Treasured Vows

by Cathy Maxwell

  Immediately Miranda’s back stiffened. A jovial Sir Cecil, as if sensing danger, hastened the family members, of which Phadra was included, into the dining room for a toast to the couple’s happiness.

  But Phadra felt like an outsider. Listening to the relatives laughing and toasting the future of their daughters, she suddenly felt very alone.

  “I trust that your moving in with the Evanses has gone smoothly,” Mr. Morgan’s deep voice said from beside her.

  Phadra looked up at him, feeling unaccountably angry with him. “Would it matter?”

  His eyebrows came together in concern. “Miss Abbott, I sensed earlier today that you believe I’m your enemy. I’m not. I truly want to do what is best for you.”

  “Then why don’t you listen to what I have to say?”

  “About what? Leading a search for your father?”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  He studied her for a moment, as if debating an answer, and then looked away. “Perhaps, but it isn’t feasible at this time.” She sensed that he didn’t believe his own words. He looked back down at her. “Of course, if you marry a man with the right resources, anything is possible.”

  “We obviously hold a difference of opinion, Mr. Morgan. I think marriage should be something more than a sham.”

  His eyes hardened, and she noticed that they darkened with emotion. “Marriage is a perfectly respectable way for a person to advance in this world.”

  Phadra held up her hand. “You may call a cold, impartial alliance a marriage. I cut to the heart of the matter and call it a farce.”

  His eyes flashed. “You are naive, Miss Abbott. I like to think that Lady Miranda and I will make a good marriage, one based upon mutual respect and not upon strong, often errant, emotions.”

  “Now that sounds boring,” Phadra retorted before thinking of the wisdom of her words.

  He looked as if she’d slapped him, and he took a step back, as if needing to remove himself from her presence. “You don’t believe I’m good enough for Lady Miranda?”

  The gravity in his tone startled Phadra. An angry muscle worked in the side of his jaw. But then some little mischievous imp inside her, recalling Miranda’s house-shaking tantrum, caused her to say, “Oh, no, Mr. Morgan. If anything, I think the two of you are very well suited for each other.”

  “You do?” he asked, and then his eyes narrowed, as if he suspected a hidden meaning.

  “You do what?” Miranda asked, coming up behind them.

  “Miss Abbott thinks you will make a beautiful bride,” Mr. Morgan said smoothly, surprising Phadra by the honeyed warmth in his voice. Miranda preened under the compliment, and Phadra found herself more than irritated with him.

  “What are you going to do with my possessions, Mr. Morgan?” she asked, her words now clipped and businesslike.

  Her sudden change of topic appeared to surprise him. He glanced at Miranda, as if to see whether she needed to be included in the conversation. She was no longer listening. Sophie had started talking about her engagement ball, and Miranda had stepped away from them and joined the little group around Sophie.

  “Most of them will be auctioned,” he answered.

  Suddenly she felt a painful sense of loss. “All of them?”

  He paused, seeming to want to soften the blow. “Most of them. I’m sorry.”

  “Why should you be sorry? I’m the one who ran up the debts—or at least part of them.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice and had to look away, her eyes blinking back the sting of tears. “May I at least have my books?”

  “I will see what I can do.”

  “Thank you,” Phadra said, the sound coming out in a whisper as she realized how difficult things were going to be. Her reversal of fortune had happened so fast that when she and Henny had returned to her townhouse with Sir Cecil to pack a bag, she hadn’t been able to think of what she was losing. Fortunately she’d had the presence of mind to pack her small silver box, with the few mementos it held of her mother like the emerald earrings and pin that matched the set in the bank’s vault, but she hadn’t thought to bring anything else.

  Such as her books. Or the wooden horse that her father had sent to her mother years ago on the occasion of Phadra’s birth. That, along with her debts, was her only link to her father. Could she ask for the wooden horse also? She had no idea how matters worked with creditors and bankers.

  Unfortunately Sir Cecil interrupted any further discussion by announcing that an engagement ball would be held the next month in Grant and Miranda’s honor. Miranda squealed her delight.

