by Nichole Van
Colin’s frozen brain struggled to catch up with the reality facing him.
The older man took Colin’s silence as permission to continue speaking. “I fear I have allowed pride to overcome my better sense. But I am, at present, willing to accept whatever assistance you deem fit to provide, my lord. The Good Lord will humble us for our sins, will he not?” Lord Halbert grimaced before offering Colin another strained smile.
Colin returned the expression, mind humming in stunned shock.
How could—
What the—
His heart thundered, drowning out anything else Lord Halbert said.
Colin surged to his feet, hands clasped behind his back. He walked to the large window overlooking the street.
He swallowed. Once. Twice.
Lord Halbert assumed Colin had come at George’s request to settle some gambling debts.
And more to the point—
Lord Halbert was clearly not LHF.
How could that be?
How could Colin have been so wrong?
Nausea clawed at his throat.
He paced back and forth, the weight of Lord Halbert’s frazzled gaze heavy on him.
“Are you quite all right, my lord?” Lord Halbert’s eyes widened. “Do my sins sit so heavily upon you?”
Colin paused and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.
“No,” he managed to say.
He wasn’t ready to admit defeat quite yet. He stopped and met the older man’s gaze with intense directness.
The time for subtly was long past.
“I will happily render whatever aid is needed in exchange for your absolute discretion and brutal honesty,” Colin said.
“Of course, my lord.” Lord Halbert straightened in his chair. “My word is my bond. I am the soul of discretion.”
Colin nodded. “Do the initials LHF mean anything to you?”
There. He had said it.
Lord Halbert froze. But it wasn’t the hesitation of a caught animal. Instead, it was a pause of confusion, of dismay.
“You asked for my honesty and, I must admit, the initials LHF mean nothing to me.” Lord Halbert frowned, clearly rattling through his memory. Abruptly, his expression brightened. “Oh! LHF could be my initials—Lord Halbert Phalean, assuming an ‘F’ to mimic the beginning sound of Phalean.”
See?! Colin wanted to shout. This is why I assumed this man was LHF. He is clearly clever.
“Has someone misled you, my lord?” Lord Halbert continued. “Has someone done something, and you assumed it was me?”
Colin could do nothing more than clench his jaw and nod with one sharp up-down motion.
Lord Halbert looked suitably outraged. “Heavens! What a dastardly thing—”
“Again, I would ask for your absolute discretion with this matter,” Colin reiterated. “To clarify, on your honor as a gentleman, you have no understanding to what I refer?”
Lord Halbert met his gaze with forthright directness. “Upon my honor, my lord, I know not of what you speak.”
Lord Halbert’s words lashed across the room, shredding any trace of doubt that might have lingered.
Colin closed his eyes for a few moments against the onslaught of emotions, letting the sensations flow through him—shock, anger, betrayal, frustration. Only a lifetime of breeding allowed him to keep most of it off his expression.
That was that, then.
Lord Halbert was definitively not LHF.
Now what?
He swallowed noisily and opened his eyes.
He would soldier on. He always did.
His father died, and Colin enlisted in the Army to provide for his mother and sisters.
He inherited a tarnished title and bankrupt estates, and Colin immediately set out for India to earn his fortunes.
Sarah betrayed him, and he swallowed his pain and grief and moved on.
His best friend and business partner mislead him—
Colin stopped there. He would deal with the emotional and possibly financial repercussions later.
First things first. He couldn’t show up on Lord Halbert’s doorstep unannounced and not offer help.
Fifteen minutes later, Colin stepped back into his waiting carriage, leaving Lord Halbert a happier man than he had found him. Colin had pledged to clear some of Lord Halbert’s debt, provided the man never breathe a word of his help to another soul. As before, Colin did like the older man. He was reserved and proud but also grounded in good sense.
That wasn’t what had Colin clenching his jaw and tapping his fingers against his thigh, however.
If Lord Halbert wasn’t his man, then . . .
. . . who the hell was LHF?
Who was the brilliant mind behind their business ventures? Who had been the man to mentor him? Who had Colin claimed as a best friend all these years?
Who had he trusted with his innermost secrets? And what was he to do about it?
The feeling of betrayal sank deep.
Though logically, Colin knew LHF hadn’t betrayed him specifically, he was hard-pressed to not feel like a deceived fool.
Colin had long thought LHF to be a man of honor and integrity. The man’s actions over the years had proven this time and again.
But now? LHF had to know that Colin was mistaken in his identity. How could LHF claim to be a friend but treat Colin’s trust so cavalierly?
More to the point, how could LHF, in good conscience, have allowed this farce to go on so long?
Sarah’s betrayal had stung.
But this?
This scorched his very soul.
12
As you may have deduced by now, I have been mistaken as to your identity. My dear sir, permit me to be frank. We have been friends and business partners for seven years this month. You know much about my life. However, I do not even know your name. I am troubled by your continued insistence on anonymity. Initially, before becoming friends and confidants, I could understand your reluctance. But now, why do you deny me your trust?
