When the maid turned her head for an instant, as though trying to hear something spoken from inside the house, the men took advantage of the opportunity to force their way in. They pushed past her, opening the door wide, and Tom saw the maid protesting as she followed them. The older man strode down the hall without hesitation, as though he had been there before. Both went into a room at the far end of the hall and disappeared from view. Seeing she had no hope of removing them, the maid rushed back to close the front door.
What sort of men would dare to strong-arm their way into Margaret’s house? Did they intend to harm her? In an instant, Tom was crossing the square. He might have no right to interfere, but he fully intended to do so anyway. He stalked up to the driver, who was leaning casually against a lamppost and eating an apple. “Who are those men?” he demanded, pointing toward Margaret’s door.
The cabbie nonchalantly disengaged himself from the lamppost. “Beg pardon, govnah?” he said in a thick cockney accent.
“Who are the men you’ve just brought here?” Tom said again. “What are their names?”
The cabbie shrugged. “I don’t make it my business to know the names of the persons I carry. One man’s money is as good as another.”
“You have no idea who they are?”
“London’s a big place,” he replied, tossing the apple core into the gutter. “Filled with more people than I could ever count.”
“Where did you pick them up? At some place of business?”
The cabbie brought a hand to his grizzled chin, as though trying to cast his mind back—as though he didn’t know exactly where he’d picked up those men and had already calculated the exact fare he was going to get from them. One thing that hadn’t changed while Tom had been gone from London was the way the cabdrivers would try to wring every penny out of you.
“Somewhere along Fleet Street, I think,” the cabbie finally said.
This was no help at all, since Fleet Street was one of the busiest areas in London. Finding his patience was wearing dangerously thin, Tom employed another tactic. “I assume they paid you to wait?”
“Aye,” the little man answered. He grinned, showing a set of teeth with so many gaps that Tom wondered how he’d managed to eat that apple. “Three shillings for waiting, with a promise of double the total fare.”
The cabbie looked at him expectantly. No doubt he’d precisely assessed Tom’s financial bracket from the fine tailoring of his riding clothes. He would probably be more forthcoming if he were to find some silver in his hand.
Tom pulled a half crown from his pocket. “Where will you take them?” he asked, dropping the coin into the man’s palm, which was suddenly in a convenient position to receive it.
“Well, how would I know that?” the cabbie said, galling him with a cheeky grin. “I ain’t taken ’em there yet.” He started to put the coin in his pocket, but Tom reached out and grabbed his hand.
“Guess,” Tom said fiercely, giving his arm a wrench.
The cabbie met Tom’s gaze steadily, assessing him. Plainly, in his years on the streets he’d dealt with even tougher customers than Tom. But Tom didn’t back down. “I said guess,” he ground out again, gripping the man’s hand more tightly and giving it a small twist.
The cabbie blinked, and Tom knew he’d won. “I have a notion,” the little man said with a slight cough, “that it might be in the vicinity of Pedley Street.”
Tom knew that place. It was a haven for moneylenders—the most vile, disreputable kind imaginable. Now that he thought about it, those two men looked exactly like the sort of despicable bastards that populated Pedley Street.
He dropped the cabbie’s hand without another word and raced up the steps to Margaret’s house. If she was receiving calls from moneylenders, then something was seriously wrong. A woman of her means would never consort with such people.
Would she?
He was going to find out.
Chapter 8
Tom rapped the ornate door knocker with such violence that he might have made the whole house shake. He hoped so. He was fully prepared to force his way in if necessary, just as he had seen the other men do.
However, when the door opened and Tom found himself face-to-face with the terrified young maid, he relented. He was desperate to see Margaret, but it would take just a few precious seconds to speak kindly. Those moneylenders had mistreated her, but surely he was made of better stuff. “Is Miss Vaughn at home?” He tried to sound like a gentleman paying a social call.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the maid said weakly. “My mistress is not at home at present.”
