by Nichole Van
Colin surveyed the room with a combination of exasperation and amusement. Cecily was determined to show him off like some prize pony.
All the more reason to board a boat to India.
“Excellent to see you again, Blake,” his brother-in-law chimed in, shaking Colin’s hand.
George Phalean was an affable sort, but as his father was the youngest son of a duke, he was not above joining Cecily in social posturing among the ton.
“Allow me to make introductions.” Cecily proceeded to pull Colin around the room, gleefully forcing him to accept an acquaintanceship with the assorted gentry assembled.
Heaven help him.
The entire situation simply underscored why the life of an idle aristocrat had no appeal for him.
Colin was politely bowing to a giggling debutante and her equally giggly mother when another visitor was announced.
“Lord Halbert Phalean,” the butler intoned as a tall, pepper-gray man strode into the room.
“Father.” George stood up and crossed to the older man, warmly greeting him.
Colin vaguely remembered meeting the elder Phalean once. Colin had been visiting his mother and sisters while on leave from his regiment; George and his father had called upon them.
Colin remembered Lord Halbert as being like his son, affable but clearly concerned about maintaining appearances. Lord Halbert never allowed acquaintances to forget that he was the younger son of a duke.
George tugged Lord Halbert over to Colin. “Lord Blake, I do believe you remember my father, correct?”
Colin smiled and greeted the man, shaking his hand firmly. Despite being overly prickly about his social status, Lord Halbert brimmed with good humor and politeness to those he viewed as equals, which now included Colin.
Thirty minutes later, Cecily’s other guests had departed, having stayed the allotted time for a social visit, leaving only family behind taking tea. Colin found himself seated with George and his father, listening as George bemoaned Colin’s imminent departure.
“Must you leave, Blake?” George set his teacup on a table. “The ink is barely dry on your Writ of Summons. Your presence is needed here in Parliament.”
Colin smiled, tight and polite. “Parliament has survived without me thus far. I cannot imagine that my absence will be noticed, much less felt. However, I have estates, tenants, and debts that desperately need an infusion of cash.”
“But India?” Cecily interjected. “Why must you take yourself off to India?”
“It is the best place of making one’s fortune, sister.” And far from the superficial social pressures of London and the ton.
“It’s mad, I say,” George said. “It’s not the done thing for a marquess to dash off to foreign lands.”
Colin bit his tongue, declining to point out that plenty of peers had done just that over the years.
Lord Halbert remained quiet during their exchange but now spoke up. “From what I understand, Blake, you cannot leave until you find a backer for your scheme.”
“Yes,” Colin agreed. “That has been a sticking point.”
“Will no bank grant you credit then?”
“My spendthrift cousin exhausted the good will of the marquisate, and all relevant properties are mortgaged to the hilt. No one will extend me credit.”
“So I understand.” Lord Halbert turned pensive, brow furrowing. “You are trying to find a private financial backer or two?”
Colin found Lord Halbert’s line of questioning somewhat odd. It was rather forward for a man who was barely an acquaintance, even if they were family by marriage.
“Yes,” he answered Lord Halbert’s question. “But as I never attended Eton or Harrow and have had little interaction with the ton and peerage over the years, I have no wealthy friends to approach.” He thought of LHF’s offer burning in his pocket. “Though other avenues of assistance have recently opened up.”
Lord Halbert continued to frown.
“I still say it’s not the done thing,” George grumbled.
His father glanced at him, eyebrows raising. “Perhaps not, George, m’boy. But I must say, I admire Blake’s tenacity and honor in addressing his debts. It is to his credit.”
“But for a marquess to engage in trade, Father—”
“Plenty of the nobility own factories and businesses, my son.”
“Yes, but they don’t run them themselves.”
“True, most do not.” Lord Halbert agreed with a nod. “But in all truthfulness, society’s reaction to such behavior has more to do with the peer’s station than anything else. Something that would be looked down upon in a mere baronet can be lauded in a duke. A marquess is substantial enough that most would not look askance at Lord Blake taking a hand in resuscitating his personal finances. Many would find it admirable, I think.”
George pursed his lips. “Perhaps.”
“I speak from experience, son.” Lord Halbert shot George a wan smile before turning his head to lock eyes with Colin. “Besides, if the thing were done with dignity and some . . . anonymity, the outcome would be suitable.”
Anonymity.
Colin’s breath caught.
The older man’s gaze felt heavy, weighty. As if laden with secret meaning.
George continued to grumble and his father good-naturedly verbally sparred with him. But every moment or two, Lord Halbert would turn to Colin, giving him what seemed to be a pointed look.
Did Lord Halbert mean what Colin suspected?
Colin’s mind scrambled to catch up.
. . . if the thing were done with dignity and some anonymity . . .
Was Lord Halbert this LHF who had contacted Colin?
The initials were right, in a way—Lord Halbert Phalean. Phalean obviously started with a ‘P,’ but the initial sound was that of an ‘F.’
