Mrs. Sartin's Secretary

by Wendy Lacapra

  His mother closed her eyes and placed a gloved hand against her temple.

  He cast his gaze outside the window, instinctively seeking Mrs. Sartin.

  She, Pritchett and Markham had left the railing and were standing just outside the open door of another crested carriage. Pritchett engaged two young ladies facing the front of the carriage within while Mrs. Sartin spoke to a dark-haired lady facing the back. She was laughing and it appeared Lord Markham did not share her mirth.

  That, at least, gratified.

  Mrs. Sartin’s expression changed as two more men joined their circle. He’d met one of the newcomers before. A distasteful fellow…

  His mother cleared her throat. “I am not going to live forever.”

  He glanced askance. “None of us are.”

  “Even if, like your father, you refuse to spare a thought for your future, my first priority is finding you a suitable bride.”

  “I am nothing like father.”

  Rector Bellamy, though charming and well-loved in his parish, had been reckless with funds. When he had, he spent, when he did not have, he cheerfully went without—recipe enough to support one man through life but little comfort for the family he left behind. Were it not for the Sartins—his gaze drifted again to Mrs. Sartin’s poised, modish silhouette, still facing away—he wouldn’t have had the means to help himself let alone his mother.

  His mother followed his gaze to Markham’s carriage. “Well, well, well. Perhaps you aren’t as opposed to the idea of courtship as you protest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Inside that carriage are three perfectly acceptable young ladies. Three. I see the look on your face. At least one of them is rousing an interest.”

  Not quite.

  The woman on the outside of the carriage, on the other hand…

  She and Pritchett turned back toward her conveyance. As she came closer, Matthew read weariness in her features. He frowned, grasping the door latch. Did she have need of him? Should he go to her?

  “Again… her.” His mother’s voice rose. “I’ll release you from her clutches if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Mrs. Sartin’s gaze locked on Matthew. Her cheeks pinked. She whispered something to Pritchett and they quickly changed direction.

  Coincidence? Or had she heard his mother?

  Gentlemanly restraint alone kept him from embarrassing everyone present with an awkward public entreaty.

  “Take me back to Earl Wentworth’s residence,” his mother said with an unapologetic pointed chin. “I’m finished.”

  “Gladly,” he replied.

  He had to get back to the office.

  Now.

  Amelia rose from her desk and leaned back against the window frame in her office staring down at her hands. Or, rather, clutches.

  Clutches evidently inserted into a hapless, unwilling, Matthew Bellamy.

  Lady Dorothy’s accusation had left her reeling, and completely unable to provide an adequate reply to the nonsense her nephew was currently spouting.

  Jeremy rapped on her desk like his uncle used to do. “Mark my words—you are going to end up in a terrible pickle.”

  “A pickle?” she asked. “Well, being in a pickle does not sound appealing. Preserving perhaps, but—”

  “I’m serious, Aunt. You cannot go around interfering as you have in the lives of your betters.”

  “Darling, interfering is my—wait.” She paused. “Did you say my betters? ”

  “Yes, your betters. You know, men capable of plotting the demise of Sartin Trading Company over a glass of port?”

  She lifted her right brow. “Lord Moultonbury is hardy my better.”

  “Perhaps not morally, but socially, yes. And you insulted him. An earl.”

  “I simply transferred coveted benefit tickets from Lord Moultonbury’s family to Lord Markham. Tickets are, as chair of the Society for the Benefit of the Infirm and the Aged, my right to bestow—.”

  “But you let him know your slight was intentional.”

  “He displayed insufferable rudeness!”

  “What will people say? ”

  She glanced heavenward. “I’ve heard every possible insult before. I am presumptuous. I am unnatural. No matter what Moultonbury comes up with, others—including the Duchess of Shepthorpe and the Queen herself—will continue to find me an exceedingly useful friend.” She pushed off the window frame. “And, next time, they will all line up for tickets—no matter what they think of me. If you were paying attention, you’d see the only inevitable result of my inviting Lord Markham and his rumored intended is that my benefit will now be the talk of the town.”

