by Nichole Van
“Snare a husband? My dear wife, young ladies are hardly poachers, slipping through the dark night, laying ribbon traps for unsuspecting male game.”
“Heavens!” Her mother gasped. “What a vulgar—”
“Besides, Belle has excellent ideas as to how we can better manufacture all this frippery.” Her father waved his hand. “Our daughter should have choices, my dear. I am merely ensuring she has her wits about her.” He shot a telling glance at her mother. “I would hate for her to make a poor or hasty decision . . .”
An advantageous marriage had been the driving goal of Belle’s life for . . . forever. She had thought researching Lord Blake’s personal history was what her father meant by avoiding a ‘poor or hasty decision.’
But what if that wasn’t the truth of his advice? Because the more she thought about it . . .
Her father had never once stated she must marry. No. That had always been her mother.
Why was she settling for marriage to a man she did not know? The more Belle considered it, the more her reasons escaped her.
So . . . what if?
She stood in her bedroom, arms wrapped around her chest, as if she could somehow physically contain the whirlwind inside.
What if she chose to remain a single woman of fortune?
Until Belle reached the age of majority at twenty-one, her mother would have to live with her. Which meant her mother would continue to hound Belle to marry. But after reaching her majority, Belle would control her mother’s finances completely. Surely, Belle could use that as leverage to convince her mother to let her be, to accept her wishes.
From there, Belle would be her own woman. Setting up her own household was unusual for an unmarried miss, but not beyond the pale. As Lord Blake had stated, she could keep a companion around her at all times as a chaperone. Mr. Sloan, her solicitor, was a dear friend of her father’s and supportive of her involvement in her own finances, so that needn’t change. Her mother could even continue to live with her, provided she ceased meddling in Belle’s affairs.
And if all that came to pass . . .
Belle would be free. Free of her mother and uncle’s guardianship. Free to arrange her life without requiring others’ approval.
You are capable of amazing things, Miss Heartstone.
The idea was . . . intriguing.
No. Revolutionary, as he had said.
Just the mere thought of it . . .
Abruptly, her future fluttered wide open, brimming with choices and options. Wings unfurling, expanding her vision, soaring into a landscape she had never realized existed.
Oh.
Was this what Lord Blake had meant then?
A revolution in truth.
But such a path . . . it would not be easy. Women who flaunted society’s expectations often paid a steep price.
Just look at Lord Blake’s reference to Mary Wollstonecraft. She had been cast out from all polite society for her actions and writings.
Belle hugged herself harder, as if her hands were determined to keep the new-found wings from taking flight too quickly and dashing her hopes.
Living such a life would be easier in the country. But Belle would need to continue to attend the Season in London. It was the financial center of the world; she could ill afford to not be in London for at least part of the year.
But . . .
Belle didn’t have to be flamboyant about her decisions. She simply had to be . . . careful. Cautious and obstinate. Respectably unmoved.
She mentally laid out that future in her mind, mapping all the facets of such a life. If she dressed elegantly but conservatively, if she kept Miss Rutger at her side at all times, if she behaved with the utmost propriety. Yes. Statistically, Belle could see that her chance of failure would be quite low.
Mmmmm.
But probabilities, as usual, did not remove emotions from a decision.
Belle rubbed her arms with her hands.
Did she have the courage to embrace such a life for herself? To decline marriage for five or even ten years until she found genuine love? A gentleman who truly matched her, to whom she could be equally yoked?
Belle paused, biting her lip.
Was she a rebel? An incendiary?
She probed her innermost heart. The organ felt raw and untried. She was a fledgling teetering at the edge of the nest, desperate for flight but terrified of the hard ground below.
I feel you are destined for great things, my Little Heart-Full.
Papa’s words from long ago. There was something buried deep inside . . . a core of steel. She was her father’s daughter after all.
Huh.
She had never considered how revolutions began, but she supposed that most did start with a single person in a quiet room pondering how life should be.
How could a single conversation so thoroughly shake the foundations of her life? How could she be reborn so quickly?
But . . . life was like this. Endless monotony and then in a single day, everything changed. She could catalog her life by such days.
The afternoon as a child when her father first showed her how to do chimney sums, unfurling the world of mathematics.
The morning Belle made her first momentous financial purchase—a shipment of raw silk thread because she saw a fashion trend toward silk ribbon that year—and had been unerringly right.
The night her father died.
The day Lord Linwood asked to be released from their betrothal.
And now, this day.
The moment she finally saw herself as her own for the first time.
Welcome to being an adult, she thought wryly.
So . . . if she cast off the idea of marriage for now, then what?
Be honest with yourself. What do you desire most?
Belle grabbed a handkerchief and slid into a wingback chair before her fireplace.
What did she desire most?
Her fingers beat a steady tattoo against the arm of the chair as she thought, thought, thought.
Women rarely saw themselves as persons capable of acting, of seizing their own destinies. Instead, women were almost always agents to be acted upon—beholden to parents, guardians, and society as a whole.
