The Offer

by Sara Portman

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “I can feel your disapproval upon me, Agnes.”

  The maid looked up, her eyes wide, all innocence and confusion, as the two sat together in the hired carriage, returning to Worley House after Lucy had collected Agnes from an afternoon of errands.

  “Oh, don’t pretend, Agnes. I know you disapprove. I also know it is out of concern for me and I thank you.”

  Agnes lowered her round, chocolate eyes. “It wouldn’t do for me to be forming opinions on where you go and what you do, Miss Betancourt.”

  Lucy sighed. “You are worse at lying than I am, Agnes. You may as well look me in the eye and tell me what you have to say.” Lucy wasn’t sure why she pushed the maid to offer commentary—wasn’t even certain if she should be seeking censure or understanding.

  Agnes lifted her gaze to Lucy. She wrung her hands and bit her lip before saying, “It’s all very exciting, but I wonder...” She paused, her face pinching with the awkwardness of the conversation. “Do you think he’ll marry you…in the end?”

  Lucy looked steadily back at the woman, who was likely very near to her in age. Her question was precisely the question that any one of Lucy’s friends or family would immediately ask if they knew what she had done.

  Of course, he would not marry her. She had known that he would not. That was not the answer Agnes sought, with her wide, hopeful eyes. Guilt stabbed Lucy. She should have considered that, before involving the poor girl. Of course Agnes would hope for a marriage. A marriage would mean absolution for all of them, wouldn’t it? Lucy sighed. She would like very much to ease the maid’s guilty conscience, but she could not lie to her.

  “I do not,” Lucy said softly. Disappointment weighted the girl’s shoulders as the hope drained from her eyes. Lucy lay a gentle hand on her arm. “He has not played me falsely, Agnes. There was never any expectation of marriage.”

  This revelation drew Agnes’s interest anew. She stared at Lucy in wonder and something akin to respect. When she spoke, it was in a whisper, despite their decided lack of company, as though the thought were too scandalous to be spoken aloud. “You never thought to marry him?”

  Lucy straightened her shoulders, feeling her cheeks warm slightly at the shock in the maid’s expression. “I do not expect to marry him, or anyone else for that matter. I will shortly be taking a position as a governess.” And as they were being so frank with each other, she added, “So long as it does not become public, my ruination shall never matter to anyone.”

  To anyone, save myself.

  Agnes nodded slowly, but Lucy sensed the other woman did not truly understand. Lucy could not look back over the past few hours and see the sin in what she’d experienced. She could not remember the way that Bex had touched her and the way that he had made her feel and believe for a moment that he had mistreated her. Didn’t she deserve this adventure?

  I will worship you.

  The memory of his words sent warmth snaking through her even then. She had felt worshipped, cherished—not used or wronged. If the truth were revealed, however, that is how she would be seen. As surely as she would be considered ruined, she would be considered a victim as well—a weak, defenseless woman who lost her soul to a devious man. Just as Agnes pitied her now, so would others pity her, even as they refused to accept her.

  She was not ashamed of her choice. She did not regret it.

  How could she, when she knew that Bex had given her the gift of an experience she would never have had without him? He said his father would be gone for three days. These few days were a brief respite of adventure and excitement in an otherwise practical and miserably sensible life.

  Well, that wasn’t fair.

  She was not miserable. She appreciated sensible people. She preferred them. Practicality was always the preferable choice.

  Except when it wasn’t.

  Practicality reduced complications, but some experiences justified complicating things. Lucy could barely comprehend what had happened that afternoon, but she knew wholeheartedly she would accept a great number of complicating details in order to experience it again.

  What luck, then, that she and Bex had two more days.

  Just two more days.

  * * * *

  Lucy did not notice the burly gentleman when she first alighted from the hired coach in front of Worley House. She did not notice him until he was near enough to touch her.