She darted a glance behind her as she said this, just as she had done earlier. She looked back at Tom, taking in his appearance. Not with the cynically appraising glance that the cabbie had used, but perhaps to gauge whether she might appeal to him for help. “Would you care to leave a card?” she asked hopefully.
It took a moment for this to register. The practice of handing out calling cards was still new to him. But he hurriedly fished in his pockets and came up with a card, glad now that Lizzie had badgered him into getting some. He gave it to the maid.
Her eyes widened when she read the card. Tom could see that she recognized the name. For once, he was glad of his notoriety. Even the servants knew his story. She raised her eyes, staring at him with awe.
“Might I ask your name?” Tom inquired, doing all he could to keep his tone friendly despite his pressing worry.
“Bessie,” she said breathlessly, and belatedly added, “sir.”
“Well, Bessie, I’ll be honest with you.” Tom was not merely feigning confidentiality; he’d always felt a kinship with the lower classes. Perhaps because he’d been only a half step above them for most of his life. “I know your mistress is at home, and I would prefer to gain access in a polite fashion, rather than bullying my way in as those two men did earlier.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but was stopped by the sound of shouting coming from the room down the hall. Tom stepped closer to the door, fighting to hold on to his patience. If those men laid even the slightest hand on Margaret, he would murder them.
Doubt and fear paraded across Bessie’s face. “But I have orders to allow nobody into the house,” she whispered.
“I have often been called a nobody,” Tom said. “Perhaps that is what she meant?”
He was gratified to see his words tease a small smile out of Bessie, but he looked anxiously over her shoulder down the hall. “Let me in, Bessie,” he urged. “I can help.”
Voices raised in argument were now clearly audible, and this seemed to help Bessie make up her mind. She stood back, and instantly Tom raced in.
At the end of the hall he paused when he heard Margaret’s voice. She was speaking in a commanding tone, which told him that although they were arguing, she must not be in any immediate physical danger. He reached for the handle and tested it. It was well oiled and turned soundlessly. He opened the door a crack in order to hear what they were saying.
“Mr. Mortimer, you agreed that I had until next month.” Margaret’s words were clear now. “Even you would not stoop so low as to revise the terms without warning.” Her voice was angry and filled with disdain. Tom could easily picture her standing tall and haughty, as she had proven she could do so well.
“Things have changed,” a deep-set voice replied. It was surely the voice of the elder man. “You are no longer engaged to Mr. Denault. Our understanding was that payment was delayed until you had married him and gained access to his money.”
His words astounded Tom, as had everything about this situation. Why should Margaret need Denault’s money?
He was aware of Bessie coming up behind him. He glanced back and saw her wringing her hands, her face distorted with anxiety.
“Mr. Denault was never my sole source of funding,” Margaret said. “I had hoped to wait until our marriage, to be sure, in order to merge our resources, but—”
“Come now, Miss Vaughn,” Mortimer
interrupted. “If you really had other sources of money, you would never have darkened our door.”
There was a chuckle, which must have come from the other man. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“I do regret that I ever ‘darkened your door,’ as you so poetically put it,” she said with undisguised contempt. “Clearly I was in error. I had been told that you were the most honorable among your cohort of thieves.”
“Thieves!” a voice exploded. It must have belonged to Brawn. “Don’t be insultin’ my employer like that.”
“You stand back!” Margaret shrieked.
That was all he needed. Tom flung open the door. It gave a satisfying bang as it slammed against the wall. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.
Margaret was standing behind a large desk, her face flushed, staring daggers at the two men. Brawn looked ready to advance on her, although the elder man’s hand was on his arm as though he’d been reaching out to stop him. All three turned and stared at Tom, frozen in surprise. They looked like one of those tableau scenes he’d seen acted out by guests at a dinner party he’d attended. Not that any of those refined ladies and gentlemen would be acting out this tableau. “Young Lady Threatened by Moneylenders” was probably not in their repertoire.