  “Donations? That’s what this was about?”

  “Not entirely. You, my dear nephew, had just confessed to witnessing Moultonbury make a wicked wager meant to destroy the reputation of Markham’s innocent lady friend, a wager that resulted in Markham claiming he intended to marry the girl.” After Jeremy’s confession, Amelia insisted on meeting the lady. When she had, she quickly realized the two young people were besotted with one another, although they appeared to be making a valiant attempt to deny their feelings. “If you hadn’t told me about the potential scandal, I might not have gotten involved at all.”

  “You’d have me believe you risked the censure of the Moultonbury family for Lady Clarissa—a woman you hadn’t been introduced to before today?”

  When he put it that way, it did sound impulsive. “Lady Clarissa is alone in the world, much like I was at her age. If it hadn’t been for your Uncle George…” She sighed. She needn’t explain herself. Not to Jeremy. Not to anyone. “You may believe whatever you wish to believe. The truth exists entirely separate from your opinions—and if you don’t understand that, I don’t see how you are ever going to run this company.”

  “Please.” A slow flush rose from beneath Jeremy’s collar. “You will never allow me to take my place in this company.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I could never compete with the esteemed Mr. Bellamy. Why even his mother said—”

  “Jeremy,” she interrupted. “If you wish to become more involved, ask. But make no mistake, if you repeat libelous innuendo again, there will be consequences. Do you understand the insult you just implied?”

  “Dash it.” Jeremy ran his hand through his hair and then cast his gaze to the floor. “I’m upset. I apologize.”

  She studied the young man standing across from her, seeing the pink-cheeked little boy she and George had raised. Jeremy had worn much the same expression every time he’d been caught pilfering cheese from the larder.

  He should be ashamed for lecturing her as if he knew better. But was he wrong about the reasons for her reluctance to give him responsibility?

  She had been clinging to Bellamy, hadn’t she? And, after the soiree, she could hardly deny her attraction to her secretary, an attraction even Bellamy’s mother perceived. She glanced back down at her hands. Clutches, indeed.

  As sole heir to Sartin Trading Company, Jeremy needed to take on more responsibility. And soon, too. She hadn’t missed the spark between Jeremy and the blushing Lady Horatia, who’d been among Lord Markham’s guests. She’d just never fully considered what that transition would mean for her.

  And Bellamy.

  Perhaps the time had come. After all, Bellamy, too, had begun to seek a wife.

  “Come, sit,” she said gently. “Go over some of this morning’s reports with me.”

  Jeremy glanced up, hopeful. “Truly?”

  “You are right,” she conceded. “I cannot argue with right. This is your inheritance. You must learn to protect it.”

  He stood tall. “And carry on for Uncle George.”

  Her heart panged with bittersweet pride. “And carry on for Uncle George.”

  She’d survived George’s loss. Matthew Bellamy would be merely moving on to better things. She’d take pride in his success, too.

  Even if Mr. Bellamy’s success meant sh
e’d be alone.

  Chapter Four

  MRS. SARTIN’S SHADOW FELL ACROSS a thin expanse of carpet, and Matthew’s office infused with her citrus scent. Embarrassed by the heart-skip need to drink in her presence, Matthew did not look up. Instead, he pushed his ever-slipping glasses to the bridge of his nose and finished transcribing a receipt into his ledger.

  No matter what he wished, events were conspiring to oust him from his island of content.

  Was this it, then?

  Was this the moment she would tell him he must leave his position?

  “I suppose you heard my conversation with Mr. Pritchett.”

  A drop of ink balled at the pointed nib of his quill. He rattled the rachis until the drop fell, sending ripples through the well of black liquid. “A private, family conversation is none of my concern.”

  “Nor mine,” she replied. “Yet, here we are.”

  Any illusions she had not heard his mother’s words vanished. What must she be thinking?

  What did he want her to think?

  They’d spent countless days and nights in these offices, hand-in-glove. How had the space become shrunken and ill-fitting?

