“Oh, aye, Mr. Worth is gone. Mr. Fielding says he’s to join him soon, but that—” The girl’s voice tapered off and her face got even redder.
“But Mr. Fielding thought he’d see you one more time before he followed his master?” Elinor finished for her.
Mary nodded. “Aye, my lady. But he’s gone now,” she hastily added.
“Thank you, Mary. That will be all.”
Elinor stared at the door after the girl had left. She’d been desperate to ask the girl if she knew where her lover was going or whether he was coming back, but she’d stopped herself just in time.
What did it matter where Stephen Worth went as long as it wasn’t here?
Chapter Fifteen
Boston
1807
Stephen handed the courier a thick envelope. “I want this letter delivered to Mr. Haines at 32 Boylston Street before the day is out, Jenkins.”
“Right away, Mr. Worth.” The boy shot from his office as if his heels were on fire.
Stephen knew he had a reputation as being strict, but he felt like he’d come by it honestly. He worked hard and he expected the same from those who worked for him. Diligence and dedication to his job had taken him from accused rapist to assistant vice-president of the largest bank in Boston in only five years. Of course that wasn’t a tale he could use to motivate his workers.
Somebody tapped on the door.
Stephen lifted the quill off the letter he’d been composing. “Come in.”
James Powell stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Siddons would like to see you as soon as possible.”
Powell was always a miserable bastard and it was impossible to read his pinched face.
“What’s this about?”
“I don’t answer to you, Worth. You’ll have ask Mr. Siddons,” the older man sneered, shutting the door to punctuate his point.
Powell had hated Stephen since the first moment Stephen had stepped off The Liberty five years ago. Only Powell, of all Jeremiah’s employees, knew something about Stephen’s humble beginnings. But even he didn’t know the whole story or his real name.
Nobody knew that, not even Jeremiah.
Stephen rubbed his chin with the ragged edge of the quill as he considered Powell’s virulent hatred. Jeremiah had said more than once that Powell was just jealous of Stephen’s meteoric rise in the bank, but Stephen knew there was more to it.
He put the quill in the stand, shrugged into his coat, and checked his reflection in the mirror for ink smudges.
Stephen saw almost nothing of the boy he’d been five years ago other than red hair and green eyes. With proper food and care he’d grown into his tall, lanky form and was now as beefy and well-fed as any American. And it was all thanks to Jeremiah Siddons, president and chief stockholder in Siddons bank: Stephen’s friend, mentor, and surrogate father.
Jeremiah was seated at the modest desk his great-grandfather had made, back when the Siddons family earned their money as one of Boston’s finest furniture makers.
The old man’s face lit up when he entered his office and Stephen felt the same painful twisting in his heart he always did. Part pride, part love, part fear—fear that this great man would one day find out who Stephen really was: a Scottish bastard and accused rapist with a death sentence hanging over his head.
“Sit, my boy, sit.” Jeremiah gestured to one of the two ladder-back chairs in front of his desk, which had also been made by some long-ago Siddons. A person would never know Jeremiah was one of the wealthiest men in Boston by looking at his office. It was spare in the extreme, the walls bare and the shelves devoid of knickknacks or books other than ledgers. The wooden floor was highly polished but without any carpets. It was the office of a Puritan businessman, which was exactly what Jeremiah was.
Jeremiah closed the ledger he’d been working on and put it aside. He had hundreds of employees to take care of such matters but he still personally checked on every facet of the bank’s operations. He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands over his flat stomach. Even his person was fit and spare and he kept it that way by walking to the office every day of the week, no matter what the weather.
“I understand congratulations are in order for the Fulton-McKenna Bridge project.”
Stephen couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his mouth. “Yes, sir, it looks like we’ll clear a solid twelve percent.”
Jeremiah nodded, his sharp blue eyes glinting with appreciation. “And the people who live around that area will no longer have to drive miles merely to get across the river.”
“That is true, sir.”