  “Pardon, miss,” he said, and she nearly cried out at the surprise of the sound so near to her ear. Her head snapped to face him at the same time that she instinctively sidled away from the words.

  He was dressed as a gentleman, but had the marked face and brawny build of a ruffian. She looked toward the house to see that Agnes had not heard the man and continued toward the door. Lucy considered calling out to the maid.

  “Pardon, miss,” the man repeated, eliminating any doubt that he had been attempting to gain her attention. “Please,” he said gently, backing away a step as though he knew the movement would reassure her, “I mean no threat to you, Miss Betancourt.”

  He knew her name. Curiosity warred with instincts to flee to the safety of Worley House, not fifteen feet away. Its proximity made her bold, perhaps, for she asked him. “Who are you? How do you know my name? What do you want?”

  “My name is Archibald Gibbs, miss, and I make it my business to know as many names as possible. I also make it my business to take care of my friends. That is why I am here.”

  “You are not my friend, Mr. Gibbs, nor do I imagine we have any friends in common.”

  “As it happens, we do have a common friend,” he told her with a sigh. “I have considerable business with Mr. Brantwood.”

  And there it was. “Business” no doubt referred to unpaid debts to be collected. She recalled Bex mentioning at one point that he may be followed by his moneylenders. Was this man following him? Was he now following her? The way he watched her—it was careful, wary, but not sinister. She did not have the sense that he meant her harm, but neither did she consider it particularly benign to approach her on the street in such a manner.

  She stepped toward the house. “If that is the case, your business is not with me. I bid you good day.”

  “Please, Miss Betancourt,” he said, halting her departure. “I believe we can be of help to each other.”

  Even as she knew she should not, Lucy took the bait. Because if there was some way—some chance—that she could help Bex in his predicament, she would do it. “How is that, Mr. Gibbs?”

  He shrugged, looked into the street for a moment to watch a passing carriage, then turned back to her. “I would venture a guess that your friend, the duchess, isn’t aware of where you’ve been spending your afternoon.”

  So he was following her. That observation didn’t seem particularly helpful. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Gibbs?”

  He stepped forward, palms raised in supplication, and shook his head. “I am not. I am only encouraging caution. If I know where you’ve been spending your time, Miss Betancourt, it stands to reason others may as well.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Gibbs, but as you do not know me, I should think my reputation is none of your concern.”

  “I beg to differ, miss,” he said, and oddly, his eyes looked kind, despite all the signs that she should be threatened by him. “It is my business to know things, especially regarding men who are important to me. Men who owe me a debt are very important to me. I have been paying attention to Mr. Brantwood and have come to understand who might be important to him.”

  “I think you misunderstand my importance to anyone,” Lucy said, her spine straightening. “But even if I were, as you say, important, what would that mean for you? What is it you want, Mr. Gibbs?”

  “I have no interest in threatening you, Miss Betancourt. You seem like a good enough girl. I only hope that yo
u will consider the circumstances. Mr. Brantwood is a man who bears the weight of debts. To a man with no living, the weight of those debts is heavy indeed, but to another man, these same debts may not seem so insurmountable. A duke, perhaps, might find the amount insignificant.”

  Lucy eyed Mr. Gibbs closely, cautious to keep her expression unrevealing. Bex did not want the duke to pay his debts. She knew that. She did not know if this man knew that, but she sensed informing him would not benefit Bex’s circumstances. She waited silently for the man to continue.

  “If our friend were to engage in conduct of which the duke disapproves, it seems to me Worley would be less likely to offer his help. As Mr. Brantwood’s friend, I would not want to do anything to close that particular door for him.”

  Lucy regarded him. “As Mr. Brantwood’s creditor, you mean.”

  Mr. Gibbs shrugged. “Can a man not be both? I will tell you that Mr. Brantwood’s debts are considerable and there are other measures I could take in an attempt to collect. I only suggest you think about it.”

  He held a calling card out to her then and she took it. He waited while she read it. Archibald Gibbs, Proprietor, No. 22 King Street, St. James.

