A Lady Most Lovely

by Jennifer Delamere

  “You really are a coarse bastard,” Spencer retorted. “You think money is the important thing.”

  “What does that mean? That you’re too good for it? That it doesn’t matter?”

  “Of course it matters,” Spencer said impatiently. “But what the nouveaux riches like you don’t realize is that the upper class isn’t about wealth. It’s about breeding, titles, and land. You will never be my equal.”

  “Your ideas are outdated, Spencer. Plenty of men are rising up in industry and business, gaining wealth—and social position—by hard work rather than having it handed to them like it’s their God-given right.”

  Spencer actually smiled at this. “Trust me, my eyes are wide open to what is going on today. As a matter of fact, your little polemic about industry leads me to the reason we are having this conversation. I know of a company owned by a man who has a remarkable vision for a railway line in America. It’s a company you are already acquainted with.”

  It all came together in Tom’s mind—why he had seen the two men conferring at the wedding. Together they would come after Margaret’s land and Tom’s money. “What have you told Denault?” Tom demanded. “If you’ve whispered even one word about Lizzie—”

  “Relax, Poole,” Spencer broke in. “I only told him I was sure I could persuade you to buy in. He does not know the particulars, nor does he care.”

  Of course, Spencer could easily be lying about this. “I think you’re in league with Denault,” Tom said. “You plotted this whole thing just to blackmail me.”

  “Plotted? Blackmail?” Spencer repeated with a scoff. “I would be careful at the words you throw around. I’m making you a business proposition, that’s all.” His malicious gaze bore into Tom. “Let me put it in words that even you can understand. I have invested in Denault’s company, and I highly encourage you to do the same.”

  Chapter 21

  Once again Margaret found herself in the odious position of having to stand by and do nothing, wondering where her husband was. She paced the room, reviewing her options. Somehow Tom had won her over last night. He’d used heated caresses to confuse her thoughts and melt her cold logic. Even now, in the cool light of day, her face heated to think of it. She was equally angry with herself at how she had so easily yielded to his touch.

  She could not allow herself to lose control like that again. This morning was proof of that. The little clock on the mantelpiece showed it was nearly noon. They’d been married less than a day and already he’d lied to her, saying he’d be gone only an hour. She had to make him understand that she would not tolerate being left in the dark regarding where he went and what he did.

  There was a knock at the door. Since Bessie was busy packing the trunks in the next room, Margaret answered it herself. Tom’s valet stood in the hallway with two hotel porters. “Where is Mr. Poole?” Margaret demanded.

  Stephens gave a deferential bow. “He’s asked me to escort you and your maid to the station, madam. He will meet you there.”

  Margaret opened the door wide, allowing the men to enter. Bessie appeared at the door of the bedchamber. “The trunks are in here,” she called to the porters. “Everything’s ready.”

  “There is a cab waiting downstairs,” Stephens said. “I’ll just go help the lads with those trunks.” He made as if to follow the porters, but Margaret put out a hand to stop him. “You haven’t answered my question, Stephens. Where is Mr. Poole?”

  Stephens dropped his gaze. “I beg your pardon, madam, but Mr. Poole specifically instructed me to say only that he had urgent business to attend to, and he will explain everything once the two of you are on the train.”

  “I’m sorry, Stephens, but that isn’t acceptable,” Margaret said. “I think you should know that from now on, you will answer to me as well as to Mr. Poole. Where did he go?” she demanded again. “To Mayfair?” Margaret had an idea that Tom would go to Geoffrey for advice on how to handle the unsavory gossip that was bound to follow yesterday’s events. She could almost see people tittering in their drawing rooms as they discussed the Great Wedding Breakfast Brawl.

  “No, ma’am, he’s not in Mayfair,” Stephens answered, before he realized he shouldn’t have said anything at all. “I mean, that is…”

  “You cannot keep secrets from me, Stephens,” Margaret said sternly. “The sooner you recognize this, the less time we will waste.”