It was nearly strange to realize she could think and act for herself, too.
If she threw off everyone else’s expectations, what was left within her own heart? What did she want?
Belle stared into the hearth for nearly an hour, tossing ideas around.
She did hope to marry someday. Children and a home—yes, she genuinely wanted all that. But did she desire those things right now? At the cost of her freedom? Her self-respect?
No. She really didn’t.
Her talents lay in the realm of men—calculating probabilities, anticipating purchasing trends. Granted, Belle knew she brought a uniquely female perspective to it all. Most men didn’t give a snap for bonnet ribbons, but she knew first-hand how to appeal to women as customers.
That said, Belle was not delusional. She knew she was no great beauty. And her clever wit never managed to escape her shy tongue, remaining firmly in her brain and not enlivening her conversation.
Lord Blake, himself, had inadvertently pointed out how utterly forgettable she was . . . visibly invisible. No one remembered her face. All they remembered was her great fortune.
But Lord Blake, at least, had the kindness to point out that she was more than the sum of her fortune. Just as he was more than the sum of his rank.
Of course, in the process of freeing her from the societal expectations of marriage, he had shown himself to be a man who would make a remarkable husband.
Ironic, that.
Her father had been a man similar to Lord Blake. And then spent his life married to her pretty, but frivolous and vain, mother. All those years of advice . . . her father had wanted her to avoid the same fate.
Belle held her father’s hand, the room dark and suffocating. A low fire crackled in the grate. Candles flickered from the corners.<
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No one else remained. Mamma had taken herself off to bed, unequal to the task of keeping vigil over a deathbed.
No power on earth could have torn Belle from her father’s side.
She leaned forward in her chair, placing a warm hand on his brow. He turned into her touch.
“I’m here yet, Little Heart-Full,” he whispered, eyes closed.
But the weakness of his grasp, the gray pallor of his skin, the chill of his touch . . . all these testified that he would not be long for this world.
He had been the picture of health just a week ago. But he had spent a night in a rainstorm, and a cough had settled deep in his lungs.
The day before, the doctor had listened to Papa’s labored breathing before quietly shaking his head, shooting Belle a grimacing look that could only mean one thing—
Belle gritted her teeth, angrily swiping at her damp cheeks.
“Please don’t leave me, Papa,” she hiccupped. “I can’t go on without you—”
“Hush, child.” He shook his head, the faintest of movements. Papa managed to turn his face toward her. He lifted his eyes slowly, as if great weights held them down. “You will be well, Little Heart—”
“No, Papa—”
“You will.” The barest of smiles. “No father has ever been as proud of his child as I am of you. You are so brilliant and clever. You will care for all that I have built. I have ensured that everything will remain in your capable hands.”
“I don’t want it, Papa. Not without you by my side—”
“You are my legacy, Belle. The very best of me. You won’t let me down—”
Belle shook off the memory, blotting her cheeks with her handkerchief.
Oh, Papa. I would give every last cent to have just one more day with you.
Papa’s death had shattered her. She was quite sure she had been sleep-walking through the years since then, allowing her frivolous mother to guide her life.
Belle swallowed.
Papa would have wanted more for her.
Her father would have liked Lord Blake. They were cast from the same mold.
Though she knew it was for the best, part of her mourned that she would never know Lord Blake better. His kindness had left an impression. He seemed like he might be a kindred spirit.
No matter.
She rose and moved to the small writing desk situated before her bedroom window.
She was decided then.
She would not marry for now.
The decision fluttered through her, a flush of stomach-clenching nervousness. She could almost feel her tiny wings spreading outward, deliriously eager but nearly shaking with fear.
What did she want to do?
The idea blazed through her, brilliantly bright.
Of course.
It was so simple.
The Heartstones had always been focused on banking and manufacturing within Great Britain itself. But what if Belle combined her gift for probabilities and anticipating market demands with Lord Blake’s societal connections and his first-hand assessment of current trade routes and procurement of materials?
Well.
Well, well, well.
Even if she never saw Lord Blake again, there was one thing she could do to thank the man who brought her to her senses.
I feel you are destined for great things, my Little Heart-Full . . .
Her father had taught her so much. It was time to pass along what she could.
4
. . . I would ask you to call upon George and myself tomorrow during at-home hours. We have missed your company so . . .
—message from Cecily Radcliffe Phalean to her younger brother, Lord Blake
I am most sorry, my lord, but I cannot divulge my client’s name. It would be a serious breach of confidentiality,” Mr. Sloan said.
Colin slapped his hat against his thigh, sternly resisting the urge to continue pressing his case.
The middle-aged man behind the desk regarded him with quiet implacability. “All I can say,” Sloan continued, “is that this person is in earnest. I have been this particular client’s solicitor for many, many years, and I personally vouch for their trustworthiness. I ask you to respect my client’s need for anonymity.”
Colin grimaced. “Not quite the answer I was hoping for.” He slapped his hat again.
