He placed his hands on either side of the door, keeping her penned up against it. His eyes were hard, piercing. “If we end our engagement, we can never reveal why. It will go better for both of us that way. And don’t even consider suing me for breach of promise—there is no money to be gained by it, I assure you.”
She was right. Paul had never even come close to caring for her. He cared for no one but himself. “Why, you insufferable, lying bas—”
“Now, now.” He placed a finger on her lips to stop her. “You should be glad that I am willing to watch out for both of us, despite this unfortunate turn of events. A lawsuit would bring only shame and embarrassment and keep either of us from our goal.”
“What goal would that be?” she said, escaping his grasp. She crossed her arms and scowled, furious to find she was still shaking, and determined to hide it. She would not allow herself to show any sign of weakness.
“Why, we must both marry money, of course,” he replied. “We have both proven that we are masters at hoodwinking others. If you and I managed to fool each other, that proves we are cut from the same cloth. You are beautiful, and, despite your debts, you bring an impressive estate to your dowry. As for me, despite my money problems, I have the strength of an old family name and highly sought-after social connections. I am also quite appealing to the ladies, although I risk going to perdition for my vanity in saying so.”
Vanity was not the only thing that was going to send him to perdition, Margaret thought. “But we must give some excuse for breaking the engagement,” she insisted.
“Nonsense. People will talk, of course. But so long as we—and our lawyers—remain tight-lipped on this, I see no reason for worry.”
“No reason for worry,” Margaret repeated sarcastically. “Can you really take all this so lightly?”
“This has been a setback; I won’t deny it. I was rather looking forward to marrying you, in fact.” He gave her another appreciative glance. “However, I still have prospects. I always have prospects. If you wish to keep your options open, I suggest you take my advice about staying mum on why we are not getting married.”
They stared at each other across the room. Taking her silence as acquiescence, Paul gave a short nod and turned to open the study door. “Don’t bother ringing for the butler. I’ll let myself out.”
Margaret sank into a chair, listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps. Her head pounded. She closed her eyes tightly against the pain. She was trembling violently—not just from her reaction to Paul, but from the realization that her carefully constructed world had toppled as easily as a child’s building blocks.
What was she to do? Look for another rich man? How could she even consider turning her life over to anyone? She had been prepared to do it with Paul, and he had led her to the brink of disaster.
She forced herself to open her eyes, rubbing her temples in an attempt to ease the throbbing as she looked over at the scattered papers. Not all were from the dossier Hawthorne had given her; some pertained to the wedding. All that time and planning, useless now.
She rose and poured herself some tea, and was gratified to find her hands shaking less and less as she drank it. Thus fortified, she tried to review her situation with a clear head. She was still determined to hold on to her land. But how was she to buy more time from the creditors?
There was, in fact, one option left to her, she realized now. She must immediately sell all of the fine Thoroughbreds she’d been carefully raising and training. She would have made a greater profit if she could have retained them for another year, but she would have to sell them now and get what she could.
In less than a month her lenders would be demanding payment. She would have to find a buyer quickly—someone who would give her cash outright for the horses. Then she would be able to give the lenders a portion of the amount owed and hope she might persuade them to wait a little longer for the rest.
If she was frugal and very careful, it might buy her enough time. The crops were looking good; the harvest potential was above average. With any luck at all she could survive another year.
But luck was something that Margaret found always seemed to elude her.
Chapter 7
Have you heard the news? It’s quite astounding, really.” James greeted them with this pronouncement as he entered the breakfast room, newspaper in hand. “Where’s Lizzie? She will want to hear this.”
“Good morning to you, too, James,” Geoffrey said with mock formality. “Thanks for calling. Won’t you join us?”
“Why, thank you, I believe I will,” he replied with a smile, ignoring Geoffrey’s reproof and dropping into the chair opposite Tom.
Clearly attuned to James’s preferences, one of the footmen brought coffee forward and filled James’s cup. What an odd world this was, Tom thought. He still found it unnerving that the servants were so assiduously trained that they could anticipate a person’s every need and then jump to meet it.
“Lizzie is well, I hope?” James asked as he inspected the eggs and sliced beef laid down in front of him.
“She is resting,” Geoffrey answered. “The doctor has ordered her to stay in bed this morning. It seems she was too active yesterday.”
James looked up from his plate. “But she is well? She needs only rest?”
A flicker of something that might have been worry showed in Geoffrey’s eyes. “Of course.”
“Truly?” James persisted. In spite of all his frivolity, he was always quite serious when it came to Lizzie’s health. Tom could see that James cared for his cousin deeply. Tom, too, had subjected Geoffrey to this close questioning before James had arrived. And just like James, he was not entirely convinced by the doctor’s words. Lizzie was the center of all their lives. If anything should happen to her…
“James, we do all we can, and trust to the Lord for the rest.” The look on Geoffrey’s face warned James not to pursue it further.
To his credit, James knew when to stop pressing. He gave a brief nod and said, “Please give her my love and tell her I was asking after her, won’t you?”
Geoffrey relaxed. “Of course. Now what is this news you spoke of?”