  Mrs. Sartin’s skirts whispered as she approached, soft sounds of untold secrets, of pleasures he might have known in a different time, a different place.

  Again, he adjusted his spectacles. “You’ve nothing to explain.”

  She sat on his desk, resting her weight on her elbow as she leaned down into his gaze. “Unusually, I feel I do.”

  His lenses displayed her in crisp focus; everything behind her blurred. Wasn’t this always the way?

  She burned brighter, clearer than her surroundings.

  Breathe. “Mr. Pritchett was angry, I could tell.”

  She lifted her brows. “Concerned, yes.”

  “Has he reason to be?”

  “Perhaps.” A small smile played about her lips. “I meddled in the lives of aristocrats. I daresay Pritchett was shocked.”

  “Was meddling wise?”

  “No.” Her smile widened. “But just, absolutely.”

  Just. Her innate sense of fairness—one of the many reasons he held Mrs. Sartin in high regard. “Was this meddling in service of vengeance?”

  “Well, vengeance is a bit strong.” She drummed a finger against his desk. “But my meddling did deliver on several levels. I was able to give a much-needed set-down to an arrogant young man, help a young lady in distress, aid the course of courtship, and potentially increase future donations to the Society for the Benefit of the Infirm and the Aged.”

  “Quite impressive.” How he loved the small smirk she wore. Did she understand how rare a marvel she was?

  “I didn’t impress Jeremy. I’m afraid he’s developed an awed fascination with the wrong kind of influence.”

  “Nothing experience won’t hone, I’m sure.”

  She glanced away. “I suppose you heard him say he would like to take on more responsibility.”

  Pritchett’s words wafted between them—I could never compete with the esteemed Mr. Bellamy—as did his tone of bitter accusation.

  Insult, she’d said. Libelous innuendo.

  Ache spread through Matthew’s sinews. “Yes.”

  “Yes,” she echoed. “Yes does not reveal your thoughts. Do you feel the time has come?”

  “No matter how you choose to proceed, I will understand.”

  She frowned. “I asked for your opinion, not a platitude.”

  What did she want from him? His voluntary resignation?

  His cheek flinched.

  “I see,” she murmured.

  He laid a hand against her arm, stopping her withdrawal. “No. You don’t see.” The very idea of an end to their way of life plunged him into frigid water. How would his stinging lungs survive the reality? “Of course, Pritchett should take an interest in his inheritance. And I understand what that means for me.” This was going to hurt. Like resetting a broken bone. “And we both know the best way for him to learn is to take over my position.”

  “You don’t have to leave.” She protested, but her blanche betrayed the truth. “Not right away. I mean—I would like you to stay—for a time. Take Mr. Pritchett under-wing.” She inhaled, parchment-cut sharp. “So to speak.”

  He should refuse. A lengthened departure would only serve to rebreak the unhealed bone. Then again—he glanced around the room—this office was his work. His home. The container that held the happiest and most productive hours of his life.

  And he could refuse her nothing—not while her heat still tingled in his fingertips.

  “His judgement will take time to develop,” he conceded.

  “One of George’s favorite phrases.” She smiled sadly. “That, and,” she altered her voice. “You cannot prevent all stumbles; the trick is to learn from the misstep…”

  “…to rise a second time.” Matthew finished.

  “George didn’t shape us over night.” She sounded tired.

  “You required no shaping.”

  She snorted. “Only a fool believes they have nothing to learn.”

  He drew his fingers across her arm—a subtle, stolen caress. “You’re the least foolish person I’ve ever met.”

  Her slightly parted lips were so tantalizingly close—low-hanging fruit, heavy and ripe.

  “Thank you, Bellamy.”

  “For?”

  “For seeing the best in me.” Her cleavage tightened as she inhaled. “I’m afraid you are the only one who does.” She lifted his hand from her person and placed his palm against the desk. “There. Clutches released.”

  He made a fist against the blotter. “I hope you understand my mother does not speak for me.”

