved to find him offering his arm to his mother, who seemed equally relieved to accept.
The seating seemed strangely ordered. Her father was seated at Lord Drummond’s right hand and across from Lady Anne, who found herself beside the disagreeable undersecretary and his silent wife. Down the table a ways, Rafe was seated opposite Lauren, between his mother and a lady who was introduced as a cousin of Lady Anne, and she found herself bracketed by Barclay and a rotund gentleman who turned out to be an MP from a country borough. She still had a knot in her stomach from the near incident with Ledbetter and was glad to see Rafe engage in pleasantries and small talk. By the time the fish course was done she had the sense that his attention was focused mostly on the talk at the head of the table.
It wasn’t long before conversation around her was flowing along with wine, and Lauren found herself making acquaintances and deflecting more questions about her “recent work,” with answers focused on the St Ambrose parish school and her recent encounter with other children who needed a school of their own. The others’ curiosity about her abated as her information grew ordinary and the rest of the courses flew by. Barclay’s talk grew bolder and louder. Wine apparently had a lubricating effect on him and the people around him. Despite his imposing presence, there were smiles and occasional laughter as he described his most recent adventure—a riot at the harbor, near the Customs House—in amusing terms.
Thus, it took until the dessert course for her to notice that conversation at the head of the table had ground to a halt. She noticed Rafe staring at the head of the table and leaned forward to look past Barclay. Her usually amicable father was red-faced and glaring at Undersecretary Ledbetter. Lady Anne seemed flustered and Lord Drummond was clearly displeased about something. When Lady Anne rose, drawing the men to their feet with her, and declared that the gentlemen seemed ready for their brandy and cigars, there were discreet scowls and the occasional indrawn breaths. The foot of the table had just been served their cherry compote and some seated there had not even had time to taste it.
Lord Drummond tossed down his napkin with a “Gentlemen” and a directional gesture. The men excused themselves to follow him. Shortly, Lady Anne invited the ladies to accompany her to the salon for coffee. As Lauren entered the hallway, intending to catch up with Rafe’s mother and learn what had happened, Rafe caught her arm, and she looked up into his darkened eyes. The last two ladies moving to the salon saw him delay her and smiled knowingly. When they were alone in the hallway Rafe leaned close to her ear.
“What was the name of the agent who runs Consolidated Shipping?”
That took her aback for a moment. “Why would you need to—” The intensity of his gaze stopped her. She frowned and tried to think. The name finally bubbled up from memory. “Mur—Murdoch.”
“You’re sure?”
“I believe that’s it. Why do you—”
But he planted a kiss on her cheek, turned on his heel, and headed for Lord Drummond’s study.
* * *
Rafe slipped into the spacious study to find talk subdued despite the determined congeniality of their host and the mellowing influence of excellent brandy. The guests had unwittingly divided into two camps: one fairly neutral in the conflict between Lawrence Alcott and the undersecretary of Trade and the other clearly in Lawrence’s camp.
Ledbetter, given license by the influence of spirits and feeling the importance of his position, began to speak loudly about the “lawlessness” emerging in the country.
“As I was saying, we have laws regulating commerce for a reason—especially when it comes to the import of foreign goods. But there are those who scheme to grow fat from the protection the government provides without paying their rightful share of the cost.” He looked straight at Lawrence, clearly including him in that group, and there was a perceptible intake of breath around the room. Lawrence’s control seemed to be hanging by a thread when Rafe spoke up.
“No true man of commerce would deny the proper authorities payment of reasonable charges,” he said boldly, claiming the room’s attention. His arms were crossed and he leaned a shoulder against one of the bookcases, intending a show of certainty and ease.
He recognized Ledbetter’s pattern of discourse, the petty pricks and subtle accusations that were denied the moment they were called out. For all his diminutive stature, the undersecretary was a practiced bully. What was he doing here? This was not a social event he
or his long-suffering wife would enjoy. He had come for something . . .
“Docking fees and standard inspections have stood for centuries without complaint,” he continued. “But since the imposition of these tariffs, our ports have seen fewer ships carrying commodities we need to import, and our ships carrying English textiles, copper, tin, and wheat abroad pay higher and higher fees to access overseas markets.