“I am aware of that, my lord.” Mr. Sloan shifted in his seat, the only evidence of his discomfort in having to deny information to a peer of the realm.
As well the man should be, blast it all.
Yesterday, a note had been delivered to Colin’s rooms with a letter forwarded from one Mr. John Sloan, Solicitor. The letter currently resided in Colin’s waistcoat pocket, burning with its weight.
Colin had read it at least thirty times in the past twenty-four hours.
To The Most Honorable, The Marquess of Blake
May 2, 1816
Dear Lord Blake,
It has been brought to my attention that you are searching for a financial backer for your current proposed excursion into the East Indies. The East India Company Act has allowed others to venture into the Indian market, and I have been eager to capitalize on the moment. As someone with considerable financial expertise, I have studied your proposal and find your business scheme has merit.
Despite your own inexperience in such matters, a general inquiry into your background shows you to be a man of courage and intellect. Therefore, I wish to invest the requested sum of £5000, payable immediately. In return, I propose a fifty percent profit share in the enterprise, as you can see from the enclosed papers.
Please direct all correspondence through my solicitor, Mr. Sloan, as I desire to remain anonymous.
I wish you God speed in your endeavors and hope for a fruitful return.
Your obedient servant,
LHF
The letter had become a thorn in Colin’s side. It seemed the whole world was aware of his plight.
He still had to shake his head over the audacity of that young Miss Whatever-her-name from the previous week and her offer of marriage. In the moment, he had been so caught off-guard, he had scarcely known what to think. But with a little distance, he had to wonder at the desperate circumstances that would drive her to actually propose marriage to a man she barely knew. He wished her well.
But because of that situation, Colin felt the need to more thoroughly scrutinize any correspondence that proffered assistance.
Therefore, Colin currently sat before Mr. John Sloan himself, intent on ensuring this LHF passed muster. At least this particular letter had come through more formal channels, having gone through a solicitor.
That said, he’d like to know the identity of this mystery financial backer. The anonymity of LHF’s proposal was nearly bizarre. Simply put—such behavior was not the done thing. But eccentric behavior had been the theme of his week, it would seem.
Colin stared at Mr. Sloan. The man was fairly unremarkable with brown eyes and silver-shot hair and beard, his shoulders tucked into a serviceable coat. Beyond his study door, Mr. Sloan’s office was large and bustling. Clerks and assistants sat at desks, the smell of ink black and musty paper hung in the air.
“Would you do this?” Colin gestured toward the man’s desk and the stack of legal papers, setting up a fledgling business between this mysterious LHF and himself.
Mr. Sloan did not hesitate. “I would, my lord. Though I am constrained and cannot discuss the particulars, I can say that my client is one of the most honorable people it has ever been my privilege to know. You will be in good hands.”
Sincerity dripped from every word.
Though only twenty-three himself, Colin felt much older. Five years of military service had a way of forcing a young man to grow up quickly.
All to say, Colin was a decent judge of character. He trusted Mr. Sloan’s word. This LHF was likely a worthy sort.
Now what to do?
Colin grunted. “I shall ponder it some more. You will have my answer
tomorrow.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Five minutes later, Colin was in a hackney carriage headed toward Mayfair and his sister’s home. He stewed as the sights and sounds of London slowly crept past.
Most of him wanted to accept this LHF’s proposition. India called to him with her lure of adventure and opportunity.
Moreover, his estates desperately needed an influx of cash. His land required expensive modernization in order to improve yields and lift the lives of his workers. Many of the tenant farmers who tilled his fields lived in ancient homes that leaked in the rain and provided little warmth in winter. As their landlord, it was Colin’s responsibility to see to repairs. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of people depended on Colin doing the right thing.
LHF’s proposal was sound, clearly coming from a seasoned mind. But Colin struggled to move past the man’s insistence on anonymity. If they went into business together, they would surely be in each other’s confidence. If LHF was willing to place thousands of pounds into Colin’s care, why not trust Colin with his name? Colin was a man of honor. If this LHF wished his involvement to be kept secret, why not simply tell Colin his identity and request his silence?
LHF’s lack of trust grated.
Colin was still struggling to make a decision when the hackney stopped in front of a pillared townhouse. Paying the fare, Colin hopped down and rapped on the front door. He smiled at the butler who promptly greeted him, chatting about the weather as Colin shed his overcoat, gloves, hat, and walking stick. Climbing the central staircase, Colin found his sister, her husband, and at least nine other people waiting for him in the drawing room.
“There you are, Blake.” Cecily rose and fondly kissed his cheek. “We had started to wonder if we would see you, brother dear.”
Ah, Cecily.
He loved his middle sister dearly, but she had taken to his newly-acquired title more than he had himself. So despite the fact that she had spent the previous twenty-three years calling him Colin, the second he had inherited the marquisate, he had suddenly become Blake to her, and no amount of chiding would get her to budge on that fact. She reveled in being the sister of a newly-minted marquess.