James snapped his fingers, as though remembering something he had temporarily forgotten. “It is astounding news.”
This brought out a chuckle from Geoffrey. “I can guess at the kind of news you would find astounding, James. Did someone run off with a duke’s daughter? Or drive a carriage the wrong way in Hyde Park?”
But James was inured to any teasing. “Oh, no,” he said earnestly, “it’s far more sensational than that.” He looked over at Tom with the satisfaction of a cat who has just stolen a chicken off the dinner table.
“Tell us what you have to say, James,” Geoffrey said.
“Oh, all right. Since you’ve dragged it out of me, here it is. The engagement between Denault and Miss Vaughn has been broken off.”
This news hit Tom like a thunderbolt. His butter knife slipped from his hand, dropping with a clatter onto his plate. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard right.” A slow smile pasted itself onto James’s face. “Miss Vaughn is once more on the marriage market.”
“How can that be?” Geoffrey asked. “And how do you know this?”
“Oh, it’s all over town.” James tapped the newspaper. “Hasn’t hit the Times yet, but it will. I learned about it at the club.”
Tom realized this was everything he’d been hoping for. Yet it only made him worried for Margaret. “Why are they breaking their engagement? Granted, I know nothing about society matches, but isn’t that unusual?”
James nodded. “Unusual, rare, not done—call it any number of things. I call it astounding. Everyone knew the pair of them were dead set to get married as soon as possible. Yet, inexplicably, this happens.”
“But why?” Tom asked impatiently. James did have a way of embellishing a subject rather than just getting to the heart of it.
James gave a nonchalant shrug.
“No one knows for sure, although rumors abound. At times people can be most aggravatingly closemouthed on a subject.”
“Perhaps one of them decided it was not an advantageous match,” Geoffrey offered.
“If so, it must have been Miss Vaughn,” James said. “Otherwise a breach-of-promise suit would be in the works. No one in the rumor mill seems to expect that.” He leaned back in his chair and tapped his chin. “Something must have caused her to change her mind. I wonder what it could be?” He sent another glance in Tom’s direction.
“You can’t think it has anything to do with me,” Tom protested.
“Of course I do,” James replied unapologetically. “I think she fell head over ears in love with you the instant she saw you, and realized she couldn’t possibly marry Denault.”
“That’s absurd!” Tom said, a little too quickly. And too loudly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the footman flinch. He lowered his voice to normal tones. “What do you suppose really happened, James?”
“Well…” James sat back, took a sip of his coffee, and savored it. Clearly he had more to add, but the cursed fellow was pausing for effect.
“Well?” Tom prodded, fighting to keep his irritation in check.
James set down his cup. “Well… I’ve heard things about Denault’s business. He may have… overestimated his net worth.”
“I can’t believe that,” Geoffrey said. “Everyone knows Denault was hugely successful in America.”
“I can believe it,” Tom said. “I sensed that something was not quite right as soon as I met with him. He’s a good salesman, I’ll grant you that. Too good. Once or twice he put me in mind of those preachers at big-tent revivals. They get people all stirred up so they act out of emotion rather than common sense.”
“I’ll bet that tactic didn’t work for you,” James observed. “You’re too levelheaded.”
“Not always,” Tom said, remembering with chagrin how he’d nearly gotten into a fight with that idiot Carter. He was still prone to fight first and ask questions later. “I’m working on it.”
“How interesting that we automatically assume the problem lies with Denault,” Geoffrey remarked.
“Surely you can’t think Miss Vaughn is at fault!” Tom protested.
Geoffrey held up his hands. “We don’t know whether anyone is at fault,” he said reasonably.
“That argument won’t work with Tom,” James said. “His bias toward Miss Vaughn is unmistakable.”
Great heavens, they were both going to needle him on this now. As if he needed any more practice holding his temper, which at the moment threatened to slip deftly from his grasp. Tom threw his napkin on the table and stood up. “If you gentlemen will excuse me,” he said with forced politeness, “I am going out.”
*
Tom called for his horse to be brought round, then took the stairs two at a time to his room. What a waste of time it all was, he thought as he hastily shrugged out of his fine clothes and into more sturdy riding attire. Time was when he could get dressed once in the morning and be done with it.
As he stepped out of the house, Tom took a moment to survey the patch of green that was Berkeley Square. It was deserted except for a nanny watching a young boy of six or so at play. Tom sent his gaze beyond the square to Margaret’s house, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. But no one was coming or going from the large front door. No one could be spotted at its windows.
Tom was itching to march over there and ask her straight out why she and Denault had broken off their engagement. But he was certain she would not take kindly to it. He might wish to be her friend, but she clearly wanted nothing from him. Perhaps it was better that way, he told himself. For now, he would do better to spend some time in reflection and prayer. At the moment, even if the Lord wanted to extend some guidance, there was no way Tom would be able to hear it over the multitude of anxious thoughts stampeding through his head. So with a nod of thanks to the groom, Tom mounted his horse and set off in the direction of Hyde Park. It was the only place that could give him the peace and quiet he needed.