“The effectiveness of tariffs has long been a matter of debate in academic circles. It is a simple matter of record that when one country levies tariffs to protect their markets, they all do. Then we’re back to where we started, and the only thing we get is higher prices everywhere.” He picked up a glass of brandy and sipped, making a show of appreciating the aroma. “Lovely brandy, your lordship.”
“True men of commerce indeed,” Ledbetter said with a sniff. “Clearly some who claim to be obedient and loyal to the Crown are not. They try to sneak goods into the country through illegal means.”
A murmur went through the room.
“And what means would that be, sir?” Rafe asked, straightening and taking one step toward the diminutive undersecretary. “What nefarious tricks allow a company to lower its prices, undercut the market, and still make fat profits for its owners?”
“That is not for me to say. And if you know such scoundrels, you are duty bound to bring it to the attention of the authorities. What companies do you know that flaunt our just and necessary laws? Name one that deserves such a scurrilous reputation and merits severe scrutiny.”
“I know of only one that routinely undercuts the market for imported goods.” Rafe leaned slightly forward, knowing that he risked but not yet knowing how much. What price would he pay for revealing the name of the agent who had threatened Townsend’s warehouses? “You would have to ask Mr. Murdoch about the particulars.”
“Murdoch?” Ledbetter stiffened back an inch. “And who is that?”
“Someone who knows how the game is played and can name the players.” Rafe let his smile resume. “So I was given to believe.”
“By whom?” Ledbetter narrowed his eyes.
“Ah, but that would be telling. And I believe we have all had enough of dreary laws and politics this evening.” There were nods of agreement around the room. With a smile, Rafe turned to Lord Drummond. “Now, tell all about this horse you’ve taken such a fancy to, your lordship. Where do you intend to race him?”
Scarcely a minute later Undersecretary Ledbetter set down his glass and bade their host good evening, mumbling something about his wife’s frequent megrims. He did not look as if he had gotten what he came for, but he was not quite finished. He paused by Lawrence Alcott on his way out.
“A word to the wise,” he said in a whisper that Lawrence had to lower his head to hear. “That merger with Townsend—I wouldn’t count on that. Horace Townsend has too many troubles of his own.”
Rafe heard the last part as he went to Lawrence’s side.
“And you,” Ledbetter said in a voice meant to be heard by others. “I would congratulate you on your upcoming marriage—a clever move indeed—but I suggest you not count your fortune just yet. If your intended doesn’t know why you’re marrying her, she soon will.” The little undersecretary turned on his heel and exited before Rafe could respond.
He turned to Lawrence, his gut tightening.
“She doesn’t know?” he demanded.
Lawrence looked down at his glass, and his silence was all the answer Rafe needed.
For a moment he watched Lauren’s father avoid the question of her understanding of why the match was required and what would happen to her fortune the moment they spoke their vows. Damnation! He thought she knew . . . was sure that was the reason for her standoffish behavior at first and later for her continuing prickliness and difficult attitude.
But she didn’t know. And her father didn’t seem anxious to tell her that they would be creating Townsend-Anglia Trading with her inheritance . . . starting the moment she exchanged vows with him.
The impact of Ledbetter’s final words became clear. It was a threat that someone would tell her. Soon. Spurred by the thought, he headed for the door and navigated his way to the salon doors. In the entry hall Ledbetter was receiving his hat and walking stick from the butler. Hearing rushed footsteps, he looked back over his shoulder. At the sight of Rafe, he smiled broadly enough to show his teeth. Like a hyena over its prey.
Rafe entered the salon, searching for Lauren, and saw her standing with her aunt in urgent conversation. When her aunt saw him and alerted her to his presence, she turned to face him. Her face was pale and her eyes were pools of confusion.
He knew approaching her in front of so many women was risky, but he had to speak with her now. This could not wait.
She didn’t resist when he asked to speak with her. She didn’t refuse him her hand when he took it on the way out of the salon. She didn’t object when he led her to an alcove created by the elaborate curve of the staircase.
“What did the bastard say to you?” he asked, feeling a tightening in his throat.
