by Cheryl Bolen
“It is growing a touch rowdy, sir,” Simpson confessed. “If you’ll follow me.”
Simpson led David through the Watson residence, an exact mirror image to his own, and stopped before the open doorway to the dining room. Simpson cleared his throat loudly and then announced him.
The room erupted into shouts of welcome and David was engulfed by acquaintances that he hadn’t seen for a whole year. Their greetings were so exuberant he had no idea who was speaking at first. When they eventually settled down, he counted heads. Linus Radley, Walter George, and even Valentine Merton had pried himself from his observation of the stars, and they all sat around the table. Peter Watson, the man who owed his bank three thousand pounds, remained seated, cards clutched in his hand and a strained smile spreading across his face.
Watson must realize why he’d come, and all of a sudden David didn’t want to think of the notice awaiting delivery inside his bag.
“Join us, Hawke?” Valentine Merton demanded, slapping the tabletop with the flat of a hand.
“Only fools gamble,” David replied. “I’ll keep my money thank you very much.”
“So says the banker,” his acquaintances intoned as one then burst into fits of laughter.
“Still as unfunny as it was when I was eighteen and went to work with my father in London.” David shook his head, amused they were far deeper in their cups than they had first appeared “Will you never leave off about my chosen career?”
“Well, you were going to be a composer,” Walter George accused, his round cheeks shining pink in the candlelight.
Linus Radley chipped Walter’s shoulder with a fist. “Wasn’t it sculpture?”
Valentine Merton cleared his throat. “No, you are wrong on both counts. Our Hawke was going to be a world renowned painter of beautiful, scantily clad courtesans and actresses were you not?”
That young and carefree man was but a dim memory. “In my salad days perhaps, Val. Painting does not pay the piper. A man must earn his way in the world.”
He deliberately kept his gaze from Peter Watson. As far as he could tell, Peter did nothing but chase the next game or other sources of excitement. While their friends had each found employment, a career to make their fortunes from—great or small—Peter appeared to have done nothing productive with his days.
David moved into the room, coming to a stop behind Valentine to observe the game while they recommenced play. As usual, Val was winning.
“Swimming tomorrow?” Val asked, tilting his head back to make eye contact.
David raised an eyebrow. “Is there another way to start the day in Brighton?”
Val twisted in his seat and ran his gaze over David from head to toe. “I thought, perhaps, you might have stayed in to rest. You’ve lost weight since I saw you last.”
It was true, though David didn’t like to admit it. He had lost enough weight that his clothes were roomier. His work at the bank demanded long hours and he frequently lost track of time. Meals were snatched when he remembered to be hungry. Aside from that, there was nothing wrong with him. In Brighton he would relax, eat well, and take some exercise.
The sideboard was littered with half-empty platters of food and his growling stomach reminded him he’d barely eaten since breakfast. “Merely lost my puppy fat.” He glanced across the room at Walter George. If anything, the younger man’s cheeks had grown even more round since last summer. He tipped his head in Walter George’s direction. “Unlike some.”
“He’s swimming with us this year. Becoming quite proficient at it, too.” Val leaned closer. “Yesterday, I stopped checking that he hadn’t sunk to the bottom.”
David chuckled but weariness made it sound false to his own ears. He should go home to dine and catch up with everyone’s news in the morning while they swam. He was exhausted but glad to have finally reached his destination.
He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I will have to leave you to your game. Merely wanted to let you know I’ve arrived and pay my respects.”
Although they protested he should stay, David waved a hand as he strode to the door.
“Swimming tomorrow?” Peter Watson called loudly before David left the room.
He halted and turned slowly, looking at his friend. Peter appeared anxious—he had every right to be. David forced a smile to his face. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
When he arrived at the front door, his hat, gloves and his bag had been taken away. He looked for his possessions.
“Good evening, Mr. Hawke.”
CHAPTER TWO
The sweet female voice brought a smile to David’s lips. He spun about as a tiny young woman, no higher than his chest, stepped from the dimly-lit parlor. “Miss Watson. I did not see you there. How do you do this evening?”
If David had seen her first, he might have been better prepared for her brilliant smile. The young girl he’d watched grow to adulthood was lovely in cream muslin. Soft brown hair matched the calmness of her eyes, delicate sun-touched skin from her days here at the seaside beckoned. Miss Abigail Watson had grown to be a beauty; she fairly took his breath away.
“I’m very well, thank you.” She grinned impishly as she turned his hat between her hands. “You did not see me when you arrived, either. I was sitting at the window, looking outside at the comings and goings of Cavendish Place.”
He took a pace towards her. His bag sat on a chair behind her. “Were you?”
Her brow creased. “I was beginning to wonder if you were coming this summer.”
“I was delayed on bank business.” He’d put off his holiday as long as he could because of the Watsons. To give them more time before his business with them wrecked their lives.
Her smile dimmed. “This bank of yours keeps you very busy.”