“What is the meaning of this?” she said imperiously. “Why are you barging into my house?”
Her anger surprised him. He would have thought she’d be glad to see him. His own heart was pounding out of his chest, relieved that he’d arrived in time. He stood his ground. “I was admitted by the maid,” Tom said. “Unlike these two”—he jerked a thumb at the moneylenders—“who forced their way in.” To Brawn he said pointedly, “If you even go near her, I will make sure you heartily regret it.”
Brawn bristled. Tom kept his eyes locked on him, knowing from experience that this kind of thug would quickly take advantage of any lapse in his opponent’s attention.
“Are you mad?” Margaret exclaimed.
“Probably,” Tom conceded. He was no stranger to fisticuffs, but up close Brawn looked a lot bigger—and a lot meaner—than he had from a distance.
“I assure you, no one is going to lay a hand on anyone,” Mortimer said. “We are merely having a business meeting. You, sir, were not invited.”
Tom did not move even a muscle. “If this is just a business meeting, then why don’t you call off your dog.”
Brawn tensed and made a threatening motion. Tom raised his fists in reply, showing he was more than willing to back up his words with action.
“Go stand by the window, Jake,” Mortimer commanded. “You’re making everybody nervous.”
Jake glowered at Tom, but did as he was told.
Tom saw some of the tension leave Margaret’s body as the distance between her and Jake increased, but she was still very agitated. She took a deep breath. “Mr. Poole, this is a private matter. I thank you for your concern, but—”
“That’s right, I am concerned,” Tom cut in. “When I see two men forcing their way into a proper lady’s house, I get concerned.” He strode over to Margaret, wanting to shield her from these men. He knew he was giving in to his impulsiveness again, but this time he felt justified. “Do you owe these men money? If so, tell me the amount, and I’ll pay it.”
He glanced over at Mortimer as he said this, and saw a gleam light up the older man’s eye. He probably did not care where the money came from, so long as he was paid.
Margaret straightened. She really was tall for a woman. When she drew herself up to her full height like this, she and Tom stood nearly eye to eye. Golden flecks lit up her green eyes like sparks of fire. “Mr. Poole, we hardly know each other.”
“That is something I believe we should remedy.” He tipped his head in the direction of the moneylenders. “After we have gotten these two leeches out of your life.”
Over by the window, Jake was still scowling at him, looking like a chained attack dog. But Mortimer was a smoother fellow. “I do not take umbrage, sir,” he said mildly. “Men in my profession are often thus insulted in return for the valuable services we provide. It is one of the great injustices to which I have resigned myself.” To Margaret he said, “What I do take umbrage at is not being paid for my services. I must again insist that we receive the full amount by tomorrow noon. Otherwise, this becomes a matter for the courts.”
“The courts!” Tom repeated in surprise. “How can you possibly take this woman to court?”
“At the time of our initial loan, Miss Vaughn signed a declaration that she had never before raised money on the same security from anybody else. It was a mere formality, of course. However, the laws of our noble land do state that anyone who makes such a declaration falsely is liable, upon conviction, to a long term of imprisonment.”
Margaret bristled. Or perhaps it was a shudder at the prospect of prison. If Jake was looking like a chained attack dog, Margaret was looking like a cornered fox.
Tom knew exactly what Mortimer was doing. He was jumping on the chance for money when he saw it, pressing Margaret to accept Tom’s offer.
Margaret knew it, too, but her pride was greater than any attempt at intimidation. “How dare you threaten me?” she said fiercely. “You miserable, loathsome, grasping—”
“Careful, Miss Vaughn,” Mortimer advised. “You may call me anything you like, after our business is concluded.”
“What does she owe you?” Tom said. He was tired of talk when the problem could be easily solved by action.
Mortimer considered him thoughtfully. “Mr.… Poole, is it?”
“Yes. Tom Poole.” Seeing the moneylender’s face wrinkle to admit a smile, Tom added sarcastically, “Yes, that Tom Poole. Nouveau riche, gold mine–owning Tom Poole.”
