A Daring Arrangement

by Joanna Shupe

  Relief flooded her. “Thank you. I knew you were just the man to see. I am so grateful I was in the dining room when you—”

  Hatcher’s lids fluttered and he slumped forward, his body becoming lax. Before she could do anything, his horse sidestepped and Hatcher slid out of the saddle. He fell onto the floor with a thunk.

  Horrified, Nora covered her mouth. Was he dead? She stepped off the chair and rushed closer, ready to assist in whatever way necessary . . . and then he groaned.

  “We’ve got him, miss,” one of the grooms said as he hurried over.

  Certain her new fiancé hadn’t expired, Nora slipped out of the ballroom and briskly walked back to the dining room. Her heart pounded with newfound hope.

  Based on what she just witnessed, she’d be back in England—and Robert’s arms—before the month was out.

  Chapter Two

  Julius Hatcher never missed the start of a trading day.

  Even this morning, with a throbbing head and queasy stomach, he was in his office chair when the exchange opened and the ticker started humming. The opening stock prices were like fortunes, their numbers predicting the rest of the day. What was in demand first thing in the morning? Any wild speculation or takeovers? Did he need to travel to the exchange to oversee his interests personally?

  On a normal day, he would check the numbers, see all was normal, and then move on to other business matters. Today, he very well might go back to bed instead.

  Last night had been wild, even by his standards. Wasn’t often a man turned thirty, so he’d spared no expense for the event. He just wished he remembered more of the evening. Last thing he recalled was Alfie’s suggestion to order that one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old bottle of brandy. It had come from Louis Sherry’s private stock and had cost over four thousand dollars. The first glass had been heaven. The rest, a blur.

  His stomach roiled and he rang for a footman. When one appeared, he said softly, “Breakfast. As bland as Mrs. Bell can make it.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Julius winced. “Quietly, Michael.”

  The footman nodded, though he probably hadn’t been all that loud. Nevertheless, Julius’s head throbbed like a damned drumbeat.

  He checked the ticker tape. The numbers flew by, each one registering in his brain. No surprises thus far. Excellent. He didn’t like surprises much, at least not when it came to finances. A memory nagged, something from the night before. Had there been a surprise at the party? Try as he might, his brain could not fully grasp the wisps of the thought.

  He let it go. It hurt too much to think.

  Despite last evening’s debauchery, he didn’t often drink to inebriation. Yes, he liked excess in most things, though not when it came to ceding control. Weak men were ripe to be taken advantage of. Bought out. Swindled. Buried.

  Like his father. Warren Hatcher had been the trusting sort, quick to accept a man’s word instead of an ironclad contract. Once, Julius had asked his father about this eagerness to believe, his blind faith in humanity. “You cannot live your life doubting everyone and everything around you,” his father had answered.

  Unfortunately, the rosy attitude had led to the family’s destruction in the Panic of ’73. The month before the bottom fell out of the economy, good ol’ Warren had organized an investment deal with, “some honest, upstanding Knickerbocker men.” When the banks collapsed, the bank called in the demand note from his father. The other investors—men who could easily afford the loss of a few thousand dollars—then backed out of the arrangement, which left Warren Hatcher responsible for the entire loss.

  Creditors had swooped in. The Hatchers became destitute.

  They hadn’t been alone, of course. Hundreds of thousands were ruined thanks to railroad overexpansion. Investors started declaring bankruptcy, banks and factories went under, and workers were suddenly unemployed. Whole damn country slipped into a depression, with violent riots frequently breaking out in big cities. It had been a vicious, uncertain few years, a time Julius would never forget. Even today the thought of an unruly mob bent on destruction turned his blood cold.

  Their family hadn’t been the same after the creditors. His father had taken his own life shortly after, but not before ranting and raving for five drunken nights about the society men who had cheated him. He’d never mentioned any names, however, not even when asked. And when Julius found his father’s lifeless body hanging from the stable rafters, he’d sworn revenge against those responsible. He didn’t know their identities but he’d find—and ruin—them if it took his entire life.

