Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2)

by Isabel Simonds

  “I'm fine,” she snapped. “I mean...forgive me, Lord Bradford. I am not in the best spirits.” She slumped forward, head hanging. She wore a bonnet of pale blue, lined with silk. Looking up at him from under the wide brim, her eyes were pools of pain.

  “I understand,” he said, bowing. She really did look distressed! He wondered why.

  “If...if you'll pardon me, I'll be on my way,” she said quickly. She sniffed and looked left and right, then headed on down the street.

  “Good day, milady,” he called out after her, too shocked, almost, to respond.

  “Good day,” she called back, barely turning round. Bradford was left staring after her in some distress.

  When she had gone, her blue-coated form blending into the rest of the throng gathering in the street, Bradford blinked, trying to convince himself to move. The whole encounter felt somehow surreal, as if it couldn't possibly have occurred. It seemed like he'd imagined it, conjuring her from his thoughts. But, if he had, he wouldn't have imagined her so upset.

  “What was that about?” he asked himself aloud. He shook his head, trying to forget the whole encounter. Something was clearly bothering her.

  And she wasn't altogether pleased to see me, either, he thought, sadly. In fact, perhaps she wasn't as much distressed as she was itching to get away from him.

  “Bradford, you might as well admit it. The woman's annoyed by you.”

  He sighed. It had to be true. Every time he saw her, she was prickly and defensive, as if his very presence was a blight on the world that she'd rather be avoiding. He could make up excuses as much as he liked, but that had to be the truth of it. She didn't like him, and that was that.

  “Not much I can do about that, so I might as well forget it.”

  “Bradford!” a voice interrupted his thoughts. “Come and look! I found one...and it's not even expensive, really. I...brother?”

  Bradford looked down into Elton's smiling face, and saw his brother's smile turn to confusion. He sighed. “I'm glad you found one you like, brother,” he said, trying to reach for some remnants of enthusiasm somewhere inside.

  “What is it?” Elton asked. “You look worried, Bradford.”

  “I'm fine,” Bradford shrugged. “Just tired. It's past luncheon, and you know how moody I get sometimes when I'm hungry.”

  Elton grinned. “I suppose that's it. Sorry I kept us! We can go for lunch at Well's Inn.”

  “Yes,” Bradford agreed. “That's a fine choice. They do an excellent grilled perch there, if I recall. So, let's see this button, and then let's get some lunch.”

  Elton laughed. “A fine plan! Let's.”

  That set aside the troubled mood for the moment, and Bradford followed Elton into the dark interior of the jeweler's shop. All the same, his worry for Lady Steele wore at him.

  Dash it all, she was distressed. But about what? He had no idea.

  All he knew was that, unless he did something about this very soon, his preoccupation with the woman was going to wear on his mind. He needed to meet someone to ask about her, and soon.

  They bought the tie-pin – a simple gold one – and then headed out to lunch.

  “I say,” Elton said, grinning as they bowled along the street, “I feel almost ready to tackle the ball tomorrow.”

  “The ball?” Bradford frowned.

  “You know, the annual birthday ball,” Elton added. “Lady Elington.”

  “Yes,” Bradford nodded slowly. “I remember.”

  The thought occurred to him that it would be no bad idea to go – after all, he might well meet someone who could tell him more about the mystery that was Lady Steele. And then he could at least put the concerns to rest.

  “So?” Elton asked as they paused on the steps of Well's Inn. “Are we going tomorrow?”

  Bradford shrugged. “Yes,” he said. “Let's go.”

  Elton looked relieved, and Bradford bit back a grin. His brother was clearly looking forward to the ball, and he was sure the reason was Laurel. He frowned.

  If only my own heart was as pure, my own mind as uncluttered.

  But it wasn't. He was letting the mystery of Lady Steele become an obsession. Why, he had to ask himself. Why, when it was so patently obvious she disliked him, did he insist on thinking of her all the time? Maybe this ball would be his chance to finally answer his questions and set his mind at ease. He found himself looking forward to it after all.