  “Phadra…Phadra, wake up.”

  Phadra came awake slowly. Morning couldn’t have arrived this quickly. Again she felt someone shake her shoulder.

  There was light in the room. In the dim recesses of her sleep-fogged brain, Phadra knew that it was still night. The light shone from the connecting door between her room and Miranda’s.

  “Miranda?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” The mattress shifted slightly under Miranda’s weight as she sat down. “Phadra, you have to make me a promise.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. I need your help.”

  Phadra rubbed her face, trying to wake up. “For what?”

  “I need you to go with me to the exhibit at the Royal Academy tomorrow.”

  “Of course. Fine,” Phadra agreed, already laying her head back down on the pillow.

  “Good,” came Miranda’s voice. Her silhouette was defined sharply against the light coming from her room. “Then you can keep Grant Morgan occupied at the exhibit while I keep my assignation with Lord Phipps.”

  Chapter 3

  The next afternoon Grant, anxious to get to know his fiancée better, was impatient to be on his way to Evans House to escort Lady Miranda through the exhibit at the Royal Academy. However, he felt the delicate matter of preparing Miss Abbott’s furniture and belongings for auction should be handled by him personally.

  He rapped with the head of his walking stick on the black lacquered door of Miss Abbott’s smart London townhouse. The sound echoed inside the building. Behind him, waiting patiently, stood two gentlemen from a respectable auction house.

  He smiled at them.

  They smiled back.

  He rapped again…and smiled at the gentlemen.

  He was just getting ready to rap on the door a third time when the door opened slowly—but Grant wasn’t prepared for the apparition that met his eyes.

  A Turkish pasha, dressed in yellow-and-blue harem pants, a brocade jacket, and a turban decorated with turquoise ostrich plumes, stood in the doorway. In the sonorous tones of an English butler, he asked, “May I help you?”

  Grant looked from the tip of the man’s nodding plumes down to his good, sturdy English shoes and their shiny buckles before he found his voice. “I’m with the Bank of England. I’m here on behalf of Miss Phadra Abbott.” He held out his card.

  Taking Grant’s card, the Turk asked eagerly, “How is Miss Abbott? Jem and I have been worried.”

  Grant didn’t know what to make of the man’s familiarity. He looked over his shoulder at the two auction-house men. They waited patiently, acting as though it were not unusual for him to be having a conversation with a butler dressed for a masquerade. “May I come in?” Grant asked.

  “Oh! Yes, sir, please enter.” The butler held the door open wider.

  Grant stepped into the cramped space that passed for a hallway in most London homes. Besides the butler, there was a footman in the same outlandish garb, who moved up onto the first step of the staircase as the auction-house men crowded in behind Grant. “These gentlemen are from the auction firm of Booth and Peabody. They are here to appraise the contents of this establishment.”

  The eagerness left the butler’s face. “Miss Abbott isn’t returning?”

  “No,” Grant replied soberly.

  “She’s fine, isn’t she?” the footman, whom Grant surmised was named Jem, asked.

&n
bsp; Surprised that both servants were more concerned for their mistress’s welfare than for their own, Grant answered, “Yes, she’s fine, although she has suffered a temporary financial setback.” He didn’t quite understand why he felt it necessary to honey-coat the exact truth. That thought brought to his mind another unpleasant task he had to perform. He turned to the butler. “I need a word in private with all the servants.”

  “There’s just myself and Jem, sir. Miss Abbott would bring in a cook and a maid if she was holding a salon, but other than that, Henny, Jem, and I managed most matters for Miss Abbott.”

  “And your name is?” Grant asked.

  “Wallace, sir.”

  “Wallace, which room shall we use to talk in private?”

  The butler pulled his turban off his head to reveal a shock of snow-white hair. He nodded at a door. “There’s the receiving room.”

  “Please give us a moment,” Grant said to the other men, who nodded gravely. Without waiting for the servants, Grant opened the door and stepped into the room—and then stopped.