You once asked what I fear most. I had answered at the time that I feared not finding the other half of myself. I have since amended that statement. My greatest fear is discovering that those whom I trust are not worthy of that trust.
I am a man of honor. I had taken you to be a man of honor, as well. I ask you directly—meet me, face-to-face.
—letter from Lord Blake to LHF, dated May 17, 1823
Belle read Blake’s letter, a grimace on her face.
Anger and hurt laced every word.
I am a man of honor. I had taken you to be a man of honor, as well. I ask you directly—meet me, face-to-face—
Belle set the paper down with trembling fingers, struggling to gather her thoughts.
Yes, she had known that he was mistaken.
Yes, she was the worst scoundrel for not having told him the truth before now.
His subtle accusation only underscored the problem: I had taken you to be a man of honor . . .
Yes, this day of reckoning had long been coming.
The letter was dated over two weeks ago but had only just arrived. Blake had been traveling, and Mr. Sloan had enclosed an apologetic letter, stating he had a spell of ill health as of late, causing the delay.
Clearly, Belle had to tell Blake the truth about LHF. She just didn’t know how to go about doing it.
No, that wasn’t quite correct. Belle needed to be more honest with herself.
She knew how to tell him; that wasn’t difficult to ascertain.
It was more the timing of it all. Once he knew, Blake would be honor bound to sever their working and personal relationship. Disentangling their business interests would be messy and would inevitably hurt some people.
But Belle knew that was more of a reflexive excuse at this point.
The real reason? She did not want lose Blake in truth.
Her wayward heart lurched and howled at the thought.
Her greatest fear realized.
Th
ere had been a small part of her that still held out hope . . . if Blake chose to court her . . .
Her pulse raced at the thought.
He had not shown a single spark of interest in her seven years ago, even with the enormous carrot of her plump dowry and the need of his extreme poverty.
And now . . . the man was wealthy. No heiresses required. Young, handsome, titled. He had been welcomed home like a conquering hero. In short, he could have his pick of any eligible woman in the British Isles.
Her mind flashed back to that breathless moment at the balloon ascension, the surprise of meeting Blake’s gaze, the startled sense of something . . . more from him.
Her heart hitched in her chest. She ached to see that look in his eyes again: surprise, warmth, tenderness.
But Blake had been caught up in a whirlwind of meetings with Parliament and the King as soon as he arrived. And then he had left London for Bath, she assumed, and an ill-fated meeting with whomever he had assumed to be LHF.
She cringed at the very mention of that meeting. It must have been horrifically awkward and embarrassing. How he must detest her.
Yes, any hope she had of engaging with him socially before telling him the truth had rapidly evaporated.
But Belle scarcely had time at the moment to chase down Blake in person. He was still traveling around to his various estates, she assumed. And she and Anne were busily readying for a house party at Stratton Hall in Warwickshire. They were to leave in just two days’ time. Georgiana had practically begged Belle to join them.
Belle was eager to escape London for Stratton Hall. Two weeks of country air and tranquility would be the perfect respite. Georgiana was a kind, undemanding hostess, and invitations to her house parties were always a coveted commodity. When she had first issued the invitation, Georgiana had assured Belle that Lord Odysseus would be in attendance, though he would arrive a day late. And as Belle had been considering Lord Odysseus as a potential husband, the house party would be an ideal locale to continue their courtship.
Of course, Blake’s unexpected arrival in England—unmarried, unattached, and impossible to ignore—had put a wrinkle in Belle’s matrimony plans.
A wrinkle? Hah! More like Blake had upset the entire clothes’ press, and Belle was at sixes and sevens trying to decide how to smooth everything out again.
She wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore.
But one thing was certain—any hope of Blake forgiving her was gone. She had thoroughly abused his good-will and trust. She deserved his scorn.
There would be no graceful exit from this. She had created this mess; it was now her time to clean it up.
Belle faced the gallows of her own making.
And if the thought of losing the friendship of the man who mattered most created large cracks in her heart threatening to drag her down into a sea of tears?
Well, that was the price of her deception.
Biting her lip, she pulled a fresh sheet of paper from her desk. She would send off the letter asking him to name a date and place to meet, await his reply, and take the two weeks at Stratton Hall to collect her thoughts.
She had once asked the man to marry her. How could telling him this truth be any more frightening?
And yet, somehow, she felt that it would be.
13
. . . My lord, I am sympathetic to your anger and frustration. It is most understandable. Forgive me. Please know that I have always been your true friend. The reason I have kept my identity hidden from you is breathtakingly simple. If you would do me the honor of setting a time and place of your choosing, I will meet you there, in person, to explain all—
—letter from LHF to Lord Blake, dated June 5, 1823
Belle descended the central staircase of Stratton Hall, the demi-train of her sky-blue satin dress sweeping behind her, hair curled and amassed atop her head. Pearls glowed softly at her wrist and neck, others peeked out from her hair. Long white gloves encased her hands and arms, while a soft cashmere shawl looped through her elbows provided extra warmth should the evening weather turn chilly. Anne walked sedately at her side.
