The Offer

by Sara Portman

  Until it had ended. Then he had assumed she was a harlot, and now he rejected her attempts to help him. Stupid, prideful, hurtful man. Tears stung. She closed her eyes in an attempt to stave them off. She pressed her closed fist to her lips.

  The Mathematician coughed. “I am sorry, miss, for your wasted effort.”

  Lucy opened her eyes, tears and all, in time to see the reedy man tentatively reach one arm toward her. He patted her shoulder three times and quickly withdrew.

  She ought to thank him—show appreciation for this attempt to comfort even when doing so obviously brought him a good deal of discomfort—but she could not. She was too frustrated and angry.

  “He is a fool.” She snapped her head higher, blinking away the tears. “Do not return the funds.”

  He eyed her skeptically. “Do not return the funds?”

  “Not a penny.”

  * * * *

  The door of the townhouse occupied by the Misters Brantwood was opened by a middle-aged manservant who made no effort to hide his consternation upon finding an unchaperoned young woman standing in the rain outside his door.

  “I beg your pardon, miss. You must have the wrong address.”

  Lucy pushed her way inside, taking advantage of the man’s inability to anticipate this action. She stepped, dripping, into the foyer and pushed the hood of her cloak away from her face. “I do not have the wrong address,” she clipped. “I am here to see Mr. Brantwood—the younger Mr. Brantwood—and I’m not leaving until I do.”

  The man’s eyes grew wide. “I…miss, I don’t think…that is…”

  She lifted a staying hand. “I don’t care what you think. I only care that you inform Mr. Brantwood that I am here and waiting for him.”

  He stood, frozen with indecision, for a time before eventually recovering his wits. He gave a curt nod, mumbled some form of agreement, and hurried off.

  Lucy released a great breath. He was home. She would see him. She would tell him what she had come to say.

  What had she come to say? Perhaps she should have taken the time to consider that before she arrived. She knew what she wanted to say. She wanted to scream at him to accept the investments, to build something for himself, to use it to find his purpose. She longed to ask him to build something for her—build a life for them both that would allow them to be together.

  But she could not ask for those things. He had never wanted those things and she had known that from the beginning. His words echoed in her memory.

  Nothing ruins passion so well as a marriage.

  What they had shared was passionate and, more importantly, their brief affair was what she had offered and he had accepted. She would not regret it, even if it had left her aching for something she could never have.

  Someone she could never have.

  Footsteps sounded on the landing above. She swallowed, straightening her spine, and waited for him to face her.

  He came into view at the top of the steps and paused there, meeting her eyes. His lips formed a grim line. He was unhappy that she had come. Even though she had expected it, the realization devastated.

  * * * *

  Bex looked down into the foyer at a wet and bedraggled Lucy, patron saint of the betrayed and disappointed. She met his gaze unwaveringly. He broke the contact first, making his way down the staircase to stand in front of her.

  She spoke first, so much anger and frustration spilling out in a single, burdened word. “Why?”

  He shook his head. “Lucy, I am grateful for the lengths to which you have gone to help me, but I cannot accept funds from these people.”

  “Why not? Some of ‘these people’ are your friends.”

  Why not? Because he could not fail them all again. Because he could not have Lucy connected to yet another of his misguided and self-destructive pursuits. Because he had wreaked enough havoc to ruin them both several times over and he would not do it again. He would not take the money she had collected on his behalf and make her a liar with his own failure.

  “Because you misunderstand,” he said. “I speculate with investments in businesses. I am not a man of industry myself. I understand it was well intentioned, but you solicited contributions under the false pretense that I would be conducting business of my own. I will not. I have none. Therefore, the contributions must be returned.”

  Her eyes were cold, accusing, and he hated it. Her question was sharp. “Why will you not?”

  He wanted to. He wished desperately that he could. He couldn’t tell her so, because she would only encourage him. She would waste more of her faith—more of her life—believing, waiting for him to make something of himself, to become a man capable of providing security and protection. He was not greedy enough to subject her to that.

  “Because it is not who I am.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t even know what that means. ‘Who you are’ is a man who has been given an opportunity—one born of the faith of others, which is the most precious kind—yet you choose to throw it away.”

  “I do not throw it away. I politely decline.”

  A fire lit in her cold eyes. “Politely decline?” she asked, her voice rising to an incredulous pitch. “You reject the faith of your closest friends and family, squander the opportunity they’ve given you, and call it polite? It’s asinine, that’s what it is.”

  Bex’s control slipped. “What opportunity?” he asked, splaying his hands wide with the question. “How, precisely, do you envision me putting these funds to use? What enterprise am I funding, Lucy? I don’t design machines or invent new things.”

  She stepped back, retreating from his anger, and guilt nipped at him. “I…I don’t know.” Her brow knit. “You are the one—you—who has seen all of these new enterprises. You are the one who has found the…the ingredients. You.”

  Him. Yes, he had boasted to her, hadn’t he, that he knew the ingredients to the recipe? He had forgotten to tell her of the most vital component—an idea. He was not a man of ideas.