  Stephens threw a quick glance at the clock. “We really ought to be getting to the railway station, Mrs. Poole. There’s a lot of traffic on the roads today, and there’s no telling how long it will take us to get there.”

  The porters struggled out of the bedchamber, each holding an end of a large trunk upon which they’d stacked two smaller trunks. Bessie followed behind, carrying a carpetbag and a hatbox. The porters set their load down with a thump, pausing to regain their breath and looking at Margaret and Stephens for more direction. “Take those things down to the station, the three of you,” Margaret instructed. “Stephens and I have an errand to run. We shall meet you there.”

  “Mr. Brown won’t like us leaving the hotel,” one of the porters said doubtfully, referring to the hotel proprietor. “There are other guests who need our services.”

  “You may tell Mr. Brown that I shall pay him an amount totaling triple your wages for the next two hours. At that rate he ought to be able to get along without you.”

  “But, madam, I don’t know these men,” Bessie protested.

  Margaret scrutinized the porters. Both were short, wiry, and well past the bloom of youth. They were dressed in livery that had been provided for them by the hotel. “I’m sure you’ll be perfectly safe,” she assured Bessie. Just to be sure, Margaret reached into her reticule and pulled out two half-crown pieces, giving one to each of the porters. “That’s for your trouble. And you’ll each get another half crown for remaining at the station with my maid until I arrive.”

  This arrangement was clearly more than satisfactory for the two men. They grinned, pocketed their money, and once more hoisted the trunks, carrying them out the door. Margaret gave more money to Bessie. “Please buy our tickets when you get there and meet us on the platform.” Bessie still looked uncertain, but she followed the men out into the hall. Margaret heard the sound of the men’s footsteps and their occasional grunts as they worked their way down the stairs with the trunks.

  She turned back to Stephens, who was by now looking distinctly uncomfortable. He’d confirmed Tom wasn’t in Mayfair, so he hadn’t gone to the Somervilles’ home. The second possibility involved someone who did not live in Mayfair… It was highly unlikely, but seemed just the sort of mad thing Tom would do. “He went to Mr. Spencer’s house, didn’t he?”

  “No!” Stephens exclaimed. But Margaret saw from his expression that she was right. She reached for her shawl, the last of her personal items still in the room. “If Tom intends to finish what he started yesterday, I’d better see if there’s any chance left of stopping him.”

  They were out of the hotel and into the street before Stephens finally admitted, “He was at Mr. Spencer’s house, but he’s not there now. He’s… he’s at the bank.”

  “The bank!” She grilled him with her gaze. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded.

  Margaret turned on her heel and began walking. The bank wasn’t so far away, and the streets were so heavily congested that it would be pointless to take a cab. Not hearing footsteps behind her, she paused and turned back to see Stephens still standing dumbfounded by the hotel door. “Come along,” she instructed, picking up her pace. “There isn’t much time.”

  *

  Tom stood waiting impatiently at the corner, keeping his eyes on the Somervilles’ house farther up the block. He was desperate to talk to Geoffrey, and the only way to do that without Lizzie getting wind of it was to wait here and catch Geoffrey during his daily walk.

  While he watched the busy street, he prayed that Geoffrey and James had kept their promise not to tell Lizzie what had happen
ed at the wedding breakfast. Tom did not want her to have even an inkling that anything was wrong. She would be devastated to learn that the terrible events they thought they’d put behind them were once again threatening their happiness. Who knew what such a shock might do to her and the baby she was carrying? He could not risk it.

  Tom pulled out his pocket watch and groaned when he saw the time. Very soon he would have to be at the bank to meet Denault as Spencer had instructed him—ordered, really—to do. Tom thought it best to go along with their demands for now, if only to buy some time. He would not rest until he had found a way to beat Spencer at his game.

  “Hello, Tom,” said a voice behind him.

  He turned to see James. “What are you doing here?” he asked in irritation. He wanted to talk to Geoffrey alone.

  “I was just on my way to visit Geoffrey,” James said, pointing his gold-handled cane toward the Somerville home down the street. “Aren’t you? I think it would be helpful if the three of us put our heads together about this problem of what happened yesterday.”