  The initial impact of the room’s outrageous decor stunned him. The sky-blue walls met a ceiling painted pale yellow and crisscrossed with an azure and sea-green Moorish lattice design. Crimson sofas and Egyptian-style cross-framed chairs, embellished with gold leaf, provided the seating. Carved wooden sphinxes served as table and sofa legs, while brass lanterns, much like those that could be seen in pictures of Turkish palaces, hung from the ceiling. The light scent of incense perfumed the air.

  He instantly recognized the furniture from the descriptions he’d read on several of Miss Abbott’s bills. On the mantel sat a clock that he knew she had paid £325 for. He moved closer to study it. The clock’s face was set into the carved figure of a half-naked Isis. Her full breasts cuddled the numeral 12.

  “Unusual, isn’t it, sir?” Wallace said. “Henny always called it rubbish, but Miss Abbott claimed it was a work of art. She said it was classical.”

  “Like your livery?” Grant asked dryly.

  Wallace’s face broke into a big grin. “Oh, no, sir. She termed our livery ‘original.’ ”

  Grant smiled and looked around the room again. Now he saw that it held a certain grace, a certain flair. Like Phadra Abbott herself.

  “Miss Abbott is one of the best patrons I’ve ever worked for,” the butler was saying.

  His words brought Grant back to his unpleasant task. He’d discovered that the best way to deliver bad news was to be direct. He stated baldly, “Unfortunately, as her guardian, I must regretfully inform you that your services will no longer be needed.”

  “You’re her guardian, sir?” Wallace asked. His eyebrows came together in a fierce frown.

  “Yes, I am,” Grant answered. “As a representative of the Bank of England, I bear responsibility for her.”

  “Well, then, sir, it is high time you saw to your responsibilities!” the butler practically roared, and shoved Grant in the shoulder.

  “I beg your pardon,” Grant began, confused by the man’s anger.

  “You certainly should beg it,” Wallace snapped. “That young woman has been given far too much freedom. She believed every shark’s story in London and would have found herself up to her pretty neck in ugly tricks if we hadn’t kept her out of trouble.” He leaned forward, both fists clenched, and for a moment Grant thought he was going to have a fistfight on his hands. “It’s about time, I say, that you owned up to your responsibility and took a hand in her affairs—although I won’t hesitate to tell you that I think less of you as a man for waiting until the wolf is at the door.”

  As a banker who’d worked his way up through the ranks, and as the head of a household, Grant had sacked many individuals, both at work and at home. He’d seen his share of angry reactions, but he’d never had an employee defend the employer before. He raised a conciliatory hand, but Jem jumped in before he could speak. “Wallace is right! Miss Phadra is one of the kindest, good people I know. Men like you should be hung at Tyburn for leaving defenseless women to their own devices—”

  “I’m just her banker,” Grant finally managed to get in.

  Wallace shoved Grant again, his lip curling with disgust. “Yes, and just like Henny says, you all are a lot of bloody grave robbers.”

  That insult was going a step too far. “Is that what Mrs. Shaunessy says?” Grant said. “Or yourself?”

  “Meself,” the butler announced with a trace of the street in his voice. “I say you are a bloody grave robber for leaving a poor, defenseless woman to her own devices, and I’ve a good mind to give you a taste of me fist.” He raised a beefy fist that made Grant realize that this man was no ordinary butler.

  “And after he gives you a popper, I plan on landing one on you, too!” Jem chimed in.

  “Don’t wait your turn,” Grant snapped. “Come on, both of you! I’ll not stand here and be called names by two ostlers dressed up like Turks and passing themselves off as decent British servants.”

  Wallace’s face turned livid. He put up his fives in a traditional boxing stance. There was no doubt in Grant’s mind that the man had seen the ring. Well, he could throw a good punch or two himself.

  “Get ’im, Wallace,” Jem yelled. “You show ’im wot’s wot!”

  The two men circled each other. Wallace’s right came out in a sharp jab. Grant ducked and felt the wind from the swing over his head. What he didn’t plan on was Wallace’s left catching him in the stomach. Fortunately he was stepping back when the man’s punch caught him.