  He looked at her for a long moment, resolved to what he must do. Her life was in an uproar, all her plans destroyed at his hand. She had critical decisions to make just then—all her future plans must be redefined, because of him. If he allowed her to hope, allowed her to put her faith in him, she would make decisions based upon those expectations—fatally flawed expectations.

  “I am decided, Lucy. There is no point in further discussing it. I assume Gibbs paid you for your performance?”

  Her eyes flashed with blue anger. “He did. One pound, three shillings.”

  Bex steeled himself against the look she cast him. “Take that and whatever else you have and leave London. The gossip will not follow you. Go back to your parents. Travel north. If the duchess provides you a reference, you will find a post. Nothing needs to change for you.”

  Her expression hardened, her pale jaw set as though carved from marble. “What will you do?”

  He looked down at the carpet, not wanting her to catch the truth in his eyes. He had no bloody idea what he would do. He would not burden her with that. He sighed and looked up again. “I know what I will not do. I will not prey upon others.”

  She stepped toward him then. “How do you prey on others if they willingly offer support?”

  “You don’t understand, Lucy.”

  The indignation fell from her expression, leaving only wounded eyes and an unearthly pallor. “That is the first thing you have said today with which I can wholly agree.” She opened her reticule and pulled from it a folded square of paper. “Mr. Thistlewaite has prepared this list of contributors to the consortium with their respective amounts. Your contribution of oversight and expertise has been assigned a monetary value and included on the list. Do with it what you will.”

  He took the paper, and her hand fell listlessly back to her side. He saw the resignation and disappointment in he
r ever-expressive face and hated himself for putting it there. The hurt she bore encircled his own heart and squeezed, tightening in his chest and interfering with his very breath.

  He could go to her and tell her he would do as she asked, that he would accept the money. Nearly every part of him wanted to tell her he would do it. Every part except the memory that he had been faced with this dilemma once before. He had rejected her, despite the heartbreak it had caused, denying her what she wanted because he knew it was not what she needed. And then he had yielded to temptation and changed his mind despite his better judgment, causing irreversible damage.

  Steeling his resolve, he vowed not to succumb this time. “Lucy”—he closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and amended his statement—“Miss Betancourt. Please know I hope, most passionately, for your future happiness.”

  She only stared at him in response. She did not need to say the words. He could see them as clearly as if she had written them down for him to keep.

  I don’t believe you.

  Then she turned and left quietly, all the determination and fury with which she had arrived gone from her posture, as though she’d left it behind for him to burden his memory.

  Bex looked down at the paper she’d given him and unfolded it. A list of misplaced trust, with his own name at the bottom. How fitting. His eyes did not linger long on his own name, for another on the list caught his attention.

  Miss Lucy Betancourt—one pound, three shillings.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The mood at Worley House was somber and Lucy knew it was her fault. In the past few weeks they had received neither callers nor invitations. Emma insisted it was due to nearing the end of her time, but Lucy knew the truth. No one wanted to extend an invitation that might include the unfortunate scandal the duke and duchess had in their house. Emma and her duke would be fine once she was gone. They were, after all, a duke and duchess. Lucy had wanted to return to Beadwell immediately, but Emma had insisted she stay until the child was born.

  Emma rested often and they were quiet days, waiting for the birth. Eventually, Lucy admitted to herself that she was not waiting for only the baby. She was waiting for word from Bex—some indication that he had relented, or even just that he was thinking of her—but there was none.

  Lucy read often, or tried to read. She often found herself staring sightlessly at pages of books or at walls or windows. It was for this reason that she happened to be standing at the drawing room window, looking down over the street and square below, when she saw the man walking up to Worley House. She knew him by his posture and his gait, even before she could make out his face, and her heart skipped. Bex.

  He had come.

  He had finally come for her.

  Perhaps he had come to tell her he would use the money after all. Perhaps he had not and would still refuse it. She didn’t care.

  It was true. The realization came quickly, but not entirely as a surprise. She did not care a whit if he used the money—only that he had come for her. She didn’t care if they were poor, if they could be together. She didn’t care that love was impractical, so long as they could have it.

  She waited and watched as he disappeared into the house and out of her view. She turned to the door, expectant for the knock of the butler, announcing his arrival.

  She left the window and stood at the sofa. She lifted a nervous hand to her hair, smoothed her skirts, and tried to exhale her anxiety. When no knock came, she went to the door and opened it. She walked into the hall and, from the shadow, peeked down into the foyer below.

  She watched as the butler led him to the duke’s study.

  Lucy returned to the drawing room and sat on the sofa, unsure of what to make of this. Why hadn’t he asked to see her? Did he see the duke as a surrogate guardian? Was he asking the duke’s permission to speak with her?

  She waited what seemed an interminable amount of time and then worried she had been waiting too long. Had he gone without speaking to her at all? She rose and went to the window again.

  She stood sentry there for long minutes, but could not stay. She went to the hall again and watched over the foyer, waiting.

