by Cheryl Bolen
“If I learn that you’ve lied to me, Birmingham, I’ll do everything in my power to bring down the House of Birmingham.”
Birmingham's eyes narrowed, and he spoke in a steely manner. “Leave at once.”
Finkel returned Birmingham's icy glare, then turned and stormed to the door.
He had only to go a few doors down to reach the Birmingham’s bank, where he demanded to speak to Adam Birmingham on a personal matter.
This brother’s office bespoke the family’s vast wealth. There were Turkey carpets, a Canaletto on the wall, rich mahogany furnishings and plush velvet-covered chairs. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling.
When Finkel came face to face with Adam Birmingham, he felt almost as if he were seeing the twin of Nicholas Birmingham. The slight differences between the two were difficult to articulate. Perhaps it was something about the mouth that distinguished one from the other, or perhaps it was the cut of their chins. Both were tall and dark and would be considered to be in possession of a handsome countenance. This brother seemed more personable than the other.
He bowed, smiled at Finkel, and quirked a brow. “You wished to see me on a personal matter?”
Finkel stepped into his luxurious office and silently closed the door behind them. “Indeed. My wife has run off with a Mr. Birmingham, and I want her back.”
Adam Birmingham began to laugh. “I assure you, my lord, I’ve not run off with your wife or with any man’s wife.”
“You do fit the description of the man with whom my wife eloped.”
“I don't normally discuss my personal affairs with anyone, but allow me to say I am happy with my present domestic situation.”
“Then you are married?”
“I didn’t say that.”
It was then that Finkel remembered. About a year earlier he’d heard that the beautiful Italian opera singer Anna Cannales had come under Adam Birmingham’s protection.
Finkel had been certain this was the man who had stolen his wife, but he believed he—and his brother—had spoken the truth. The Birminghams had a reputation for getting what they wanted, and if one of them wanted Lady Sophia Beresford, he would have had no qualms about admitting it.
He'd wasted the whole bloody afternoon—and unnecessarily exposed himself to the brutal elements.
“Then I’m sorry to have taken your time.”
Once more, Finkel angrily stormed from a Birmingham establishment.
Where the devil was the Birmingham with whom his wife had run off? Finkel would not stop until he found him.
* * *
It would serve her right if he did take lung fever and die! The blame for his foolish drenching in sub-freezing temperatures rested solely on her delicate shoulders.
William found himself wishing he hadn’t gone to MacIver that morning, hadn’t learned that she belonged to another. If only he could recapture that heady sense of possession he’d felt that morning at the thought of plighting his life to hers.
Though he'd thought he did not want to be married, once the idea of wedding Isadore had taken root, he had been steeped in a rush of almost unbearable joy. It was as if he’d waited the whole of his life to find the perfect mate.
And he’d found her in Isadore.
With the exception of her criminal livelihood, she was perfection. Beauty, intelligence, and sublime sexual compatibility all combined in one exquisite being.
One exquisite being who belonged to an honorable man. Lord Evers.
How could she have so thoroughly fooled William? He had been convinced she spoke the truth when she’d told him she was a maiden. Then, when they made love the first of many times, he would have sworn she had never lain with another man.
And in no way did she act like a woman married to another. Last night, this morning, and even a few moments ago, her words and actions were those of a woman who sincerely loved him.
He should not have come home. He should have stayed at his club and sent for Thompson to bring around dry clothing. Seeing her had been far too painful—especially when her very countenance bespoke tender affection toward him. The woman could rival Sarah Siddons on the stage.
He pictured her as she looked when she met him in the entry hall. How difficult it had been not to draw her within his arms when he’d stood there in the entry corridor and gazed up at her stunning beauty, at the tender concern in her face and in her voice. In spite of his physical discomfort, the sight of her aroused him. He groaned.
He would never again know the feel of her silken flesh. He respected Lord Evers far too much to take liberties with his wife.
Even if that wife did act as if she were in love with William. MacIver must have been right about her serial affairs. How convincing she'd been!
Thompson helped remove William's soggy boots, then tested the bath water whilst William peeled off the rest of his wet clothing. “Did Miss Isadore Door have any more callers today?” he asked casually.
“No, my lord, but she once again dispatched me—along with Miss Dorothea Door—to that house on Curzon Street.”
William wondered if that was where Lord Evers resided. Owing to the fact Evers spent most of his time out of the country, William’s only interaction with the peer had been during several visits to the Hague. Now that he thought about it, he realized Evers fit the description Thompson had given him of Isadore’s caller of the previous day: a tall, well dressed man of the higher classes. “With another note?” William lowered his shivering body into the metal tub. As he became immersed in the warm water, his chills vanished. God, but he’d thought of this all day long. This and lying with Isadore.
“Yes.” Thompson folded his toweling and set it on a stool next to the tub. “My lord, I wonder if I could speak to you of something that’s private in nature.”
“I doubt I have any secrets from you.”
“This actually pertains to me. To me and Miss Door.”
William’s spine stiffened. “Isadore?”
“Oh, no my lord. Miss Dorothea Door.”