  Her gaze returned to his. “But she is not wrong any more than Pritchett’s desire to learn is wrong. Your work here could very well be perceived as an impediment to a good marriage.”

  Your work here. Not with me. “A good marriage,” he repeated by rote.

  “You’re a fine man, Bellamy.”

  “If I am,” he lifted his eyes, “I have the name Sartin to thank.”

  Her smile trembled. “George made you his own.”

  “Not just Mr. Sartin.”

  She dropped her gaze. “How maudlin I’ve become.” She rearranged the ink bottles on the edge of his desk and sniffed. “Truth is, I detest change.”

  He made a sound of derision. “You thrive on change, on challenge.”

  She shook her curls. “Not this time.”

  Then don’t let me go. The words wedged in his throat.

  She stood. “I am a selfish being.”

  “You aren’t.” He lowered his voice. “And I won’t leave. Not while you need me.”

  She fixed her gaze on the doorway back to her office. Then, as if pulled by an invisible tide, moved away from him.

  “You’ll stay, for a time.” She spoke as if self-reassuring. “For Mr. Sartin’s sake.”

  “Yes.” He’d stay, but not for Mr. Sartin’s sake.

  For hers.

  Despite the heaviness in Amelia’s heart, she soaked in the ubiquitous sense of benevolent satisfaction feeding the buoyant atmosphere of the Benefit for the Society of the Infirm and the Aged. As predicted, the evening was an absolute crush—everyone had turned out to judge for themselves if the rumored courtship between Lord Markham and Lady Clarissa was indeed, real.

  Blending in like a wallflower she most certainly was not, Amelia watched the young couple dance.

  If they were feigning a courtship to foil Lord Moultonbury’s attempt to besmirch the lady’s reputation, they were the finest actors in London. Together, they turned in one of the more intimate steps of the Allemande, gazing into one another’s eyes as if they were the only people present.

  She recognized true affection when she saw it. Love—bittersweet tenderness suffused Amelia’s soul—one of the world’s great mysteries and the most powerful force she’d ever experienced.

  Her gaze moved to her nephew.


  Jeremy had been standing taller these past few days. Sartin Trading Company’s challenges served to enliven him with purpose. And his burgeoning confidence had not gone unnoticed by Lady Horatia Maxwell-Hughes—the blushing young woman he’d met at Gunter’s.

  She couldn’t ask for a better match for Jeremy.

  And—she smirked—an alliance with a duke’s daughter certainly wouldn’t hurt Sartin Trading Company’s prospects. She considered Lady Horatia’s mother a friend and her father, the Duke of Shepthorpe, was too practical to distain trade.

  She sighed. All around her couples were coupling.

  There’d even been a moment the other evening she’d felt the age-old urge. Bellamy’s gaze—bug-eyed large behind his lenses—had dipped to her lips, and she’d electrified, every nerve tingling.

  Foolish.

  Kissing her secretary would not only be unethical, but dangerous.

  And if they were to tryst?

  Unthinkable.

  Their unavoidable parting would then go from painful to debilitating.

  “There you are, dear.” Lady Constance greeted Amelia with a kiss to both cheeks. “I’ve been searching all over.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes…and for that handsome man you introduced me to the other evening. Is he here?”

  Amelia glanced askance. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Didn’t you give him an invitation?”

  Tickets were hers to disperse, yet she hadn’t thought to invite Bellamy. Why? “He prefers quiet evenings to a Society crush.”

  “Quiet evenings at home?” Constance shuddered. “Well, that won’t do at all. I shall endeavor to put him out of my mind.”

  Amelia chuckled. “Somehow I can’t picture you, seated by a hearth full of glowing coals, stitching while your devoted paramour reads aloud.”

  But she could picture herself in such a scene.

  With Bellamy.

  She frowned.

  “Come,” Lady Constance urged. “Let’s join Lady Batsford and Mrs. Whitehold, shall we?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Constance led Amelia toward their friends, but Amelia’s thoughts remained on Bellamy.

  Bellamy was her secretary.