Many of his acquaintances thought he worked too hard and Abigail’s tone was one of deep disapproval, too. However, he enjoyed the back and forth of negotiations too much to stop now. A young woman of her age couldn’t understand what drove him. The challenge of making money for his customers brought him immense satisfaction. “One must earn a living, Miss Watson. I cannot neglect the bank’s customers. They expect me to do well for them when they give me their funds to invest.”
She moved forward. “I hoped to see you when I was in London last month. Does your bank prevent you from seeing friends, too?”
He winced. “You are speaking of your come out? I thank you for the invitation to the party. Unfortunately, the bank required me to . . .”
She waved her free hand to halt his apology. “Yes, yes. I read your letter declining to attend. A very last minute refusal after you had already accepted our invitation. I was looking forward to dancing with you now I am old enough not to look silly doing so.”
David frowned. “It wasn’t a deliberate snub, Miss Watson. I would have been very happy dancing with you, too. I had to travel north. My business partner fell ill and I had to take his place in some important negotiations at the last minute. I would much rather be among friends than terminating an account.”
David bit his tongue. That was exactly what he had come here to arrange this very night and would complete tomorrow morning should circumstances allow it. Miss Watson couldn’t know what he’d come to do or she would not be so friendly toward him. “Did you enjoy your time in London?”
Her lips turned up in a sincere smile. “I had a glorious time. London is a very exciting city to visit.”
“I think so.” Relief coursed through him. She appeared content. David assumed the trip and expense incurred for a London stay had proved fruitful. Whoever he was, he was bound to be made very happy by his marriage to Miss Watson. He cleared his throat. “So, when is the happy day to be?”
“What happy day?”
“Well, I assumed by your smiles you made many new acquaintances in London. Who is the lucky fellow? When will you be married?”
“When someone I like asks me.” She set one hand on her hip and scowled at him. “And whoever said I we
nt to London to find a husband anyway?”
David floundered. Why wouldn’t Miss Watson be in search of a husband for herself? Every other pretty girl gone up to London ended up some man’s wife eventually. “I apologize if I have presumed too much of your intent. Given all the whispered talk of beaus last summer between the young ladies of the place, I assumed you would be keen to marry too and settle into your own home. That is why most young women go up to London, after all.”
Miss Watson stamped her foot, proving herself not quite as grown up and serene as her outward appearance made her appear at first glance. “I am at home, and don’t you dare paint me with the same brush as those grasping ninnies. I don’t need to snare myself a London husband. All the men I met there were a bunch of blathering, overdressed fools.”
David raised his hands. “Peace, Miss Watson. I didn’t mean to offend. However, I find it hard to believe there is not some poor fellow pining for the loss of your company.”
She shoved his hat at his chest. David grunted and reached for it, but Miss Watson held onto one side and kept it between them. “Don’t think you know me or anything about women, Mr. Hawke. If you had one clue, you’d already be married and better cared for. You’re thinner than last year. You’ve not taken good enough care of yourself since you’ve been gone.”
David groaned. Not her, too. Perhaps he didn’t know Miss Watson after all. She hadn’t been this forthright last year. In fact, she’d been downright demure when their paths had crossed. He laughed to ease the tension brewing between them. “And who would put up with me? Which poor woman is prepared to be saddled with a boring banker for a husband?” He teased her but David believed he already knew the answer. Very few women would accept his lifestyle—the long work hours, the last minute travel. They would claim his attention as well as his money or they’d go elsewhere for the former, and spend the latter on someone else.
Miss Watson’s smile grew. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Despite years of training to master his emotions in delicate negotiations, David gaped. Had Miss Watson discovered a woman who might hold tender feelings for him? So far he’d not found a woman capable of earning his admiration to stir him from his bachelor state. However, at his age, he probably should consider the matter properly. He would like to hand his wealth to a son one day, but the opportunity to marry hadn’t presented itself. Someone nearer to his own age would make life harmonious, as well. He glanced down at the bright-eyed girl before him and ignored the way his chest tightened. “I would indeed, but I suspect you merely tease a crusty old bachelor. I doubt such a person exists.”
Her smile grew coy and then she laughed softly. “Perhaps I will tell you, but only if you promise to see out your whole holiday and not run back to London when summoned. A week is barely long enough without cutting it short by two days. We were all very disappointed to discover you’d gone so suddenly without a word last year.”
He tugged on his hat as their gazes held, amused that she resisted giving it up. Perhaps Miss Watson had become a touch stubborn in the last year, too. He couldn’t remember having such an encounter with her before. “All right, you have me intrigued. I promise not to run back to London this year if you promise in return to impart your important discovery at the end.”
“Good, you won’t regret it, Mr. Hawke. I promise.” Her smile widened to alarming proportions and David feared he had seriously underestimated Miss Watson. He’d just been bested by an eighteen-year-old girl and she’d only used her smiles to do it. He must be getting old.
Eventually, his hat slipped from her fingers. He placed it firmly on his head and tugged his gloves on. “Well, goodnight, Miss Watson. Perhaps we will run into each other again.”
“Of course we will.” Her brow rose. “You only live next door.”
And she only lived here until he evicted her and her brother from their home. The weight on his chest returned, coupled with intense dissatisfaction. He’d delayed as it was, hoping, praying, for her brother to find a way out of his financial mess. If Miss Watson had not married yet after her time in London then her chances for making one following the foreclosure decreased considerably.
