That was a question Lily hadn’t had the time nor the mental faculties to formulate before Mrs. Clogg spoke the words. Having to face the realization that Mr. Farson had not arrived nor sent word of his refusal was painful enough. Doing so in front of those who found such joy in her humiliation only added to it. Chin trembling, Lily fought to keep the tears from growing, but the best she could do was fix her gaze on the floor so those carrion feeders could not see how thoroughly her heart was breaking.
“Even if we were to believe you,” said Mrs. Burke, “that does not excuse Mr. Hatcher’s part in this farce.”
Hoping that her voice would not fail her, Lily said without hesitation, “It does not matter. I absolve Mr. Hatcher of any responsibility or duty towards me. He is blameless.”
Lily hardly placed a period at the end of that statement before Mr. Hatcher moved. With a speed that did little to soothe her injured pride, the fellow fled the room, stalking past the ladies without a moment’s hesitation or a backward glance at Lily.
Mrs. Buke and Mrs. Clogg followed in kind while Mrs. Pratt called after them, desperate to mend the tattered remains of Lily’s reputation. But one could not beg for mercy from the merciless, and those harpies would never remain silent with such gossip to spread.
The strength seeped from Lily, and she sank to a nearby chair. Curling inward, she dropped her head into her hands, covering her face as though that would block her from the storm of self-recrimination.
She should never have come to London.
***
The pavement felt Jack’s wrath with each pounding footstep as he stormed through the streets of London. Ignoring the questioning looks from passersby and the tremulous offers of assistance from servants as he arrived home, Jack climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, not pausing until the door was shut behind him. He yanked off his jacket and ripped his cravat from his throat. The deuced thing tangled in the shirt collar, and his frustration only mounted as he threw it aside.
Unable to sit still, Jack continued to walk, pacing the room as he cursed at himself in every combination and variation in his extensive repertoire. What a fool he’d been. An unmitigated fool! For all his purporting to be a man of sense and good judgment, he had willingly ensnared himself in the lady’s trap. He cursed at himself for not stepping away when he’d had the chance.
What had happened to him?
With a defeated grunt, Jack threw himself onto the armchair facing his fire. Slouching, he leaned against his elbow, his gaze turning to the blazing fire without seeing the flames.
For all the lady’s protestations, Jack did not believe for one moment that this was over between them. One does not merely stumble into such a compromising situation, and Jack was not about to believe that this was nothing more than coincidence.
Yet she had released him from any obligation.
His free hand tapped against the leather arm, and Jack mused about that bizarre twist. He had met debutantes and matrons who could outflank even the greatest military strategist when it came to the marriage battlefield. Anyone who knew Jack would know of his intractable demeanor, and tonight could merely be the first step in a complex campaign.
Jack Hatcher may be in trade, yet many an eligible lady had thrown themselves in his path. The upper echelons of society may sneer when they spoke those two little words—in trade—but that did not preclude them from chasing after a wealthy husband from among the tradesmen. With enough money, they were willing to overlook such a faux pas.
Reaching for the basket beside his chair, Jack placed it on his lap and was frustrated to see only a pair of socks inside it. His hands itched to do some work, yet they would take only a few minutes to darn. It would have to do. Threading the needle and positioning the darning mushroom, Jack set to work. Though requiring only a simple mend, he contented himself by adding a pattern into the stitching that he had learned in Africa.
Jack worked the needle through the fabric, and he could almost smell the salt air and feel the rocking of the ship. It had been years since he had stepped aboard a boat, yet every time he worked on the mending he was transported back to that time. While there were reasons aplenty to avoid such memories, this was one of the few that brought him peace. Doing his own sewing had been a necessity during his voyages, but the methodical stitches had a way of focusing his thoughts, and Jack was loathed to hand the task over to a servant.