  The office door opened and his proper British valet, Weaver, entered with a tray. Julius rubbed his temples. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars if there is coffee on that tray.”

  Weaver set the silver filigreed tray on the edge of the desk. He began arranging Julius’s breakfast. “There is indeed coffee, sir, yet it would be most improper for you to compensate me for that fact.”

  “You have no sense of humor, Weaver. You’re in America now. You’re allowed to laugh.”

  “I apologize, sir. I hadn’t realized you’d made a joke.”

  Julius sighed. He’d hired Weaver away from a duke’s household two years ago because everyone knew British valets were the best—and Julius made a point to surround himself with nothing but the best. Just like his butler, Brandywine, who’d been hired away from one of the smaller royal residences in London.

  Weaver certainly hadn’t disappointed. The valet was a dashed marvel, and the man well knew it. Efficient and knowledgeable, he was always ready with whatever Julius needed. For this, Julius tolerated Weaver’s dry personality and thinly veiled insults. He also enjoyed needling the servant whenever possible.

  “You know, I’m certain there’s a doddering old marquess or vicar we could ship you back to.”

  “I believe you mean ‘viscount,’ sir, as no vicar would be capable of hiring a valet of my stature.”

  Julius ignored the rebuke and nearly lunged for the china coffee cup Weaver offered. He took a sip, letting the fragrant liquid slide down his throat and warm his stomach. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  “Do you feel well enough for buttered toast?”

  Bile rose in Julius’s throat. “Perhaps in a moment.” He checked the tape once more, cataloging and sorting the stock prices in his mind. He liked numbers, always had. Numbers made sense. One could take them at face value and not worry about being lied to. He’d shown an aptitude for math and calculations since boyhood, one his father had encouraged.

  Weaver set the toast aside. “Very good, sir. Incidentally, a young woman is here to see you. Brandywine has placed her in the rose salon.”

  A young woman? Julius gulped more coffee. He felt more human with each passing second. “Why is she here?”

  “I could not say, sir. Will you be attending to your appearance before receiving guests?”

  Julius glanced at his respectable, perfectly pressed brown tweed suit. There were no discernible stains or loose threads. Before descending the stairs, he’d bathed, shaved his face, and cleaned his teeth—all without Weaver’s help. “No, why?”

  Weaver pursed his lips. “No reason, sir. Perhaps the unkempt look is appreciated by the fairer sex nowadays.”

  Julius dragged a hand through his half-combed hair and then straightened his necktie. “It’s as presentable as I get the morning after my birthday, Weaver. Besides, she’s uninvited. Turn her away.”

  “I do not think that is wise, sir. She is Lady Nora Parker, the daughter of the Earl of Stratton. She has her maid with her.”

  Another memory, stronger now, tugged at Julius. That name was familiar. He drank the rest of the coffee and then held out the cup to Weaver. “Have I met her before?”

  His valet took the china cup and set it in the saucer. He poured more coffee and added sugar, the way Julius preferred. When the cup had been returned to Julius’s hands, Weaver said, “I would say the answer to that question is an unequivocal yes,
sir.”

  Julius tried to picture her. A hair color or general body shape. A hint of anything that might remind him. The daughter of an earl, Weaver had said. Julius hadn’t met any British ladies recently. “How are you so certain I know this woman?”

  “Because the lady says you are her fiancé.”

  He nearly ran into the room.

  From her perch on the sofa, Nora watched as Julius Hatcher skidded to a stop on the Italian marble floor. With his adorably mussed blond hair, rumpled clothing, and the dark circles under his blue eyes, he had obviously just been roused from bed. His coloring hinted at a Nordic ancestry. A Viking warlord’s younger scapegrace brother, perhaps.

  His brows dipped as he looked her over. Flat, dispassionate eyes reflected none of the teasing warmth from the night before. His mouth held no flirtatious smile, no hint of mirth. Hard to believe this was the same man atop the horse at Sherry’s. But there was no mistaking those roguish features, even when heavily frowning. “Are you some sort of charlatan? Or confidence man?”