  Chapter 9: A meeting

  Mirabelle was shaking as she turned the corner into Bedford Street. She drew her shawl tight about her and made her breathing steady.

  Why, of all people, did she have to bump into Lord Bradford? On any other day, she would have been pleased to see him. But now, with a letter of warning in her pocket, a determination to be strong in her heart, and a thousand-pound's worth of diamonds in her purse, she was on edge.

  I am a single woman, in the London streets, carrying a fortune in jewels on my person. Any one of those things would have put her in danger. All three of them together were a recipe for death.

  “Curse Hinsley and her blasted knee!”

  She didn't want to hate her maidservant for being incapacitated that day, but with the strong possibility of her own death at the end of armed-robbery imminent, she wasn't above it. Why, of all days, would her knee have to plague her into being bed-ridden now?

  “I could have done with company.”

  Even Hinsley, older and incapacitated, was an assurance against robbery during the day. And it would have been nice to have someone to talk to.

  It occurred to Mirabelle that she could have confided in Lord Bradford. He might have escorted her part of the way. She wondered why she didn't.

  If I had to explain it to him, I would have been more scared than I am now.

  He would have been worried, solicitous, sympathetic. And that would have pointed out to her in clear detail just how dangerous a situation she was in. She didn't even know whom she was meeting, not really, or why.

  “Dash it all. Come on, Mirabelle Steele. You can face one man in a coffee-house for an hour.”

  She stepped forwards, boots clicking on the cobbles of the quiet street.

  As she rounded the corner, she found herself feeling more nervous. The neighborhood was quieter at this time of day: on the opposite side of the street a man in a long black coat walked a terrier, and on her side of the street a woman walked briskly ahead, a basket over her arm.

  It can't be too dangerous if she's not afraid, she decided.

  Biting her bottom lip, she walked towards the coffee-house.

  “Ah! Good afternoon, milady,” a vaguely-familiar voice rang out. Mirabelle, still blind from the sudden darkness after the street, blinked, looking about for the face.

  A man with a mustache looked up at her. He had close-cropped hair and wide brown eyes that twinkled amiably. He bowed low.

  “Um, good afternoon, Mr. Stilton,” she said.

  “You could say, My Lord,” he said, raising a brow and then grinning, to show very white, even teeth. “I am Baron Epsley, after all.”

  “Baron Epsley?” she frowned. A memory edged forward in her brain and she recalled, vaguely, having seen him before.

  “Arthur knew you in the army?” she frowned.

  “Ah, yes!” he said, giving her that same bland grin. “I knew him in the ranks. I was a captain! Captain of the Royal Horse Guard,” he added, raising a brow.

  “Oh,” Mirabelle said, frown broadening. She had no memory of the man, apart from a brief recollection of him at a hunt meeting, years ago. And the very fact that she'd completely forgotten about him made hr embarrassed.

  “Ah, well, no matter, milady,” he said, brushing it away. “You are a countess! You have little memory for low-ranking captains.”

  “No,” Mirabelle protested lightly. “That's not it. I just...Arthur had many friends,” she said, trying to be polite. That sounded ever so much better than: I don't recall ever seeing you in my life.

  “I'm
sure he did,” the man said, waving her to a table and then producing her seat with a flourish. “He didn't have enough of us, mind.”

  “Enough?” Mirabelle felt faint. She sat down heavily, wishing she would wake up. She must be sleeping – the dark coffee-house, the close air, the quiet – it must all be a dream.

  “I'm afraid friendship is a commodity in scant supply,” Alfred Stilton, apparently Baron and Guard-Captain said, sitting himself down opposite her. “And the late count had little enough.”

  “I believe he counted you among his friends?” Mirabelle asked, making it a question. She could barely believe she would have forgotten someone with whom Arthur had been close friends, but, then, what did she know? He might have had a dozen such friends from the army and simply never had cause to invite them round often.

  “Ah, yes, milady,” Alfred nodded. “He did indeed. Which was why I took the liberty of addressing you.”