Three days. It had been three days since she sent off her letter to Blake, asking him to name a time and place to meet. He would receive it in a day or two more, write his reply, and then . . .
Belle clasped an arm around her stomach, sternly telling all the swirling butterflies to be still.
She had at least two weeks of reprieve. Two weeks to formulate her response, to concoct a mix of words that would somehow not end her friendship with Blake entirely. Two weeks of Lord Odysseus’ company to decide if she wanted to continue to encourage his attentions. Georgiana’s house party would be the perfect place of calm to do so.
Stratton Hall was a more modern building, built in the neoclassical style of the previous century, with pedimented doorways and rooms that led one into another, the entire effect harmonious and elegant. They passed through the entrance hall, through the music room, and into the green drawing room.
Belle paused in the doorway, somewhat taken aback. She and Anne had arrived earlier in the day and retired to their rooms, eager to rest after their journey. Consequently, she had not witnessed the arrival of the other guests.
She had expected the usual assortment of acquaintances from Georgiana—married MPs, older friends with refined tastes, perhaps a poet or artist to round out the company. In other words, a small, intimate group of like-minded people.
But, instead, Belle faced a room of . . . not that.
Two matrons stood to one side with five fluttering charges between them. Belle recognized one of the women as Mrs. Jones-Button, a mother known for her ruthless determination to see her three daughters married. Belle did not know the other woman, but given that the woman surveyed the room like a general preparing for battle, her intentions were obvious. The girls ranged in age from young to younger and cast longing looks across the room to the bucks gathered around a brandy decanter.
For their part, the group of men ignored the young ladies, preferring instead to pass around the brandy and laugh at each other’s jests. Belle recognized most of the men, a group of friends she collectively thought of as the Gold Miners. They each sought a wealthy wife for one reason or another—some out of necessity, others out of greed. In either case, Belle preferred to skirt their company.
Why this odd group of people? It was so unlike Georgiana.
Granted, Lord Stratton’s stepfather and mother were in attendance—most likely invited from the nearby vicarage. And Belle also recognized two other gentlemen and their wives, known for their reformist views on labor which aligned with Lord Stratton’s own. A widow and her nephew, both heralded for their wit.
But why the host of unmarried young ladies and gentlemen?
Anne noticed Belle’s pause and said, sotto voce, “From speaking with the housekeeper, I understand Lady Stratton owed a favor to Mrs. Jones-Button who is a niece to her ladyship’s aunt. Mrs. Jones-Button brought along her own three daughters, as well as invited her sister and her two girls. Hence the need for more eligible bachelors. Though we are to stay for two weeks, as close friends of the Strattons, most of the other guests will be leaving after only a week. So it won’t be two weeks of this.”
Anne motioned toward the Gold Miners with her eyes. One of the gentlemen was now attempting to balance a deck of cards on his nose. Another took bets. A third was pouring generous glasses of Lord Stratton’s finest brandy.
Charming.
All of Belle’s hopes for a relaxing house party sailed rapidly away, balloons ascending into the sky, no tethers or hope of alighting anywhere pleasant. Belle simply wished to avoid a disastrous landing.
It was going to be a long week, even with Lord Odysseus’s arrival tomorrow. She was relieved he would be in attendance to help dissuade the attentions of other men.
If only she didn’t like Georgiana quite so much . . .
Belle lifted her chin. She was being unfair. The presence of fortune-hunting men
and marriage-chasing women need not affect her. She would still have a week of quiet once they left.
Belle’s eyes focused on Georgiana herself. Standing before the fireplace, Georgiana looked elegant in an ivory silk dress with small, puffed sleeves, her golden hair glinting in the early evening light. Belle smiled as she recognized the silk ribbon on Georgiana’s dress—the very ribbon Belle had insisted would be all the rage this year.
She had not been wrong.
Georgiana stood speaking with the vicar and another man who had his back to Belle. A wide smile broke across Georgiana’s face as Lord Stratton crossed the room to stand at his wife’s side—the love in Georgiana’s eyes as she looked at her husband, his returning look of intense affection.
Belle firmly beat down the pang that kicked in her chest.
Why did she have to want such a relationship so fiercely? The one thing that no amount of money could purchase—she, of all people, would know.
Why did love have to be so elusive? Or, in her case, so pathetically one-sided?
She should simply be content with her life. She had money enough for multiple lifetimes. Charities that needed her. Friends who shared her sense of humor and who had children she could dote upon.
Her life was full. It was enough.
And maybe if she continued to remind herself of that fact every other minute, she could finally believe it.
Catching Georgiana’s eye, Belle swept across the room, intent on greeting her hostess. Georgiana smiled and said something to the man before her and then walked forward, greeting Belle with an affectionate kiss on the check.
“Belle, dear, how delightful you look this evening. You are always the epitome of fashion.”
“Georgiana, you are too kind, as ever.” Belle embraced her friend.