  Disappointment pierced her chest. He didn’t recognize her, which meant he’d no doubt forgotten their agreement. “I am neither. And if you are asking, that means you do not recall our conversation last evening.”

  He dropped into the chair on the left and massaged his forehead. “Listen, you’re not the first woman to try and trick me into marriage. I don’t know who you are or what you’re about, but we are not engaged.”

  “You gave me your word we were, sir.”

  A strangled sort of embarrassed amusement escaped his mouth. “I was three sheets to the wind. I would have promised anything to anyone.”

  He could not back out, not now. Not after Nora had spent the night planning and hoping. Dreaming of Robert. No, her plan needed to progress. She needed to return to England where she could marry Robert. Elope to Scotland, if necessary.

  And Julius Hatcher was a perfectly horrible choice for a husband. Even this house was outrageous. A French limestone fantasy, the massive castle had turrets, balconies, gables . . . even gargoyles on the corners. Ducks had been swimming in the moat as she’d climbed the wide flight of steps leading to the giant stone portico. And inside, impressive stained-glass windows lit the light yellow Caen stone walls.

  Her father would book her passage on the first ship home the moment he heard the news.

  She drew in a breath and decided to start over. “Sir, my name is Lady Nora Parker. You and I struck a mutually beneficial bargain last evening. If you will permit me to explain?”

  He waved his hand as if to hurry her along. “Permission granted. Get to the point, milady.”

  She ignored the sarcasm lacing his words. “My father has sent me here to find a suitable American husband. I wish to return to London, unmarried, instead. I need my father to hear of an unsuitable fiancé, which will result in his ordering me home.”

  Hatcher squinted and pointed at his chest. “And I’m the unsuitable?”

  “Yes.” No need to lie. This could not be news to a man with Hatcher’s reputation.

  She had no idea what to expect, but Hatcher surprised her by throwing back his head and laughing. Not just a chuckle or a titter. A full-out belly laugh. She thought his eyes might be watering, too.

  When he stopped, he wheezed, “As a flimflam, I must tell you, this is the best I’ve ever heard. Brava, madam.” Placing his hands on the armrests, he pushed up out of the chair. “Feel free to have Brandywine call for my carriage to see you home. Good day.”

  “Wait.” She shot to her feet. “You cannot leave.”

  Heaving a sigh, he turned around. Exhaustion lined his face. “Why not?”

  “Because I have not told you the rest of it.”

  “And what is the rest of it?”

  “Rumor has it you are eager to ingratiate yourself into New York society. I am able to assist with that.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, appearing more imposing by the minute. She began to see why he was so successful in business. “And just how do you propose to assist me in that endeavor?”

  “I’m the daughter of an earl. As well, I am staying with my aunt, who is the sister to an earl. We are received everywhere here.”

  “Define everywhere.”

  She listed the most recent invites. “The Fishes, the Astors, the Van Rensselaers, the Cooper Hewitts, the Posts. Oh, and the Roosevelts. I’m certain there have been more, but that was just this week.”

  “This week? It’s only Wednesday.” When she nodded, he said, “I don’t believe you. No daughter of an earl would show up at my house—me, a bachelor with a wild reputation—by herself first thing in the morning. Even your carriage waiting outside would cause a stir.”

  She cleared her throat. “Well . . . as to that. I might have let it slip to certain parties that we are engaged.”

  “You what?” He stalked forward, his shoulders tight with anger and recrimination. He pointed a finger in her face. “You had no right to do that.”

  She shoved his finger away. “You agreed last night! You gave me your word.” It hadn’t escaped her that he might not remember agreeing to her scheme, so telling others of the betrothal had seemed a clever way to ensure Julius’s cooperation.

  He stopped, closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths. “Weaver!” he suddenly shouted, the sound reverberating off the papered walls of the cavernous room.

  Seconds later, a tall, well-dressed servant appeared. Not a footman or the butler, so she guessed a valet. “You rang, sir?”