“I hope that was part of your motivation for financing the project, Stephen?”
Stephen opened his mouth to agree, but then closed it. There was something in the other man’s eyes. Jeremiah almost always smiled, so the only way to tell what he was truly thinking was to read his eyes—something Stephen had studied for five years.
He finally sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid that thought was not among those motivating me, Mr. Siddons.”
Jeremiah gave him a gentle smile. “There’s no need to look so downcast, Stephen. I will be the last one to say there is any harm in wanting to make a profit. Even so, a man should wish to leave a more enduring mark in this world than a healthy bank account. The best way to do that is to improve the lot of others.”
Stephen had heard this same speech before. He agreed with it—in principle, but it was a luxury for a wealthy man. A man like Jeremiah—not an escaped criminal who never knew when he might have cause to run again or when he might need every dime he could save. Of course, he could not say that.
“I agree wholeheartedly with your advice, sir. I hope I would never engage in a venture that would be harmful.”
“As do I, Stephen.”
“That said, sir, it is a struggle for me to know what a sound investment is, just yet. Perhaps in time I will be able to juggle both concerns more easily.”
“I daresay you will, Stephen. What you said raises another point I wished to discuss with you—your education.”
Stephen unsuccessfully fought back a groan.
Jeremiah raised a hand. “Now just listen to me before you get your feathers ruffled. I’m not suggesting formal schooling, you’re too old and frankly beyond such things.” He paused and looked up at Stephen, and then quickly continued. “So, that leaves another, more attractive option—reading the law.”
Stephen’s eyebrows shot up. “Sir?”
“I believe the law will appeal to you as you may learn at your own speed. Which I daresay will be fast, judging by everything else you have learned.”
Stephen flushed at the praise, bowing his head to hide his smile.
“I have a good friend who is tired of the bench and I have spoken to him about supervising your study.” Jeremiah paused. “Stephen?”
He looked up.
“I would ask you to do this for me.” For once, Jeremiah was not smiling.
“You know I will do anything you ask of me, Mr. Siddons, but—”
“You wonder why I want such a thing?”
Stephen nodded.
“I want you to have something else to live for, something to strive for. Something with a solid moral core that will guide your decisions.”
“Something else?” Stephen repeated, his heart beating hard and loud in his ears. “What do you mean by that, Mr. Siddons?”
Jeremiah opened his desk and brought out a slim folder, which he handed across the desk.
Stephen felt like he was reaching for a live cobra. The page on top was dated nine months ago and filled with small, neat script. He didn’t need to read it. Select words and phrases leapt off the page: accused rapist, Iain Vale, escaped prisoner, Coldbath Fields Prison.
He turned over the page with shaking fingers and saw a few small newspaper items about a series of escapes from Coldbath Fields Prison in which guards had been implicated and then confessed. He closed the folder along with his eyes.
<
br /> “You will think I did this to make sure of your character. But I did not. I knew your character before I ever saw you, when the doctor told me you’d saved my life at great risk to your own—that if you had done nothing, I would have died. That you gave your eye to save me.”
Stephen couldn’t look up. He didn’t want Jeremiah to see the truth, just how close he’d been to letting those two men get away with what they’d started that night. What a thin line had separated Stephen from him and those men.
“Then why?” His voice was as raw as his emotions.
“There is a reservoir of hate and anger in you, son. I thought it might begin to dissipate when you felt safe, but it hasn’t. I thought maybe when you were well-off from your own efforts you might let it go, but you didn’t. Each year, as you’ve acquired more wealth and more security, your hate has only become colder and gone deeper.”
Stephen looked up, suddenly furious. “Yes, what of it? I hate them. They lied and wrecked my life and that of the only relative who cared for me. Aren’t I entitled to some hate?”
Jeremiah nodded. “I understand you, believe me, I do. But hatred is a sword with no pommel, Stephen. You cannot wield it without cutting yourself.”