  “Since you raise the subject,” Mirabelle said easily, “how is it that you came to know when I'd be at my solicitor's office?”

  She saw him go pale, and somewhere inside herself she celebrated a victory. She'd disconcerted him at last.

  “Um, well, forgive me, milady. But, you see, I took an interest in you before. And so, when my man heard from Jenkins at the office that a card was sent to Dalford House, he...well, he told me. And so I asked him to take a letter to you there.”

  “Ah,” Mirabelle nodded. That all seemed logical, but it made her feel more uncomfortable than before, if anything. “But why, my lord?” she asked, stressing the word. She had the pleasure of seeing his eyes widen momentarily again and knew he'd felt the sting of it. Good.

  “Why what, milady? You mean, why did I write to you there, or..?” He shifted in his seat awkwardly.

  “Why did you bother to write at all?” she asked. “You can have no information for me that my solicitor does not know.”

  He focused on her sharply. Then he coughed. “Well, I think, milady, that Mr. Hensley must be unaware of debts your husband owed to...well...to debtors not of conventional means.”

  “Conventional means?”

  Mirabelle surprised herself by being angry. She felt threatened, but she was not afraid.

  “I think we'd do better to discuss this out of earshot,” he said, eyes darting round the room.

  “No Captain.” she said firmly. “You have said something that is obscure, and I demand explanation. What unconventional means are these?”

  “You are aware your husband supported the tobacco trade?”

  Mirabelle wanted to shut her eyes at that moment. She had suspected it was something illegal, and it seemed inevitable now it would come up. “Mayhap,” she said flatly.

  “Well, yes. And, well...certain contraband may have found its way into his hands, from time to time. And now, well...let us say the merchants are impatient, and would have their pay. Their threat is to expose his dealings, were they not satisfied.”

  Mirabelle frowned. That was preposterous!

  “I cannot imagine how,” she said flatly. “Tell the court that they are illegal tobacco traders and they want to be paid up front by the count or his estate?”

  He laughed, a light, dismissive sound. It was more infuriating than anything else might have been. “Well, let us say their methods are more...secret.”

  Mirabelle bridled. He was scaring her now. “You mean, a threat to my estate?”

  “A threat to your person.”

  Mirabelle stared. “You...you're saying they think to kill me, if their debts are not paid in full?” She didn't want to believe it, but the thought did make her shiver.

  “Um, I hadn't meant to raise such a topic here and now, milady.”

  “Captain Stilton,” Mirabelle said softly. “You do not keep quiet about a matter like this. The instant you heard from them, you should have come to me at once. Whatever debts Arthur owed I would have settled them.”

  “I didn't want to disturb you, countess,” he said. “I thought to settle it without troubling your head.”

  “My head will be exceedingly troubled by the thought of what these felons are asking now,” she said. “You ought to have told me months ago!”

  She was surprised by how angry she was. It was worse than this man's incompetence – it was the combination of that with his self-assurance and the fact that he patronized her and almost got her killed. She glared at him.

  “My lady, I apologize,” he said at once. “You were out of London and it seemed foolish to go all the way to Dalford to tell you when the trouble was brewing here, in this office, not far from my own lodgings.”

  “Well, yes,” Mirabelle allowed. “I suppose there I can see your point.”

  “Thank you, milady,” he said, inclining his head. He looked gratified.

  “Still, sir,” Mirabelle added, “you might have come to me sooner. You could have written me a letter about this. Easier by far than conveying it to me in a London coffee-house, perhaps?”

  He blushed, glancing sideways at the two tables that were likewise occupied. They were almost completely alone in the place, which was discouraging in itself, since it was a weekday and the afternoon. It should have been full of people.

  Not only a London coffee-house, but probably one of the worse ones also.

  “Milady, forgive me. But I did what I thought was best.”

  “Yes,” Mirabelle allowed. She let that statement hang, ambiguously.

  The captain swallowed. “Should we dine?”

  “I'm not hungry,” Mirabelle said tightly. She had made sure to take luncheon before she left, wanting to have a clear mind.