  “I am more friend to Mr. Brantwood than you realize, miss. As a friend, my advice is for you to be more careful so that neither one of you is harmed.”

  Lucy tucked the card into the pocket of her cloak and nodded. “I shall take it under advisement, Mr. Gibbs.”

  He nodded to her then and stepped away, continuing down the street as though they had never spoken. She glanced around to see who might have noticed, but the square across the street was empty save for two women, backs turned, walking the opposite direction. When she glanced again toward Mr. Gibbs, he was gone.

  * * * *

  When Lucy reached her bedchamber, Agnes informed her that Emma was much revived following a day of rest and the family would dine together. She had just enough time to change and ready herself for the evening meal.

  Agnes helped remove the scarlet gown. As Lucy hid it away, her mind spun at this new, previously unconsidered, consequence of her actions. Hadn’t Bex said the duke was paying the lease of the house he shared with his father—the house where she had just been? Her stomach clenched at the thought of the evening meal. Would they know? Would she be somehow changed in a way that would be discernable by her dearest friend or by her clever and observant husband?

  She was changed, of course—irrevocably so. Yet oddly, nothing was different. She was still a vicar’s daughter from Beadwell with no dowry or prospects. She was Emma’s friend and companion. She was Lord and Lady Ashby’s soon-to-be governess. Nothing about the course of her future was altered in the slightest, yet somehow everything had shifted. She felt oddly as though her path forward remained unchanged, but she now viewed it from a perspective several feet to one side.

  Lucy shook her head. She was making no sense at all. She sighed heavily.

  “Is everything all right, miss?” Agnes asked.

  Lucy gave her a kind smile. Agnes knew everything was not all right. It was awful and wonderful and, despite Mr. Gibbs’s warnings, Lucy knew she was going to commit the same transgression the next day and the one after that. “All is well, Agnes,” she said, because she knew it was what the maid needed to hear. “Thank you for your help.”

  Lucy wasn’t sure if she meant with dressing, or with the entire drama, but Agnes nodded in acceptance and left her. Lucy walked to her dressing table and lifted a hand mirror, surveying her appearance. In her pale blue dress and prim knot, she was herself again, and already the events of the afternoon seemed the stuff of dreams and fancy.

  * * * *

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a pitiful hostess,” Emma said as soon as they were seated in the dining room. “What did you do while I was sleeping today, Lucy?”

  Lucy looked across the table at her friend and belatedly realized the difficulty in facing Emma and the duke would not be in their intuitive sense that Lucy had changed, but in their direct questions regarding how she had spent her day. She did not want to lie to Emma. If anyone might understand her choice, surely it was her dearest lifelong friend.

  But she couldn’t confide in her now—not in front of the duke. What if the duke blamed Bex? What if the duke ceased his support of Bex and his father and they were cast out without a home?

  “Agnes and I went out,” she said, concentrating on swirling her spoon in her soup. She did not want to look Emma in the eye when she lied to her. “We had a very long walk and browsed at a bookshop.”

  “Was the weather warm, then?” Emma asked. “I’m afraid I entirely missed the day.”

  “It was quite nice. How are you feeling now that your time is getting closer?” she asked, hoping to redirect the focus of their conversation.

  “There is no difference, really,” Emma said, dabbing daintily at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. She indicated with a wave, and her soup bowl was whisked efficiently away, barely touched. “I am tired and continue to be queasy. I am told I should experience some changes at the end that will signal the baby is readying to make an appearance.”

  “Yes, well,” the duke drawled, “you were also told the sickness would not persist past the first few months. I’m not certain my confidence is high in the guidance we’ve received.” He leaned back in his chair and regarded his wife intently. “I think we should be prepared for the fact that there may be no signs at all.”