  “You?” Tom asked, unable to fathom how James could be of help.

  “Oh, look, he’s coming this way now,” James said.

  Geoffrey was indeed now visible, having just passed a man who was wearing a large sandwich board advertising Holloway’s Pills for curing asthma. “Are you waiting for me?” Geoffrey asked as he reached them.

  “We are,” James affirmed. “I think you can guess why.”

  Geoffrey nodded. “This is not the best place to talk, however.” He indicated the people who continued to jostle past them. “Shall we go to the park?”

  “There isn’t time,” Tom said. “I’ve got to be at the bank soon.” He motioned for them to follow him into a narrow side street. No one was about; there were only some quiet stables farther down the lane and a small yard of chickens and geese. “We can talk here.”

  “I suppose you want to tell us what happened yesterday,” Geoffrey said. “Why you and Spencer got into a fight. Do you know him?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “He was at that duel you fought with Freddie Hightower, wasn’t he?” James put in.

  “You knew?” Tom exploded, turning on James. “You knew I was about to marry his cousin—and you didn’t tell me?” He took hold of James’s coat, barely resisting the urge to shake him. “You had to have known what trouble this would cause!”

  “I didn’t know for sure,” James protested, trying to free himself from Tom’s grip.

  “Tom, please,” Geoffrey said, swiftly interposing himself between the two men. “We need to discuss this rationally.”

  Tom fought to get hold of his frustration and anger. Between his troubles with Margaret and the pressures Spencer was putting on him, he felt like he was walking on a knife’s edge. Slowly he forced himself to let go of James. “Forgive me,” he said. “My temper—”

  “Perfectly understandable,” James said, readjusting his coat. “I know you’re upset. But I meant what I said; I didn’t know for certain that Spencer had been the man with Freddie at the duel.”

  “But clearly you had some suspicion,” Tom persisted. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Spencer has been out of the country for over a year. I didn’t even know he’d returned until I saw him at your wedding. And I didn’t know he was Margaret’s second cousin.”

  “How could you not know? I thought you knew everybody!”

  He gave Tom a chiding look. “Despite how it may appear, I don’t keep an extensive catalog of every family in England. Margaret and her father lived, rather hermit-like, at their estate in Lincolnshire. Last night, after Spencer had been carted away, I began to make inquiries among some of the older society folk. That’s when I discovered that Spencer and Margaret are related.”

  “Hundreds of families,” Tom groaned, “and I have to marry his cousin.”

  “So Spencer has recognized you from the duel?” Geoffrey asked. “Is that why he approached you?”

  “Yes,” Tom said wearily. “Naturally, it means he’s figured out that Lizzie was the woman who had run away with Hightower.”

  Geoffrey grimaced. “Oh, dear Lord.”

  “He’s threatened to reveal everything,” Tom said. “He’ll tell her shameful secrets to the world… he’ll say you married a fallen woman—”

  “Stop right there,” Geoffrey said, cutting him off sharply. “I know Lizzie made mistakes, and she paid for them dearly. But those things are all in the past. Her slate is clean.”

  “Not as far as Spencer is concerned.”

  “But your fight was with Hightower, not Spencer,” James interjected. “Why should he want to take the trouble to raise these specters from the past and besmirch Lizzie’s reputation?”

  “Two reasons,” Tom said. “First, he hates Margaret. Now that she and Lizzie are sisters-in-law, ruining Lizzie means throwing mud on Margaret as well. The second, more damnable reason, is pure greed.”

  “Don’t tell me that’s why you’re on your way to the bank,” James said with concern.

  Tom nodded.

  “But Spencer can’t get away with extortion!” Geoffrey exclaimed. “It’s reprehensible.”

  “Let’s get this straight,” Tom said fiercely. “I have no intention of remaining under that man’s thumb. Rest assured, I will personally see to it that he gets his due. But for the moment, I’m more concerned about Lizzie. Her health and her reputation are at stake. I don’t think we should do anything right away—at least not until after the baby is born.”