William pictured the aging, bony, utterly plain sister and felt sorry for her. “What about her?”
Thompson cleared his throat. “It would appear that the lady’s taken a fancy to me.”
The poor woman. Thompson was likely the only man who’d ever directed any attentions at her. “I expect it’s because you’ve shown her such kindness.”
“She does bring out traits in me I did not know I possessed. She makes me feel as if I could slay dragons to protect her.”
William’s eyes widened. Could it be possible that Thompson was attracted to the unfortunate spinster? It was almost incomprehensible to William that any man could find something to admire in the homely sister. He supposed it showed there was, indeed, someone for everyone. “Dear lord, Thompson, do you fancy her?”
“Indeed I do, my lord, but she’s too highborn for the likes of me.”
“It’s not as if she’s an aristocrat. Her scheming sister regularly conducts criminal activities.”
“There is that.”
William no longer pitied the plain sister. Perhaps she and Thompson could be happy together. “If she fancies you, you must take that as permission to court her.”
“But I haven’t the slightest idea how one goes about courting a woman.”
“No one tells the birds and bees what to do. Permit yourself to follow your instincts.” William’s thoughts trailed to the previous night when his and Isadore’s potent instincts had led them to a place of unimaginable happiness.
“I think I should very much like to kiss the lady. Do you think it would be improper?”
William’s face screwed in thought. “Tell me, if she cannot speak how did the lady convey her feelings to you?”
The firelight from the nearby fireplace illuminated Thompson’s face. Was the fellow blushing?
He stammered for a moment. “The lady placed her hand upon my forearm, and began to rub me in a tender, circular motion. At first I thought it was unintentio
nal, but as it continued for a considerable period of time, I began to believe that the lady was . . . well, exceedingly comfortable with me.”
William began to guffaw. “She’s a saucy little dish who’s undoubtedly smitten with you, old boy.”
“I shall defer to your judgment since you have considerably more experience in such matters than I.”
There could be no happy ending for William and Isadore, but it oddly satisfied him to think the unfortunate mute might find love so late in life. “You and Miss Dorothea Door have my blessing.”
* * *
Even though she had no appetite, Sophia sent Dottie off with a note to Fenton inquiring if the master were dining at home that night. Her heart plummeted when Dottie came back and informed her that Mr. Birmingham had asked for a tray in his room.
He’s avoiding me.
She could not blame him. Were she in his place she knew how betrayed she would have felt upon learning—after their night of tender passion—that he was married. If only she could convey to him how dearly she loved him. If only she could tell him her marriage had never been and never would be consummated.
But what did that matter? Whether she wanted it or not, she was irrevocably united with a detestable man. That must explain why Devere had not come to her that day. His solicitor must have told him that it was not possible to extricate Sophia from her marriage to Lord Finkel. Knowing her determined brother, she thought it possible he would not concede to Finkie without putting up a valiant fight.
She sent Dottie away and flung herself, prostrate, upon her bed, tears trickling down her cheeks as she contemplated William’s coolness to her. It suddenly occurred to her that though William had found out she was married, in all likelihood, he’d actually found out Isadore was married.
Would that change anything? She wept. It changed nothing. For nothing could nullify the reality that she was, in the laws of Britain, Lady Finkel.
She sighed. A week ago she’d been ignorant of love. A week ago she’d had no experience with the pain of lost love. A week ago her life was so dull she had settled for a man she could neither admire nor love.
Bitter cries rung from her. Had she to do it all over again would she have opened herself up to this unimaginable pain caused by the loss of William’s affections? Yes, she still would have chosen a night of sin with William. For one night she had known the love of a man who was far and away above all others.
Would it help if she could make William understand he was the only man she’d ever loved? She doubted it. Men enjoyed possession, and as long as she was Lady Finkel, a proud man like William would never be satisfied.
She was not willing to leave his house. Once she was gone, she knew their paths were unlikely to ever again cross. And she could not bear that.
Her only hope of clinging to some part of him was to continue posing as Isadore. Even if Isadore was married. As long as he needed the gold Isadore could produce, he would allow her to remain under his roof. She vowed that either she or Dottie would keep a vigil at the window looking for the real Isadore.
But what made her think Isadore would work with her? She would have to persuade Devere to come up with funds for Isadore—on the promise that all would be repaid once William paid the imposter Isadore eighty thousand pounds.
She leapt from her bed and scribbled a note begging her brother to get his hands on eighty thousand quid which could possibly be repaid within a week. Dottie wasn’t in her chamber. Never one to miss a meal—despite her skinniness—she must be dining alone in the dinner room.
Sophia found her there and explained that she and Thompson must make yet another trip to Curzon Street that very night.
Dottie’s face brightened, and she whispered. “I’ll get to try that nonverbal leg rubbin’!”
Sophia’s gaze fanned over the mountain of food upon her maid’s plate. “Not if you continue sitting here all night stuffing yourself.”
Dottie pushed the plate aside and rose from the table. “I’ll take me Mr. Thompson over food any night.”
“I’ll send a footman to seek Thompson—if his master will permit him to undertake a commission for us.”
“I 'ope he do let him.”