  * * * *

  “Your Grace, I know that you contributed to the consortium Lucy devised.” One brow rose on the duke’s otherwise expressionless visage and Bex amended. “That is, Miss Betancourt.” He cleared his throat and continued. “I have been delinquent in not extending my gratitude. After all that has happened, it is more than I deserve and I thank you.”

  The duke was assessing, his unreadable blue eyes penetrating into Bex as though seeing into his very soul. “You may thank Miss Betancourt and my wife. They advocated quite determinedly on your behalf.”

  “I will not insult you with platitudes or ineffective apologies for my lapse in judgment. I will only give you my word, Your Grace, that I will not bring any further pain or ruin into Miss Betancourt’s life. She is not deserving of it, nor any of the harm that I have caused.”

  “Won’t you?” the duke asked with an inscrutable expression.

  “I will not.”

  “What will you do?” he asked and relaxed ever so slightly into his chair. “I assume you have not come only to thank me.”

  “Not only for that reason, no.” Bex cleared his throat. “It was my original intent to return the money, Your Grace, as I could not, in good conscience, accept your investment when there was nothing in which to invest.”

  “Your original intent.”

  “Yes. You see, once I had discarded any idea of accepting the contributed funds, I was left with nothing but my existing investments. The most promising of these was a weaving shed in Hertfordshire.”

  The duke leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “In Hertfordshire?”

  “Yes. It was intentionally located away from other weaving operations to shield the improvements in the power loom from prying competitive eyes and nearer to London in order for the cloth to be quicker to market. Watford sits on a newer branch of the Grand Union Canal.”

  “I have never heard of a weaving shed so far south.”

  Bex leaned forward in his seat. Now they were getting to the crux of it. “For good reason, Your Grace. Raw cotton from America arrives in Liverpool. A broker there had assured the Watford shed a share of the imports, but in the end, he was unable to fulfill his promise. I suspect pressure was brought to bear and the broker could not risk his regular customers for the chance of new, especially one so far away that the others could not keep watchful eyes.”

  “So the location of this weaving shed had proven to be not only its brilliance, but also its fatal flaw.”

  Bex nodded, pleased to see the duke was at least intrigued by the tale. “I believed that to be the case, but a simple comment Lucy—that is, Miss Betancourt—made stuck in my head. She asked why the raw cotton couldn’t arrive in London instead of Liverpool. I dismissed the idea as naïve and impossible, but perhaps it is not, Your Grace.” Bex straightened his shoulders. “What if a merchant—a fledgling, newly funded merchant, with a cousin who’d lived in Boston for four years and worked as a shipping clerk—what if he—if they—could bring raw cotton to London?”

  The duke studied him for an interminable moment, his intelligent eyes steady, even as the thoughts circulated behind them. Finally, he spoke. “You want to be a shipping merchant?”

  “I do, Your Grace.”

  “That is a highly speculative venture. There is a risk of loss while at sea, and risk again when you arrive in England and cannot sell your goods for a profit.”

  Bex nodded. “You are correct. Very few men have the capital or connections to even consider such an enterprise.” He straightened. “But I was fortunate enough to meet an intelligent and resourceful woman who believed in my capability to undertake an endeavor such as this. By her efforts, I have a consortium of investors who have seen fit to provide
that funding. If I can fund a single voyage with a shipment of raw cotton, I am guaranteed to sell all of it. I have a waiting purchaser who is desperate for it.”

  The duke’s brow furrowed as he considered this explanation. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, bringing his hands together on the desktop. “So you begin your own career as a merchant and manage to save your Hertfordshire investment at the same time?”

  “That is my hope, Your Grace, but I will require your assistance to do so, in particular, your connections in Boston.”

  “You understand, I was only a clerk in Boston?”

  “I do, but you are a duke now. Certainly that raises your stock a bit, even to the Americans.”

  The duke inclined his head in acceptance of this truth. “I will write a letter. I cannot promise what will come of it, but I can write the letter.”

  Relief drained the tension from Bex’s shoulders, making him want to slump into his chair, but he held himself erect. “Thank you, Your Grace. You have my word, if you will accept it, that I will repay all that my family has taken from you, as soon as I am able.”

  The duke’s eyes narrowed. “What of Miss Betancourt?”

  Bex swallowed and met the man’s gaze. “The investment is not the only opportunity I have nearly squandered, Your Grace. If this endeavor is successful, I will be in a position to offer marriage to her, if she will have me. That is a greater inspiration than the repayment of my debts.”

  “And if it is not successful?” the duke asked.

  “I will be much as I am now, unable to offer her anything. I am determined to succeed, but I understand I may not. I cannot speak with Lucy until I am assured of providing her security. I will not have her wait for me.” A smile tugged at his lips as he thought of her. “She would understand the need to be practical.”

  * * * *

  So much time passed before Lucy saw him—saw Bex—that she started when he appeared. He left the duke’s study and walked directly to the front door, purposeful in his direction and not even looking to see that she was there.