“Are you really prepared to pay her debts?”
There was that look again—the one Tom had seen too often in other men. Mortimer had caught the scent of money like a hound after game. “I will pay you what she owes, and not a farthing more.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Margaret said indignantly. “I’ll have you remember, gentlemen, that this is my house. I will not have you going on about my affairs as though I am not even here.”
Her defiance was genuine. It was also, Tom thought with a flash of surprise, undeniably appealing. He knew this woman had fire in her the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. But he also had to admit she had a point. He was taking liberties, and she deserved to be better treated. “Miss Vaughn, perhaps you and I might have a word?” He turned to Mortimer and added pointedly, “In private.”
Margaret glanced from him to Mortimer. His eyebrows lifted a fraction, but then he gave a small nod of his head. He must have quickly calculated which moves would give him the best odds of getting his money. “We’ll just wait in the hall while you two sort this out.”
Reluctantly, and with another malevolent look at Tom, Jake followed his employer out the door. When the door closed behind them, Tom turned back to Margaret. He expected her to drop her guard a little now that Mortimer was out of the room. Perhaps show Tom some measure of gratitude or relief.
Instead, she turned her fury on Tom. “Mr. Poole, I bitterly resent you coming in here and acting in such a high-handed fashion. I’ll have you know that I am perfectly able to handle my own affairs.”
“Are you?” Tom said sharply. Her attitude was stoking his own anger. He could only admire her strength if it did not lead her to foolish actions. “Your engagement to Denault is broken and the moneylenders are threatening you with prison. Do you call that being in control of your affairs?”
She flinched at his words, but held her ground. “My engagement has nothing to do with it.”
“Apparently it does,” he contradicted.
She glowered at him. “Were you eavesdropping before barging in here?” Her voice was caustic and brittle. “What a gentleman you are.”
“I have done plenty of things for which I might not be called a gentleman,” Tom conceded. “However, I would hope that tryin
g to help a lady isn’t one of them.”
She continued to glare at him. “I’ve already told you I have no need of your assistance.”
“I’ve observed that people rarely tell the truth about themselves,” Tom pointed out. “In fact, I’m learning that this becomes more necessary the higher one goes in society. Greater rank requires greater deception.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Margaret retorted.
“Don’t I?” Dear Lord, what was it going to take to get her honest? He wanted to help her, but he couldn’t do it unless he could get past her defenses. If he had to be brutally frank in order to do so, he would. “Let’s talk about Paul Denault. Off he goes to America, and comes back a supposedly rich man. Then he gets himself engaged to the richest heiress in London, who for some reason has a secret need for moneylenders. I’m guessing he was nothing but a fortune hunter—only he discovered there was no fortune to hunt. Is that what happened, Miss Vaughn? Was he taken by an even greater charlatan than he is?”
This struck home. Margaret took several steps back, her face contorted in anguish. She bumped up against the desk and put out a hand to steady herself. Her other hand went to her forehead, and Tom thought he detected the faintest tremor. Suddenly he was desperate to cross the room, to take her in his arms and comfort her. But he forced himself not to move. There was only one way to topple Margaret’s stubborn pride, and that was to confront her, unflinchingly, with the hard truth.
She, however, was not ready to yield, although Tom could see what it was costing her. Pain shot across her face once more. Several long seconds ticked off the clock on the mantelpiece. She looked frail and vulnerable; perhaps Mortimer’s threats of prison were beginning to sink in. She rallied, however, and straightening once more into a posture of defiance she said, “What about you, Mr. Poole? Are you as rich as you say you are?”
Tom spread his hands wide, in a gesture of innocence. “My gold bullion in the Bank of London speaks loud enough, as any clerk there can testify.” She nodded, and Tom thought that at last his words were beginning to pierce through her walls. “Now, shall you be honest with me?” he pressed. “How much do you owe those men?”
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