  She nearly laughed at the sly insult over Hatcher’s bellowing. Hatcher did not seem to catch it, however. “Weaver, thank God. Come in and shut the door.”

  “Of course, sir.” He entered and clasped his hands behind his back. “How may I be of assistance?”

  Julius indicated Nora. “She claims to be the daughter of an earl. Lady Nora something or other. I need you to tell me if she’s speaking the truth.”

  “The lady is indeed Lady Honora Parker, the daughter of the eighth Earl of Stratton. I have seen her portrait at the home of the dowager countess, her ladyship’s grandmother. The Parkers have held the earldom since King James the First bequeathed the title on her ancestor, Rowland Parker.”

  Nora hadn’t heard that. “Is that true? Rowland?”

  “Oh yes, my lady. His lordship, the first earl, had been a Scottish childhood friend to the king. It is believed he appropriated the name Parker to sound more English.”

  “Fascinating,” she said, awed by Weaver’s knowledge of her family. “What was his surname prior to Parker?”

  “I have heard Munro but there is no solid evidence to confirm it.”

  “You are a marvel. Have you memorized all of Debrett’s?”

  He beamed with pride. “Of course, my lady. One never knows when such information will become useful.”

  “What about—”

  “Thank you, Weaver.” Irritation laced Hatcher’s voice. “That will be all.”

  Weaver’s lips twitched and Nora had the impression he was fighting a smile. “Very good, sir.” He withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.

  She lifted one eyebrow, not even attempting to conceal the smugness.

  “Fine. You are the daughter of an earl.” Hatcher shifted his weight and thrust his hands in his trouser pockets. “Who have you told about this engagement?”

  “My aunt and uncle. Your staff. And I wrote to Mrs. Billings to let her know you would be escorting me to the ball on Saturday evening.”

  “A ball?” When Nora nodded, Hatcher’s gaze narrowed. “What if I have plans? What if I refuse?”

  “If you are interested in gaining society’s acceptance, this is an excellent place to start. Nearly everyone of importance in New York will be there. Why on Earth would you refuse?”

  “Perhaps because I do not appreciate being ordered about by a woman I’ve never met? Or maybe I have changed my mind about entering society.”

  “Have you?”

  She cou
ld tell by his expression he hadn’t. Though they were nothing more than strangers, determination lurked under his skin. She would bet once he set his mind to a task or goal, there was no talking him out of it.

  “So why not take me up on my offer?” she asked. “You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

  He rubbed his jaw as he studied her. “Tell me the reason for your desperate wish to return to England.”

  She considered telling him about Robert, admitting her love for another man. Likely it would set Hatcher’s mind at ease to know he’d have nothing to fear in regards to an unwanted emotional attachment from her.

  But the admission felt too private. Hatcher was nearly a stranger after all. He might not understand why the daughter of an earl yearned to be with a simple artist, one who loved her for herself and not her title. Or he might conclude affection was not a reasonable motivation for lying to everyone in New York.

  The decision on whether or not he could be trusted hadn’t yet been made. And until she knew, Robert would remain a secret.

  She countered with, “Tell me the reason for your desperate wish to join society.”

  “Doesn’t everyone long to join society?”

  Something in the flippant statement rang false, and she knew he had a reason. One he was not sharing.

  It turned out they both had secrets.

  Fine. She needed neither his trust nor his friendship. What she needed was for him to be as outrageous as possible. Word would reach her father quicker that way.

  She closed the distance between them. His tall frame towered over her, yet she faced him squarely and ignored the tingling along the back of her neck. Without liquor’s influence, his eyes were really the most startling shade of blue. Clear and bright, with a hint of gray in them, and framed by long blond lashes. Drunk, she’d believed him attractive in a roguish way.

  Sober, Hatcher was downright devastating.

  Robert had a softer, more boyish form of good looks. Thick black hair and dark eyes that showed his sensitive, sweet soul. He also didn’t loom over her. Moreover, he never argued or disagreed with her. They had a deep, serious connection, one she’d never shared with another person. One she missed terribly.