Apparently William had no objections to lending the ladies Thompson's services. Minutes later, Dottie and the valet were off to Curzon Street. It was hopeless for Sophia to try to talk to William tonight. He’d made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with her.
He had to know that what had occurred last night was not the whim of a promiscuous married woman. She owed him some kind of explanation. She returned to the desk in her chamber and began to pen a letter written from depths of heart.
* * *
When Dottie reached the bottom of the stairs, dear Mr. Thompson was standing there in the entry hall looking ever so handsome as he smiled up at her. There was such affection upon his face, she felt like a lovely fairy princess.
“I've sent around for the carriage. I shouldn't like a delicate thing like you exposed to the elements, my dear Miss Door.”
A delicate thing like you. She hoped he never saw her slaving over a hot iron. She did so fancy the idea of him thinking her a lady. A delicate lady. Perhaps these days at Grosvenor Square would merely be a fling to brighten the rest of her days with warm memories. She hated to think of revealing her true identity to this gentleman.
He helped her put on a thick woolen cape and tenderly covered her head with its hood. “It's beastly cold outside.”
When the coach came they left the house. She shivered instantly. She'd known it was cold but hadn't been prepared for the icy wind that seemed to cut right through her like a sharpened icicle.
As she stepped into the coach, she was seized with nervousness. Once again like that night she'd had to leap from Stinkie Finkie's roof. Would she have the nerve to set her hand to Mr. Thompson's powerful thigh? Now that it was time to implement such an action, it occurred to her that by doing so, she would appear to be a doxy. She didn't want Mr. Thompson to think her a loose woman.
Then she recalled the finest lady she knew—Lady Sophia—acting far more bold with Mr. Birmingham—and he had asked her to marry him! Of course Dottie weren't a beauty like Lady Sophia.
But what woman wouldn't want a proposal from the man she was in love with?
She took a seat on the leather bench, and Mr. Thompson sat across from her. How right he'd been about the beastly cold. Even within the coach, it was freezing. How much warmer she would be were he sitting here beside her.
“I'm sorry this is just a rented, serviceable coach—not luxurious like Mr. Birmingham's that was destroyed the other day. I suppose you're accustomed to finer than this.”
How she wished she could talk! She wanted him to know she didn't expect luxury or riches. Her stomach dropping like a rock, her heartbeat hammering, she rose and plopped herself down next to him.
Before she could summon the neve to set her trembling hand to his thigh, he turned to her. “My dearest Miss Door, would you permit me to kiss you?”
She felt as if one of those huge church bells had gone off in her chest. Could he hear it? Her smile widened. Would he think her too bold? She attempted to nod in a most decorous fashion.
Mr. Thompson drew in a breath and settled one arm around her as he moved closer and lowered his lips to hers. His lips were so much softer than she would have expected on a big man like him. And ever so tender, especially for a big man like him.
She was self-conscious that she wouldn't know how to kiss. Would he be able to tell? Nevertheless, she puckered her lips to his and basked in the warm glow of the pleasure he was giving her. She forgot how bitterly cold it was outside for snuggled against Mr. Thompson she could never be cold.
Then the coach pulled up in front of Devere House, and he terminated the kiss. “You needn't go out in this cold, Miss Door. I'll deliver the note.” He tucked a rug about her lap and left.
On weddings of members of the Devere family she had been permitted to dri
nk champagne. It made her feel all bubbly inside. That's exactly how she felt as she sat there in the coach.
He was only gone for a moment. When he returned to sit beside her, he sighed. “A pity the ride from Grosvenor Square to Curzon Street is so short.” Then he turned to her and once again drew her into his arms.
This second kiss was even more passionate.
Chapter 10
“Did you see my brother?” an anxious Sophia asked Dottie when she returned.
“No, milady. He weren't in, but Mr. Thompson left orders that your note was to be delivered to the master as soon as he returned.”
Sophia's probing eyes studied her servant. The gleam in her maid's eye told her that Dottie had something to communicate about her own romantic pursuits. “You went in the coach because of the rain and cold?”
A smile on her face, Dottie nodded.
“Did you sit opposite from Thompson?”
“At first I did. Then I got up me courage and plopped meself down right next to him.”
“And did the man show a reaction?”
“Indeed he did! He turned to me, a smile on his face, and he asked if he could kiss me. I didn't even have to rub his legs none to loosen him up.”
“You permitted him to kiss you?”
Dottie directed an outraged glare at her mistress while setting hands to waist, elbows at right angles. “My mama didn't raise no slow tops. Of course I allowed him to kiss me!”
Sophia directed a brilliant smile at her. It was good to have something over which one could glow. “Did you enjoy it?”
“I enjoyed the kissing very much, and I believe me dear Mr. Thompson did too.”
“Did he perchance initiate any verbal communications about your . . . intimacy?”
“If yer asking if he discussed our intimacy, then the answer's yes. He said my affections toward him were very agreeable to him. The pity of it was the drive to Curzon Street is exceedingly short.”
Sophia giggled. “So you're saying you would like to have continued kissing your Mr. Thompson?” She thought of how she longed to kiss William.