Stitch after stitch, Jack puzzled over that evening, thinking through the ramifications of tonight’s events. No doubt there would be rumors, but he thought them unlikely to hinder his negotiations. His business partner would know how to handle the Pratts; Silas had more tact with such delicate social politics. Though Mr. Pratt was not a significant investor himself, he was surprisingly influential. And if Silas’s subtly did not work, Jack would find a way to convince the gentleman to forgive this minor indiscretion. He would not allow some calculating young lady to ruin his business’s future.
What would her next tactic be?
Jack mused over that, but when he pictured her in that mercenary light, he felt decidedly uneasy. His instincts had successfully led him through life, and they were insisting that he had the wrong end of the stick when it came to her.
There was something so genuine in her surprise and protestations that Jack struggled to hold onto his animosity. The best liars feigned innocence as well, but this felt like no act. Her fight for composure seemed earnest, and if he were to place money on it, he would bet that her trembles and faltering words were honest signs of embarrassment and shame.
And Mrs. Pratt had handed her a plausible explanation behind their compromising situation, and the lady had rejected it, admitting the truth at great personal cost to her pride and reputation. If she was to be believed—and Jack’s instincts were saying it was so—the lady had sacrificed her dignity and honor for him. That was admirable.
What was it about the lady that had so beguiled him? She was by no means an obvious beauty, but merely the thought of those warm eyes gazing into his and the feel of her in his embrace filled him with a desire to seek her out again.
It was absolute nonsense. Jack Hatcher had never been ensorcelled by even the greatest of beauties, and he was not about to surrender to Miss Kingsley.
Lily.
The name suited her.
Jack snorted at his ridiculousness. Viper was a better moniker. In his thirty-three years, Jack had seen much of the world and its machinations. He would not allow himself to be blinded or trapped by some lady, and if she forced the issue, she would soon discover why few stood against him. He was no milksop and would not be defeated.
Chapter 3
It was a sad day when a fellow couldn’t get a moment’s peace in his club, and Colin DeVere’s day was decidedly sad. It was not the shabby coffee shop, which served as their meeting place, nor the weak coffee that had him in a dither. Nor the fact that his pilfered newspaper was so worn that its folds were tearing and the ink was fading. No, it was the sight of all those happy couples announcing their forthcoming nuptials that dampened Colin’s spirits.
“What has you in such a foul mood, DeVere?” Kempthorne asked with that flippant laugh of his. Though Colin did not mind a good ribbing from his clubmate, his mood was far blacker than foul and in no state to suffer Kemp’s jests.
The fellow dropped onto the adjacent armchair, and Colin ignored his persistent questions until Kemp leaned forward to see what held his attention. Shifting the newspaper so that the engagement announcements were no longer visible, Colin nodded towards another article.
“‘Water Shortages Continue in Southeast London’?” Kemp read aloud as he frowned at Colin. “Whyever do you care about that?”
With a shrug, Colin folded the paper and tossed it aside.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain gentleman whose name we swore never to mention?” Kemp asked with an arched eyebrow. “I hear he is investing vast amounts in the Southend Waterworks Company.”
Colin’s
teeth clenched together at the mention of him. Surely, a gentleman’s club should be a respite from the cares of daily life, yet he had found none of that today.
Then Massey looked up from his book to add, “There is more afoot than mere investments. I heard tell that last night he was found in a compromising situation with a lady at the Pratts’ ball.”
Kemp set down his cup. “The Pratts?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Barrington Pratt,” said Massey with a vague wave. “They’re here for the Season from some little town in Essex.”
Kemp cocked his head to the side. “I am not familiar with them.”
“I cannot think why you would be,” said Massey, glancing back at his book. “Though well-off, they’re not well-connected. I doubt your family travels in the same circles.”
With a clink of china, Arnold called out from his corner. “Dash it all, get back to what you were saying. What is this about Hatcher?”
The other fellows in the area grumbled and hissed over Arnold’s use of the name, and he quickly amended his statement.