  “That sounds wise,” Lucy agreed and immediately felt a stab of shame that she intended to be away a significant portion of the next two days. It was, she realized, the final sign that she could not continue. “I shall cancel my outing tomorrow,” she said, and immediately the events of the afternoon were pulled even further into a place that seemed more imagination than memory.

  “That’s nonsense,” Emma declared. “What plans?”

  Lucy swallowed and realized her mistake for voicing the decision aloud, thus necessitating another lie. “I was going to return to the museum with Mr. Brantwood—with Agnes, of course.” It was the plan Bex had devised before she left him that afternoon. He was going to collect the two women from Worley House, rather than leave them to find their own way again. “I shall simply send a message postponing the outing.”

  Even as she offered it, Lucy grieved for the loss. It would not simply be postponed, of course. It would be over.

  “Nonsense,” Emma said again.

  “Don’t be stubborn, darling,” the duke said. “Miss Betancourt is correct. The museum isn’t going anywhere. She can visit any day in the next score of years. Your well-being is the most important thing.” He turned to Lucy then. “I shall endeavor to be home as much as possible over the next several days, but I do have some commitments that cannot be canceled. I will be greatly comforted knowing my wife is in your care.”

  “Of course.” Lucy couldn’t not suppress the reminder of her outing to Hertfordshire. The duke’s words were so similar to Bex’s when he persuaded Annabelle Maris to care for her. She could not help smiling that Bex’s impression of a doting husband had been a rather authentic interpretation.

  “I am pregnant,” Emma said, frustration in her tone. “I may not be spry, but I am perfectly lucid. I do not require a keeper. If I have need of anyone, I am surrounded by a house full of competent staff who shall gladly come to my aid.”

  “It’s no use arguing, Emma,” Lucy said. “The decision is made.” And it was. She would send a message to Bex. She was already considering the words in her head. She must convey her regrets for canceling their plans, but sending one’s regrets was just the polite form used in every cancellation. How could she convey that her regrets were real—that she was bereft over the forfeit of her two additional afternoons, and so very grateful for the one she’d had?

  “If you would like to pen a note after dinner, Miss Betancourt, I shall see it delivered t
o my cousin first thing in the morning.”

  Lucy turned to the duke. “Thank you, Your Grace. That is very kind.”

  Her concerns over wording were all for naught. The note would convey none of the things she wished, unless she wrote it in code.

  Chapter Thirty

  Bex sat in the small breakfast room and read the letter again. Guilt and frustration chased through him, leaving him empty of nothing save the defeat.

  He lay the letter on the table and stared, unseeingly, at the opposite wall. His hopes for Hertfordshire were dashed. The broker had still not procured any raw cotton. The overseer had released all the weavers and tacklers and everyone else. The weaving shed was to be shuttered—a thousand looms having never woven a single bolt of cloth.

  That was that. He had nothing, and now, no remaining cause for hope. Hertfordshire was dead and he had not yet secured a backer for Birmingham. Lucy would return this afternoon and he had planned to talk with her about their future, but how could he with this news? He had nothing to offer her yet.

  Bex had watched her from the upstairs window the previous afternoon, hurrying to the waiting carriage. She had pulled the hood of her cloak over her head to hide herself from prying eyes, and it was like the dousing of a bright light with a candle snuffer. Guilt had torn through him then, and sliced ever deeper now.

  He had deflowered her. He had taken sweet, pure, saintly Lucy and turned her into a scandal, sneaking about under cover of cloak and hired carriage. She, who deserved more than any other to be offered all that is pure and honest and good. He had no ability to offer her those things and he had greedily taken away her hope of having them from anyone else.

  He had ruined her.

  To marry her now would only ruin her more completely. What could he offer her but poverty? What sort of position could he even find to support her? He was trained for nothing but to be a gentleman farmer and his father had done his best over the past several years to cure him of even that. Besides, what was a gentleman farmer with no farm? There was no estate. There was no income. There was nothing but homelessness for Bex and his father as soon as the duke’s generosity was exhausted.