  But Wallace’s uppercut caught him square in the jaw.

  The bone-rattling pain made Grant see red. His first punch hit the butler square on the nose; his second snapped the man’s head back. Wallace staggered backward. Grant followed him, grabbed a handful of his pasha costume at the neck, and dragged the man up forward, his right arm pulled back, ready to land another bruising punch.

  The sight of blood coming from the man’s nose brought Grant to his senses. What had come over him? Wallace wobbled slightly but steadied himself by holding on to Grant’s arm. Both Grant and Wallace were breathing heavily.

  He looked past Jem, who stared in surprise at the now-open door to the receiving room. The gentlemen from the auction house leaned through the doorway, openly gawking at the scene in front of them. They couldn’t have raised their eyebrows any higher.

  Slowly Grant lowered his right arm. He untangled his fingers from the brocade of the butler’s pasha jacket and stepped back before glancing over at the auction-house men, who nodded and mumbled some apologies about entering without being invited and then bowed out of the room, shutting the door behind them.

  Grant cleared his throat, feeling very awkward. “I owe you an apology, Wallace. I normally don’t lose my temper like that.”

  Wallace had pulled out a handkerchief and was dabbing at his nose. “There’s no apology necessary, guv’nor. We both lost our heads. Miss Abbott can do that to a man.”

  “Miss Abbott had nothing to do with it,” Grant replied. “She wasn’t even in the room.”

  “She don’t have to be,” came the answer. Wallace held out his bloodied handkerchief. “Here, sir, you have blood on your neckcloth.”

  “And the back of your sleeve is torn,” Jem added, his eyes holding new respect for Grant. “If I may say, sir, you swing a good punch.”

  “Aye, sir,” Wallace said. “It’s not often a man staggers me with a facer, and you can take a punch, too. Do you follow the sport?”

  Refusing with a shake of his head Wallace’s offer to share his handkerchief, Grant reached under his arm and felt the tear along the seam of his sleeve. He’d have to return home and change before meeting Lady Miranda. Wallace’s question distracted him. “No, no, I don’t. I boxed some when I was up at Oxford, but that’s the last of it. I’m a banker.” He looked at the two servants. “I’m really a very rational man. I don’t brawl with servants.”

  Both men nodded, although their expressions let Grant know they saw not
hing wrong with a brawl or two. Wallace said, “We know you are a gentleman, sir, even if you can throw a punch. You might need to a time or two if you are going to look after Miss Abbott,” he finished stoutly.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that she has nothing to do with this?” Grant asked, completely exasperated with the two men.

  “Till you convince yourself,” Wallace answered. “Besides, sir, we mean no disrespect. We just want to make sure that you do your duty to Miss Abbott.”

  The two men looked so sober and honest in their concern for their mistress that Grant had the urge to explain to them that he had just taken over her account, that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Instead he found himself asking, “Are you two men interested in working for me?”

  Their jaws dropped open.

  Grant had surprised himself too…but then when he thought about it, it made sense. “I’ll be getting married soon and will need more household help, especially since four months ago my sister Jane married a clergyman from Essex and took our butler, Hankins, with her. Now I need a butler and could use a footman, too.”

  “And how much are the wages?” Wallace asked, suddenly a man of business himself.

  “Twenty pounds for each of you,” Grant said. “I’ll pay Jem the same, since he will have to find his own lodgings.”

  Wallace looked at Jem, who shrugged. Then he turned to Grant and said, “Thirty pounds.”

  Grant frowned. The rascal was lucky he was offering him a job at all. “Twenty-five, and I never want to see you in that costume again.”

  “Done, sir. We will accept your employment.”

  A few minutes later Grant sent Jem and Wallace to his house, asking Jem to return with a clean shirt and fresh jacket for him. He then opened up the receiving room to the auction-house men, who went about their grim business efficiently.

  Grant roamed through the empty house. No other room was decorated with the reckless abandon of the receiving room—until he came to what he knew must be Miss Abbott’s bedroom. He hesitated in the doorway, and then pushed the door open with his fingertips.