Colin’s breath snagged. Lord Halbert made sense as LHF. His brother, the current duke, was decidedly top-lofty. Colin imagined the man would not appreciate his brother taking an active interest in a trade venture. Hence the need for anonymity.
Though why he didn’t simply say so outright, Colin was hard-pressed to understand. Perhaps Lord Halbert wished to avoid any awkwardness within the family?
It was hard to say.
Regardless, Colin deeply appreciated the man making an appearance today, knowing that Colin would have just received his proposal and likely needed assurances.
So when Lord Halbert met his gaze again, Colin smiled, tight and knowing.
As expected, Lord Halbert returned a look in kind.
That was all the final confirmation Colin needed.
He hesitated to accept money from an anonymous stranger. But a man who was practically a relation?
That was an entirely different matter.
Yes, he would accept LHF’s offer and allow the man his anonymity.
He and Lord Halbert would be admirable partners together.
5
To LHF
May 5, 1816
Dear Sir,
I thank you for your investment. I found your discussion of the textiles market remarkably insightful, particularly your clever mathematical calculations forecasting future market growth.
More importantly, I discern you to be a man of wisdom. I firmly believe that your experience combined with my youth and enthusiasm will result in profitable yields for us both. You honor me with your faith in my abilities. They shall not be misplaced.
Sincerely,
Blake
To The Most Honorable, The Marquess of Blake
May 7, 1816
Dear Lord Blake,
Thank you for your correspondence and ideas. Please find enclosed my predictions for shipping times and market fluctuations. I have calculated the amount of silk needed to supply mills for the next year, but our profits will depend on us securing our own ships for transport once you reach India.
I strongly feel that we shall suit each other well in this endeavor. I understand that you will sail for Calcutta Wednes
day next. I wish you safe travel on the long journey. I will send correspondence behind you, as needed.
Sincerely,
LHF
The carriage swayed as it moved along the uneven cobblestone streets, causing Belle to grasp onto a hanging strap to steady herself. The last gasp of sunlight streamed through the glass to her right, scattering prisms of light throughout the carriage interior. The summer solstice was just past, so though the hour was quite late, the sun was yet aloft.
Belle noticed all this only in passing. Instead, she took in another steadying breath, ordering her racing heart to Be still. But the stubborn organ refused to listen and continued to thunder away.
Across from her, Miss Rutger smiled, half pity, half understanding. “You must calm down, my dear. All this nervous fretting will only cause you to become lightheaded and faint.”
“I know.” Belle swallowed. “But I feel that so much is dependent upon this evening.”
Belle was attending an intellectual salon for the first time, with only Miss Rutger at her side. Her mother would not be joining them.
That was all good.
But, as things turned out, the idea of a room swarming with activity and chatter was much simpler than the reality of it—so many new faces to learn, so many intelligent minds to speak with . . .
Belle could already see herself frozen, a wallflower, helplessly tongue-tied.
It had only been a handful of weeks since her encounter with Lord Blake and her resolve to transform her life. She couldn’t expect to conquer her shyness and tendency to prefer shadows overnight. Her wings were yet so new and untried.
But look at Blake, she thought. He has embraced his future and, at this very moment, is sailing for Calcutta. You can do this much.
Besides, the only way to strengthen her wings was to use them. Belle had longed to participate in Lady Simpson’s weekly salons for months now, but her mother had remained obstinate.
Just imagine, Mrs. Heartstone had said, if people found out. They would assume you were a bluestocking who likes to read and harbors her own . . . her own . . . ideas!
The horror.
The entire concept sounded perfectly perfect to Belle.
Slowly, Belle had whittled down her mother’s resistance, until Mamma had reluctantly allowed her to attend Lady Simpson’s salon.
Now . . . she simply had to summon the courage to walk through the front door and talk to someone.
“I have faith in you,” Miss Rutger said. “You proposed marriage to a marquess just last month. You run a thriving financial empire and have one of the more brilliant minds I have ever encountered. You are courageous.”
Belle shot her friend a grateful smile.
“Besides, I like hearing all the gossip, so we must attend these soirees.” Wicked teasing laced Miss Rutger’s tone.
Belle chuckled.
Miss Rutger settled back against her seat. She looked very much like the paid companion she was—hair pulled into a tight chignon, her dress a well-cut but modest gray. Tall and angular, Miss Rutger had a look that would politely be called Amazonian. She loomed over most men and easily intimidated would-be trouble-makers. But it was her grounded practicality and sense of humor that endeared her most to Belle.
“It is enough that you are trying,” Miss Rutger continued. “Sometimes that is all we can do—place one foot in front of another and keep moving forward.”
Miss Rutger knew of what she spoke. The eldest daughter of a vicar, Miss Rutger had been orphaned as a teenager. Separated from her younger siblings, she had then been passed between relatives, earning her keep as an unpaid companion or governess. Along the way, she had met a soldier headed off to Spain and the Pennisular War. They had fallen desperately in love and plighted their troth, but he had been killed in the Battle of Salamanca.