Stephen ground his teeth. How could he explain to Jeremiah what drove him, what made him get out of bed every day, when he couldn’t articulate it to himself?
“Is it wrong to want justice?” Stephen’s voice broke on the last word.
“No, but it is wrong to live for revenge. And more than that, it is dangerous.”
Stephen kept his jaws tightly clenched to keep the hate trapped inside.
“Is it only hatred that drives you, Stephen?”
Stephen couldn’t answer because he didn’t know. Was it hate that made him see her face every time he triumphed over some problem or obstacle? Was it the thought of her surprise when he ultimately confronted her with who he’d become that drove Stephen to always want more, that drove him to build his bank account as if it were a monument to something—to somebody? Was she that monument?
“You don’t know what it is like,” he bit out.
“Then tell me.”
Stephen groaned. “You would never understand. You’ve never been so much at another man’s mercy that he can treat you worse than a dog.” He glared at the man across from him. “First it was my bloody father.” He snorted. “Well, I call him that, but he was as much of a father as a ram that impregnates an ewe and moves on to the next. He used my mother, handed her over to one of his tenants, and then let her die wretched, poor, and alone. And then there is her.” Stephen felt his face twist into a mask of hatred but he could not stop it.
“She sent me on this journey because of a goddamned whim. A kiss, Jeremiah! One bloody kiss and I was broken, bleeding, and on my way to the gallows.” He stopped, his chest heaving as he panted to regain his breath. “It wasn’t enough that I was to scrape and serve and never look them in the eyes. She and her bloody family had me hauled away and disposed of like a piece of rubbish!”
Stephen realized he was on his feet and yelling.
“Christ.” He dropped into his chair and dropped his pounding forehead into his hand. A touch on his shoulder roused him from his blinding rage. He looked up into his mentor’s kind face.
“Humans beings are terrible to one another, Stephen, they truly are. But there are so many of them, and only one of you. To let other people’s cruelty direct your life is to let them chain and control you. It is only when we rise above their treatment that we free our own souls from torment. You are in the grip of hate, son, and it is a crushing, brutal grip.”
Stephen snorted. “And you think reading the law will free me?”
Jeremiah smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, I don’t think it will free you, Stephen. Only you can free yourself. But I do think it will give that big brain of yours something else to think about. Something more productive.”
“Hard work—a Puritan solution?”
Jeremiah chuckled and squeezed his shoulder. “Yes, I suppose it is. Will you try it? For me and for you?”
“You always get what you set out to get, Jeremiah. Very well. I will study the law.” He gave his mentor a reassuring smile—and privately vowed to do a better job of hiding his agenda from the older man in the future.
Chapter Sixteen
London
1817
Stephen sat in his suite at Padgett’s Hotel and read the latest reports from his land agent. Permission for the joint colliery and canal venture had cost him dearly, but it had been necessary to convince his investors of the legitimacy of his enterprise. The project was now clear to proceed—not that it ever would.
He grinned. He would send an offer to Trentham today. The man had been on Stephen’s heels when he left Blackfriars and came to London. Stephen could almost feel his brooding presence emanating from his Mayfair townhouse. A townhouse that would shortly belong to Stephen, if everything went as planned.
There was a sharp rap on the door and Fielding entered. The big man refused to learn the polite scratching sound that a good English servant employed.
Fielding looked like he’d crawled from Blackfriars to London on his hands and knees.
“What the devil happened to your clothes?”
Fielding glanced at his mud-stained breeches, scuffed and battered boots, and frayed coat and shrugged. “Nothing.”
Stephen tamped down the anger he felt rising. “You look like a bloody street thug. I thought I told you to go buy some decent clothing.”
“I did.”
“Where the hell are they?”
Fielding held out his arms.