  Geoffrey considered this. “You have a good point. For Lizzie’s sake, we must be cautious. However, we may not need to wait before taking action. I know a few men in the House of Lords who are very adept at keeping a lid on personal scandals. Let me approach them and see what they advise.”

  “Can you be sure they’ll keep the secret?” Tom asked.

  “Trust me, Tom,” Geoffrey said wryly. “I’ve been among them for nearly two years now, and I can tell you they have quieted more scandals about their own families than you or I could ever dream of.”

  “Society,” Tom said in disgust, nearly spitting out the word.

  “It’s what I love about them,” James remarked. “They watch out for their own, especially when it is in their best interests to do so.”

  “What is Spencer demanding, exactly?” Geoffrey asked.

  “A thousand pounds, as payment for his medical bills, he says. For the injuries he incurred yesterday.” Tom clenched and unclenched his fists, taking a grim satisfaction at the remembrance of inflicting those wounds.

  “That seems a paltry sum, considering how rich you are,” James said.

  “That’s not all he’s after. He also wants me to buy in-to the Saint Louis and Western Railway.”

  “He wants you to give money to your wife’s former fiancé?” James scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That seems an odd connection.”

  “Exactly,” Tom answered. “I suspect there is something underhanded about that railway scheme. Whatever it is, they are both profiting from it.” Grimly he added, “And considering the way things usually go with blackmail, I suspect their demands on me will only get higher.”

  Chapter 22

  How had it come to this? Tom thought as he signed his name to the document the clerk had set in front of him. He’d always been shrewd in his business dealings—first at his father’s dry goods shop in London, then at the shop in Sydney where he and Lizzie had worked, and later as he oversaw supplies at the sheep station in Bathurst. He’d been especially proud of how he and Sullivan had staked a claim to one of the richest veins of gold at Ballarat. When they’d finally sold out, they’d made a tidy profit that would keep both of them comfortable for a long time.

  Unless one threw it away on a woman—which, Tom reflected, was a pretty good description of what he was doing. He’d fallen in love with Margaret Vaughn and paid an enormous sum to get her out of debt. Now he was funding a highly questionab
le venture just to keep her cousin quiet about Lizzie’s past.

  Denault sat across from Tom, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed, watching as he signed the papers. “You won’t regret it, Poole,” he said with a self-satisfied grin.

  Without a word, Tom dropped the pen into the inkstand and stood up. No, he would not regret it, but someday he’d make sure the men extorting money from him did. It rather amazed him, really, that he was finding the strength to bide his time and wait for the perfect chance to destroy their plans. Perhaps in some things he could show patience after all.

  Denault accompanied him out of the small back office and through the bank’s imposing lobby with its vaulted ceiling and marble floors, between two rows of stiffly suited clerks sitting on tall stools behind high counters. “Remember, I don’t want word of this getting back to Margaret,” Tom said. He had decided that he would have to tell her about Lizzie’s past, but he wasn’t going to do it until he had Lizzie’s blessing. And that would have to wait until after the birth.

  “I assure you, I shall be entirely discreet,” Denault said, ushering Tom through the massive front door as though he owned the place. “But soon, when this venture takes off, you will be proud to tell the world you have shares in the Saint Louis and Western.”

  Tom paused at the top of the half-dozen or so steps that led down to the street, giving Denault a hard look. “Save the fancy speeches. Just know that I will be watching the company carefully, and requesting regular, detailed reports.”

  He meant this as a threat, of course. No word had passed between them about why Tom was suddenly so willing to be a financial backer in Denault’s company. Spencer had “suggested” that Tom go to the bank right away, and Denault had been waiting there when he arrived. The papers were already drawn up. Not trusting Spencer’s assurances that Denault knew nothing about Lizzie, Tom wanted to make sure the man knew exactly where they stood. “If anything is amiss, and I find any—shall we say—reason to report it to the authorities, I guarantee you I will.”