He forced a smile but a chill swept through him. Foreclosing on the Watsons was likely to end any friendship between them. Everyone would blame him and sympathize with the Watsons. No matter what he did, alliances would shift in the next few days as the news of his actions came to light. Regardless of how badly he wanted to find a solution, the problem wasn’t his to solve.
David stepped around her to pick up his bag. “Good night, Miss Watson.”
“Until tomorrow, Mr. Hawke. Sleep well.” She brushed her fingertips against his sleeve in a fleeting caress.
David, foolishly, wished he didn’t have to leave her company.
CHAPTER THREE
The door closed with a hollow thud behind David Hawke. Abigail lifted her hand to stare at the sealed, thick letter she’d snatched from the top of his travel bag. Stealing was wrong but her conscience warred with her sense of self-preservation. She couldn’t blindly stumble forward, waiting for the axe to fall. She knew it was only a matter of time before Hawke and Knight Bank of London called in the outstanding debt.
Her brother’s name had been scrawled across the front of the letter in David’s strong penmanship and her pulse raced as she ran her fingers over it. The heavy papers had a disquieting air of finality about them.
Although she had tried to prepare herself as best she could these past months, she appreciated that David, and not his business partner Mr. Knight, had come to deliver the bad news. David, their nearest neighbor since she was a child, had seemed sad to be in Brighton again rather than pleased and that spoke well of his character in her mind.
Abigail closed the parlor doors to ensure her privacy. Although Peter would be involved with his friends for hours yet, she didn’t want him to accidentally discover her interference. He would be cross and likely embarrassed to learn she’d discovered the situation on her own, but she’d long ago learned Peter wouldn’t willingly volunteer information. She had to take matters into her own hands, no matter how unpleasant.
Her hands trembled as she moved toward the candelabra on the pianoforte. She had little time to familiarize herself with the terms of David’s letter or make plans for the future. Peter would never think to do so.
The seal was thick and she broke it after a struggle. David’s, not his business partner’s, cover note was tersely worded. Her brother had thirty days to provide the bank with three thousand pounds or the bank would seize the Watson’s assets and that meant the house she stood in. They’d be cast out onto the street, and worse, Peter may have to enter debtor’s prison. She glanced around and tears filled her eyes. Abigail loved her parents’ house. She loved living in Brighton near her friends.
Her legs wobbled and she sank onto the pianoforte stool, raising the letter to fan herself. How could she bear to leave Cavendish Place? How could Peter have let this happen to them?
Oh, she wasn’t so foolish to have no idea. It wasn’t in Peter’s nature to think too far beyond the next day. She loved him but his pigheaded obstinacy drove her to distraction more often than not, which was why, at her friend’s urging she had taken a more active role in the running of his home. If left to him, they would have nothing to eat each night, no coal to burn during the winter. She had developed a sneaky habit of reading his letters just to find out what the next catastrophe would likely be.
She folded the letter carefully.
Hopefully, David would think he had merely misplaced the missive and she could return it without him noticing. She felt very bad for deceiving him in this way. He had always been kind to her, even willing to speak to a girl much younger than him in past years. But she was older now and not prone to patience.
A fierce blush swept over her cheeks and she fanned herself again. She had been forward in her speech with David tonight. Much more so than usual, yet he hadn’t grown colder with her.
He had seemed puzzled.
Puzzled could be good. Puzzled could distract him from meeting with her brother and discussing the lack of payments. Abigail pressed a hand to her hot cheek and giggled. Who was she kidding? She had only momentarily startled the man with her bold suggestion that he needed a wife to take better care of him. David had a single-mindedness about him that had intimidated many of the local girls to cancel their plans to bring him up to scratch. He wouldn’t forget about the debt, or be swept away by the mere idea of finding a bride. Abigail had to think of something else, something to change her fate and her brother’s quickly.
She nibbled on her fingertip. They had nothing valuable enough to sell that could cover a debt of this scale. Although she peeked inside David’s bag to obtain the letter, she hadn’t the cold-blooded ruthlessness for a life of thievery, which left her precisely where she was now—reliant on Peter’s skills with cards. Where might a needy person in Brighton acquire funds at short notice?
There must be something she’d overlooked. Maybe if she talked the matter over with Peter they could find a solution together.
Immediately, Abigail shied away from that notion. Peter did not discuss anything with her. If she was going to avoid eviction in thirty days she needed to talk to a friend with a healthy dose of good sense. Luckily, Abigail had such a woman was close at hand.
She stuffed the letter into her pocket and snatched up her shawl. She could sneak from the house to visit Imogen George tonight without Peter being any the wiser. Her best friend’s house was next door, one house closer to the water, and she wouldn’t object to a visit at this hour.
Getting out of the house undetected by way of the rear door proved easy enough given the noise Peter and his friends made. The servants had all gone off to bed, and the walled gardens were dark and silent. But, just in case anyone was as restless as she, Abigail clung to the shadows and moved silently through the wilting vegetable patch.