“Christ,” Stephen muttered, his eyes roaming to the brandy decanter. He looked at his watch. It was only two o’clock, too damn early to let Fielding drive him to drink. He snatched one of his cards out of his waistcoat pocket and scribbled two names on it before flicking it across to his employee. Fielding was much quicker than he should be for such a huge man and handily caught the small rectangle before it hit the ground. He read the back and his lips twisted into what passed for a smile.
“Am I to bill this to you, Mr. Worth?”
“Yes, dammit. Just get it done. I need you to look respectable when we meet with our investors next week.”
Fielding’s eyebrows rose.
“Yes, I received word from Shaver today, we’re set to go ahead. I’ll want to meet to make sure everything is in place with Yarmouth and then I’ll need a week to handle some other business.” His faced heated and he hurried on. “What about you? What did you learn?”
Fielding knew what he meant without Stephen having to explain. It was the same thing he always asked.
“I found Thomas Jordan and he told me the other footman who was there that night died two years ago. Jordan says your Uncle Lonnie came looking for you when you didn’t come home but he didn’t find out what happened until after they’d already handed you over to the constable. He says your uncle never said anything to him, he just disappeared a couple days later.”
“Yarmouth kicked him out?”
“Jordan didn’t know anything about that. He claims the family was too stirred up about other matters to make much of a fuss about your uncle.”
“What other matters?”
“Salvaging the betrothal between the girl and Trentham.”
Stephen leaned forward, his elbows on his desk. “Oh? So did Trentham baulk?”
Fielding’s eyes dropped.
“Well?” Stephen prodded.
The other man took a deep breath, not looking very pleased about what he was about to say. “The viscount took the girl to a quack.”
“Why? Did she have some kind of hysteria?”
The thought was a new one to Stephen and he’d believed he’d run every possible scenario through his head over the past fifteen years. Perhaps she’d realized what she’d done and her conscience had suffered for it? Perhaps—
“The earl wanted to make
sure the girl was a virgin.”
“What?”
Fielding nodded, an odd blend of pity and disgust on his usually unreadable face. “Aye, it seems Trentham thought this wasn’t the first time you two had tussled.”
“Tussled? Christ. It was barely a bloody kiss.” His hand stilled its nervous drumming. What did a doctor do to ensure a girl was a virgin? Just thinking the question made him feel queasy and tainted—and oddly guilty.
Bloody hell! None of that was his fault; the girl had jumped him.
He looked up at Fielding’s harsh features and changed the subject. “What about our friend Marcus Bailey? Do we have him firmly on board?”
“Aye.”
“He will bring her from Trentham?”
“Aye, just as we discussed.”
“Are you sure he understands the rules clearly?”
“He understands them completely.” Fielding’s sneer was not a pleasant sight.
“Do I want to know what you did to convince him?”
“I doubt it.”
“Will anyone get hurt, John?”
“You mean other than the Countess of Trentham?”
Stephen was on his feet before he knew it, his hands gripping the edges of the desk to keep from leaping over it. “Is there something you’re trying to say, John?”
Fielding’s smirk faded but his jet-colored eyes glinted dangerously beneath his lowered lids. “I reckon I’ve said enough,” he finally admitted.
“Get out of my sight,” Stephen snapped, glaring at the other man until the door closed behind him. He dropped into his chair, his entire body rigid with fury.
Fielding was a taunting, evil-natured son-of-a-bitch and Stephen knew better than to let him get under his skin. He was madder at himself than the other man for his loss of temper. Besides, had Fielding said anything other than the truth? Elinor Trentham would be hurt. Not physically, of course, but she would no longer be able to hold up her head in public. Certainly not anywhere in polite society.
Stephen poured himself two fingers of brandy and threw it back in one swallow. His throat burned, but not as hot as the fire in his chest. He’d been damned glad to get away from the woman and her confusing presence, but his chest had been tight and hot from the moment he’d left her house. He told himself he burned with anger and resolve, but he was no longer sure what stoked the fire inside of him. The feelings he’d experienced when she’d rejected him had been . . . well, it wasn’t worth thinking about.
The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1) Page 13