Heartbroken and tired of her relatives’ condescending ways, Miss Rutger had responded to Mrs. Heartstone’s inquiries for a governess and paid companion for her only daughter. Mrs. Heartstone had thought Miss Rutger too forthright, but Belle found her perfect.
Belle needed a strong personality as a friend, someone who she could trust implicitly. Miss Rutger had been that person for Belle from the very beginning. Even though Miss Rutger was twelve years older than herself, Belle never felt that age gap.
“Besides, think of this evening from a business perspective,” Miss Rutger said.
“True,” Belle nodded.
“There is no better place than the salons of the ton to discover what ladies’ fashion will be next year. I don’t listen to the gossip sheerly for my own enjoyment.”
Belle smiled. She knew she was in a unique position. The tradesmen and factory owners who supplied the ladies of Britain’s upper ten thousand—the ton—rarely had close access to those they served. Belle, however, moved freely in their circles. Yes, she wasn’t admitted to the upper, upper echelons of society, but she did mingle where most of the purchasing power resided—the ladies and their eligible daughters. Even at an intellectual soiree such as this one, women would still make passing comments about bonnet trims and fabric preferences.
And knowledge was money when it came to anticipating and supplying fashion trends.
Their carriage lurched to a stop in front of Lady Simpson’s townhouse. Belle exchanged a look with Miss Rutger.
“You can do this,” Miss Rutger whispered. “I know you can.”
Nodding, Belle took a deep breath.
She could do this.
She would do this.
Straightening her shoulders, Belle stepped out and climbed the stairs, knocking on the front door. All too soon, Belle and Miss Rutger were ushered into a crowded drawing room.
It was at that point that Belle’s nerve failed her.
Everyone seemed so at home, so comfortable in their own skin. It was one thing to write letters or confront a marquess in desperation.
It was something else entirely to brave a gauntlet of well-read matrons who had opinions on everything from the price of corn shares to Aristotle’s relevance in the modern political landscape.
“I should not have come,” Belle whispered to Miss Rutger.
“Nonsense. You are right where you should be.”
Belle wasn’t nearly so confident. Her mind drifted to Blake aboard his ship, headed off into the vast unknown. Was he afraid, too? Did the thought of everything before him in India strike terror into his heart?
Were they explorers together in this grand adventure?
For some reason, picturing the difficulties that Blake surely faced brought her a measure of calm.
She would likely not hear from him more than once or twice a year, at most. But it helped to know that he was out there.
That together, they could take on the world.
Besides, Belle knew quite a lot about corn shares. And though she didn’t have opinions about the current political landscape, she had read enough of Socrates to appreciate the complexities of a social contract.
So when Lady Simpson came forward a few minutes later, Belle swallowed her shyness and greeted her warmly.
And when Lady Simpson introduced Lord Stratton and his beautiful wife, Lady Stratton, Belle pasted a smile on her face, found her courage, and said, “Lord Stratton, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. I do believe we are cousins of a sort.”
To LHF
November 23, 1816
Dear Sir,
Please excuse the brevity of this missive. It is simply a follow-up to my previous letter regarding the spices I sent on from the coast of Ceylon. I know spices have not been part of our plans to date, but the opportunity arose to purchase them at an extremely reasonable price. We should recoup our investment ten-fold. I have some proposed suggestions regarding spices going forward on the following sheet.
Also, on a personal note, I find the sights and sounds of India fascinating. I have enclosed a sketch I did of a cobra and snake charmer for your enjoyment, though please excuse the ineptness of my drawing skills.
Sincerely,
Blake
Colin sat alone in his rooms, staring sightlessly into the empty fire grate. Some noise intruded, but as usual, he was left to his own company.
Such was the life of an unmarried man in Calcutta.
Colin’s quarters adjoined that of other enterprising bachelors, all housed in the British section of the city. His current apartments were on the third floor of a European-style townhouse. In typical English fashion, his countrymen had arrived in Calcutta over two centuries previously and had immediately begun to recreate London on a smaller scale.
As for the townhouse itself, the upward design worked well in a climate that was cold and rainy—retaining warmth and rebuffing wind—but was ill-suited to the heat and humidity of India.
The tropical sun beat down, warming the room to an unholy temperature, forcing him to strip to his shirtsleeves and leave his boots off. Colin desperately wanted to move into a more traditional space, something with large windows and a courtyard that allowed the air to circulate.
But for now, he had to simply survive this latest bout of homesickness.
Today was Christmas Eve.
Granted, Colin had spent a good number of Christmases away from family and friends. But he had never been quite so far away. And in quite so foreign a place.
And with so few friends.
Of course, as the Marquess of Blake, he had been invited to dine this evening with the Governor-General. But such an evening was more about encouraging business contacts than celebrating a holiday. Just thinking about making small talk with strangers set his head to pounding.
Besides, there were still hours and hours before he needed to dress for dinner.
He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging from the wrists.
Now what?