“The money, my inheritance, is the reason for the marriage.” She looked up at him. “And that it is not—never really was—mine.”
He saw the ramifications of it sinking into her.
“My mother died so young, I hardly knew her. She left an inheritance for me . . . something that was hers . . . for me. It was . . . comforting.”
He seized both of her hands, feeling a roil of emotion that he sensed must be part of what she was feeling. Confusion. Loss. A sense of betrayal. It shocked him to feel the hurt she experienced. But then, part of that could be guilt on his part. He was the central piece of a plan to take something important from her and use it to settle his company’s debts and continue his family’s legacy in business.
“There is an entailment. You only inherit upon marriage, and then the funds will be controlled . . . by . . . your husband.”
“But they passed a law . . . about property for women.”
“Earnings. From work. And small inheritances . . . gifts, really.”
“So my gift from my mother . . .”
“Is considerable. The law specifically excludes sizable estates.”
* * *
That took a moment to settle.
“So silly women won’t squander it all on hats and jewelry and other such fripperies,” she said, though there was little heat behind the words. They rang as hollow as she felt. “Clearly I misunderstood.”
She pulled her hands from his. She suddenly wanted to be anywhere but a social evening filled with people who probably saw her as a frivolous young woman who needed to be managed by a husband.
“I want to go home,” she said, refusing to look at him.
He took a step back, then another and another.
Suddenly her aunt Amanda was there with an arm around her, and moments after that her father appeared. Lawrence made their excuses to the Drummonds and called for their carriage.
She scarcely remembered the ride home. As she paused at the foot of the stairs, her father said she needed rest and they would talk tomorrow.
She had never felt less like sleeping in her life, but she prepared for bed because it was the most normal thing to do. When the lights were turned low she lay in her bed thinking of her mother, of the framed photograph on her vanity, of the memories she had clung to over the years. Her mother had always been there, in the background and texture of her life, in the knowledge that she had left something of her own behind for Lauren. Knowing she had means had always given her a sense of agency and possibility that she carried with her. Now it felt as if that part of her world had been revealed to be a theatrical backdrop . . . to be rolled up and put away when the performance was done.
She should have asked more questions, should have insisted on knowing more about the family business and her own resources. But she had been too occupied with her charity work, her devotion to education and children’s welfare. Her father, for all his
recent grumbling, had been content to let her direct her own time and think her own thoughts. She had always assumed she would marry someday, but he seemed in no hurry to shuffle her off into a life of her own . . . until the last few months.
Thoughts she had been avoiding couldn’t be forestalled anymore. Rafe Townsend, with his tall, perfect form, dry wit, and delicious kisses, had known from the start that she was the key to a cashbox. To his credit, he hadn’t exactly tried to charm her into wanting to marry him. But then, she hadn’t been much of a charmer herself.
She was distant, cool, and resentful of his arrogance and high-handed approach to what was supposed to be their courtship. It took jumping out of a boat in her smalls and towing two drowning women to shore to make him see that she was not and never would be a simple, biddable female. And it took puncturing his pride in front of London’s reading public to make him see her as a person instead of a profitable commodity labeled “bride.”
What did he think of her now?
Was she less in his estimation somehow now that she knew he was marrying her for her money? Why had he come to pull her from the salon to talk to her about it? More importantly, where did they go from here?
She had been open and truthful with him in all their dealings . . . even in their kisses. Could she continue to be? Could she trust him with her mother’s inheritance? With her future? With her heart?
It was a long night. More than once she punched down her pillows as if they had muttonchops, a smirking mouth, and dark, beady eyes. By morning she was exhausted, but much of her anger was spent. When she descended to her father’s study she had questions for him and was determined to have answers.
Her father met her in front of his desk and took a chair facing her, practically knee to knee with her. The change of customary positions bespoke a change in his attitude and a burden on his heart.
“Lauren,” he began with his hand up, “I know it is a lot to ask, but please let me speak. Afterward whatever questions you have, I will answer as fully and honestly as I can.” When she nodded his shoulders relaxed, and she understood that this talk was as hard for him as it was for her.