“What were you saying about that fellow?” asked Arnold, leaning forward in his seat. “If he’s no longer in the field of battle, then the rest of us might have a chance.”
Massey chuckled into his coffee. “Yes, because all the matchmaking mamas are anxious for their daughters to wed reprobates with pockets to let.”
The gentlemen let out a roar of solidarity, raising their cups to that.
Massey continued to look at his book as though he were not keenly aware of the ears awaiting every detail. “The most astonishing thing is that the lady in question was a not-so-young lady from a well-heeled family but not one of any consequence or connection, and certainly not a contender for the title of Mrs. Jonathan Hatcher.”
Another round of groans accompanied Massey’s use of his name.
“Settle down!” barked Arnold, his eyes locked on Massey.
But the fellow let the silence drag out as he feigned a greater interest in his coffee and book. Only when properly prevailed upon did he reveal the name of the lady involved, which elicited another raucous response.
Kemp looked at Colin. “When I settle down, I would prefer a lady who looks like a lady, but I suppose there is no accounting for taste.”
“Not that it matters,” added Massey. “For the fellow refuses to toe the line. Has left the poor lady in the lurch.”
And that set off even more discussion, speculation, and a few colorful epitaphs cursing Jonathan Hatcher’s honor. Not that his behavior surprised Colin in the slightest, for Hatch had not an honorable bone in his body. Not even when dealing with those he called friend.
In a flash, a plan formed in Colin’s mind. It was simple, but that did not negate the impact it might have—if handled properly. Hatch had remained unchallenged for far too long and deserved a lesson in honor.
“That is quite the story, Massey, but not the whole of it,” said Colin.
Silence fell as the gentlemen watched with rapt attention, and he held back a laugh. For all their mockery of ladies’ wagging tongues, the gentlemen were no better when there was a story to be had.
“They say it was a touch more than an impassioned embrace,” said Colin, sipping from his cup with a raise of his eyebrows. Those little words “they say” were such a pair. They were vague and tantalizing and held the speaker responsible for nothing the listeners may infer. Perhaps his words bordered on falsehood, but they were more implication than outright accusation, and that distinction allowed his honor to rest easy.
“Nonsense,” said someone from behind Colin, though he didn’t catch which gentleman had spoken. “I cannot believe that of Hat—” but the fellow shifted his words before he finished that forbidden name, “—him. It is ungentlemanly.”
Colin scoffed, dropping his cup onto the dish below. “His father may have been a poor country gentleman, but Jonathan Hatcher is nothing but an uncouth tradesman.”
There was a rumble of agreement from the group, and Colin continued, “I have known him for many years, and I can attest to his utter lack of honor. He is a bounder of the worst sort.”
With each word, Colin’s muscles tensed, and that frisson of anger grew. Jonathan Hatcher was everything and worse. If not for Jack’s lies and betrayal, Colin’s life would be vastly different. As the others digested the gossip, Colin lost himself in thoughts of what-ifs and if-onlys.
***
With a few quick scratches of his pen, Jack worked through the figures in his ledger. And though he had never struggled with sums before, he found himself crossing out yet another incorrect entry. If he continued in this vein, he’d need to surrender the task to a clerk.
The door to his office opened, accompanied by the rattle of china. The newest of his clerks, Tims, balanced a tray laden with tea and cakes on one arm while nudging the door open with his other. But even once he made it inside and had the tray firmly in hand, the dishes trembled as the lad dropped his gaze away from Jack.
Tip-toeing across the room, Tims stood before the massive desk, his lips moving though no sound emerged. Jack glanced at him, and Tims blanched as though he expected to be eaten alive. It was true that Jack was peckish, but he far preferred the treats on the tray than some boney British lad.
It had been a while since they had employed a new clerk, and Jack had forgotten how skittish they could be. Of course, the black atmosphere filling his office did not help the situation, but Jack was in no mood to reassure false fears.
With a dismissive wave, Jack motioned to a corner of the desk, and the clerk dropped the tray and scurried away.