A patchy blanket of gray clouds threatened rain, but so far had delivered only a damp sensation without actually making anything wet. Rotten Row was not yet the bustling thoroughfare that it would become later in the day if the weather held. Tom turned his horse onto a patch of grass that was fairly deserted, where stands of tall elms offered shade and solitude. He dismounted, secured his horse, and sat down to ponder. After a minute or so, a cool breeze touched his face—just enough to offer an enticing hint of autumn, and bringing a fresh, new thought to Tom: Margaret was free.
It was an absurd thought, and yet there it was. Why her circumstances should appear to him that way, he was not ready to explore. He only knew that it was so.
“Lord, you’ve seen me through bad times, worse times, and better times,” he said softly. “You’ve taught me to look for your hand in my affairs. Is this one of those times?”
He was not expecting an answer, of course. Nothing outright, at any rate. He’d learned that God was not quite so direct as Tom would have wished. Back in Sydney, the minister had once shown him a verse about God’s “still, small voice.” In Tom’s experience, that soft voice was mighty hard to hear.
He closed his eyes and tried to open his heart, but memories of Margaret filled him so completely that there was no room for anything else: the self-assured way she’d moved through that crowded ballroom; that loose curl that had accentuated the elegant line of her alabaster neck; the exuberance that had lit her face when she flew past him on horseback. How many women were so completely comfortable in both outdoor pursuits and elegant soirees, so thoroughly breathtaking in any setting? Not many, he’d guess.
The breeze rustled again, stronger this time, as though the clouds, searching deep within themselves, had found some rain after all. They must have, because soon he could hear the soft patter of raindrops on the leaves above his head. “The only thing the Lord is telling you,” he reprimanded himself, “is that you are mighty foolish if you plan to sit out here in the rain.”
Castor began to shift restlessly and sent out a soft whinny. Changes in the weather always unsettled him. Tom would do well to get him back to a dry stall as soon as possible. He stood and stretched, speaking soothing words as he took hold of the reins and loosed them from a tree branch. “Easy, boy. We’ll be home soon.”
He mounted the horse and turned him back toward the open field. Castor obeyed, but Tom could tell he wasn’t happy about it. The increasing wall of gray overhead showed the potential for a soaker. Other park visitors had also begun to seek shelter. Some scurried to waiting carriages; others walked briskly toward the streets that would lead them home. Castor would have liked to hurry, too; he kept shaking his head, irritated that Tom was keeping him at a walk. But despite the rain, Tom was unwilling to leave the open space of the park. He might have stayed for hours if the weather had been favorable and his horse more amenable.
When the rain became heavy enough to send large drops sliding down the brim of Tom’s hat, he finally conceded defeat and set his horse into a canter for the park gates. On the main thoroughfare he threaded his way carefully through the traffic, which the mud had reduced to a crawl. Before long he was turning into the mews behind Geoffrey’s house. It would be better to deposit the horse there himself, rather than ask one of Geoffrey’s servants to do it. He wanted to personally make sure that Castor was properly groomed and comfortable.
He had just led Castor into the stable when the rain started to come down in buckets. The storm lasted for nearly an hour, pounding on the roof and cracking bursts of thunder, while Tom and the stable boy saw to the horse’s needs.
When it was over, Tom stepped outside and studied the sky. The light was still muted, not streaming in the bright rays that so often appear after a summer storm. He considered saddling his horse again, but finally decided against it. The morning was far gone, and Lizzie would be looking for him for luncheon.
&
nbsp; He made his way along the muddy street, doing his best to avoid the pools of standing water. Even so, his boots were becoming filthy and would soon be in serious need of cleaning and polishing. That, at least, was one thing he was glad to have another person do. After his jaunt today, he might have to give his valet a pay raise.
When he reached the Somerville home, Tom paused. The little square out front was deserted, its wooden benches glistening from the rain, but Tom crossed the street to it anyway. He still had a few minutes to spare before he was needed inside. He perched on the back of one of the benches, his feet on the seat, enabling him to sit without getting his trousers soaked.
He knew why he had stopped here, of course. He studied Margaret’s house, wondering for the thousandth time what she was doing. As he did so, a hansom cab pulled out of the traffic and came to a stop at Margaret’s door. Two men got out of the cab. One approached the door and knocked. The second spoke briefly to the driver before joining the first man on the steps. He must have given instructions to wait, for the carriage did not pull away. Tom got off the bench and walked to the edge of the square in order to get a better look.
The first man was perhaps fifty, while the other, who was considerably younger, stood next to him, a towering hulk of a man. Both were dressed in black. There was nothing unusual in that; black was the standard dress for men in London these days. On these two men, however, it seemed to lend a sinister air. They looked like undertakers.
What did they want with Margaret?
The older man rapped on the door again. It was loud and insistent; Tom could hear it from where he stood. When the door finally opened, it was not a butler standing there as Tom had expected, but a harried-looking young maid.
The men asked her a question, then showed their displeasure at the way she answered them. Tom couldn’t hear the conversation, but it was clear from their gestures that they were insisting on entering the house. He could also see that the maid was just as unwilling to admit them. The brawny man looked ready to break the door down if necessary.
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