  “Very wise of you,” the man nodded. “A coffee, then?”

  Mirabelle raised a brow. “Yes, that would be most pleasant.”

  While Captain Stilton set about organizing the coffee, Mirabelle looked round, lost in thought. Here she was, in a London coffee-house, confronted with news of debts. She had the diamonds, which offered her by far the best way of paying it off.

  “Here it is,” Stilton said, raising a brow as the proprietor appeared, two steaming white cups in his hands. He placed them carefully down before Mirabelle and Captain Stilton, and then went off silently. Mirabelle raised hers, letting the warm, dark scent breathe life into her tired mind.

  “So,” she said, after a long pause. “How much is this debt, exactly.”

  “Five hundred.”

  She stared at him. “Pounds?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “How in perdition's name..?” she felt her heart thump. “What was he doing, to accrue such debt?”

  That was a ridiculously large amount of tobacco! More than any one man could smoke in a single lifetime. There was no way it was accurate.

  Stilton looked uncomfortable. “It was a trade, milady. I, too, was involved in it a while. Unsound, but lucrative. At least at first.” He lowered his hands, holding the cup, to the table. Stared at them.

  This sounds peculiar. He was involved too? How long was this all going on, behind my back?

  “You mean you, and Arthur, and others, were buying smuggled tobacco and then selling it to others?”

  “To put it bluntly, yes,” the captain explained. He still didn't meet her eye.

  Mirabelle felt her heart stop. This was worse than she'd expected! A cutting, indifferent and cruel man her late husband undoubtedly was. But to be engaged in activities such as this? She didn't believe it!

  “I need some assurance that what you say is true,” Mirabelle said at once.

  “I can show you the letter,” the man said, lifting one shoulder.

  A letter, signed and sealed by whom, precisely? Yourself? How would I know of its truth?

  “I need time,” she said. She reached for her coffee, feeling suddenly exhausted. This was all too much for one afternoon! Hensley's good news of the day before, followed by this letter, and the trip here, and now her husband being accused of illicit dealings, to the tune of a minor fortune?

&n
bsp; “My apologies, milady,” Alfred Stilton was solicitous. “I understand. You must be grieved.”

  She lifted her head. Grieved was absolutely not how she felt. Angry, yes. Hurt, yes. Frightened, even. But not in the least grief-stricken.

  “I am well,” she said tightly. Her lips were stiff and she ground the words between her teeth like grit.

  He raised a brow. “I apologize, my lady,” he said again. “I have put too much strain on you for one afternoon:”

  “You might say so,” she said thinly. She drained her coffee, reached into her purse and drew out a coin, setting it on the table in payment for the beverage. That was insult enough. Then, deliberately, she pushed back her chair.

  “Good afternoon, Captain,” she said. “I have affairs to attend to. I will keep in touch with you. Should I need to send word, I will do so via Jenkins at the office.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  With that, Mirabelle walked stiff-backed to the door, took down her coat and bonnet and headed out onto the street. When she got out, she was shaking. It was as much with rage as exhaustion. But she walked down the street rigidly, unbending.

  She would get to the bottom of this. But first, she needed to rest. And think. There was much that needed to be done.

  Chapter 10: A ball in London

  “Why,” Elton said, stepping back from the mirror, “do you always look so dashing? Dash it! I don't know why the rest of us bother, with you around.”

  Bradford smiled, self-conscious. “Oh, you,” he said, waving a hand airily to brush the compliment away.

  “No, it's true,” Elton said smilingly. “Though I must admit I cut quite a dash in these new fripperies.”

  Bradford nodded. “You do, brother. The ladies are going to stare at you, you know.”

  It was his little brother's turn to blush, and he did so, spectacularly. Bradford hid his smile. His brother did look rather good, he had to admit – the yellow cravat brought out the startling pale blue of his eyes, and next to the blue velvet he wore, it was a stunning contrast.

  “Well, they'll stare at us both,” Elton smiled.