But Tims paused at the doorway.
“Have you heard from Mr. Thomas?” asked Jack, scratching another figure into the ledger.
“No, sir,” said Tims. He cleared his throat. “But there’s a Mr. Nicholas Ashbrook to see you, sir. He said it was urgent. And of a personal nature.”
“I am occupied.”
Tims nodded, but he didn’t move. “Begging your pardon, sir, but he insisted. Said he wouldn’t leave until you spoke with him.”
“Be that as it may, I am otherwise engaged.
But an older gentleman shoved past Tims, his expression almost dour and foreboding enough to impress Jack. However, his years at sea had taught him the difference between those capable of cruelty and those who feigned it, and this gentleman was all bluster.
“Mr. Jonathan Hatcher, I presume,” said the fellow, staring down his nose at Jack.
Rather than meeting the gentleman’s gaze, Jack returned to his work.
“Are you so rude as to ignore me?” asked Mr. Ashbrook.
“Need I remind you that it was not I who barged in uninvited?” Jack asked with a few strokes of his pen.
“As is my right,” said Mr. Ashbrook, punctuating his statement with the pound of his cane.
At that, Jack laid down his pen and settled into his chair to examine the fellow. But when he spoke no further, Mr. Ashbrook’s complexion grew more apoplectic.
“You, sirrah, are a cad!” he said with another stamp of his cane.
This was not the first time he had heard such accusations against his honor. There were far too many gentlemen who believed they could dabble in speculation and reap great rewards, only to discover that they have lost everything. Too many allowed entitlement to blind them to the truth, and in such cases, Jack made a ready scapegoat.
Or so they thought.
Jack gave him a quelling glare, and the irritation that had plagued him over the last few hours eased at the sight of Mr. Ashbrook’s arrogance faltering. “I am not acquainted with you nor do I know which venture you are referring to, but you undertook the risks. If you chose to invest wildly, I am not responsible.”
Mr. Ashbrook straightened again, though his bluster was decidedly deflated. “I am not speaking of business. I am speaking of my niece. You compromised her and then fled like a coward.”
Holding in a sigh, Jack turned his gaze to his ledger. In normal c
ircumstances, being proven correct was a joyful experience, but in this instance, his heart grew heavy.
“She is in my care while her parents are touring the continent, and I will not allow you to destroy her reputation with impunity,” said Mr. Ashbrook.
Jack huffed. “Is it to be pistols at dawn then? I warn you that I am an excellent shot.”
“Insolent blackguard,” growled Mr. Ashbrook. “You would make a mockery of both her and my honor?”
Jack leveled another hard look at the fellow; he quailed, his complexion paling, but Mr. Ashbrook remained firm.
“It was a simple misunderstanding,” said Jack. “Miss Kingsley mistook me for someone else. She fully absolved me of any duty owed to her in front of witnesses.”
Mr. Ashbrook’s mouth twisted into a frown. “She is a headstrong girl like her mother. Neither of them has the sense to understand what is best for them. You must do your duty.”
“You would have a cad marry your niece?” asked Jack with a raised eyebrow.
“I would have the man who impugned her honor do right by her.”
“It was she who kissed me. If her honor is impugned then her beau—who was the intended recipient of her amorous advances—should make it right.”
Mr. Ashbrook stiffened, his eyes narrowing, and Jack met the fellow’s gaze without hesitation. And Mr. Ashbrook broke away first, his eyes turning away with a severe frown. “I see there is no point in prevailing upon your honor, for you have none. Mistake or not, you had your fun with her and now refuse to behave as a gentleman ought.”
“I am no gentleman,” said Jack, crossing his arms. “A fact that your set is more than happy to remind me of when it suits them. Though they are willing to embrace me when I help them grow their coffers. Now, you will leave my office and never darken my door, or I shall show you why most are not willing to speak to me as you have.”
A Stolen Kiss (Victorian Love Book 1) Page 3