Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2)

by Isabel Simonds

  “Your brother seems a good sort,” she said quietly.

  “He is a good sort. I mean,” he paused, frowning. “Who told you he was my brother?” He didn't recall having ever introduced Lady Steele and Elton, though he supposed by etiquette he mayhap ought to have done.

  “I can see the resemblance,” she said softly. “And you are clearly close, he and you.”

  “We are,” Bradford nodded, surprised again that she had noticed something so subtle. He hadn't realized himself how much closer he was to Elton than to any of his other brothers. “Do we really look similar?”

  “Something about the set of the eyes,” she said. “And the mouth. It's rather subtle, but it's there.”

  “Oh,” Bradford said, feeling his lips lift in a smile. He knew he was reckoned handsome – so much so that it had got him into trouble on occasion – but he had never thought of himself as such. He always thought of Elton as the handsomer of them. If he looked like Elton, he was not unhappy about it.

  “I suppose it must be so, having a sibling,” she said.

  “You have no brothers or sisters?” he asked, surprised.

  “No. It's just me. I suppose that suits me, really. I'm so quiet, I'd probably not make the best sister.”

  “You would make a wonderful sister,” he said, before he'd even thought about it. “One anyone would be lucky to have.”

  “You think so?” she asked. She looked at him with genuine surprise in her eyes, mixed with a real sweetness of caring. Bradford shifted in his seat, feeling suddenly shy.

  I don't know what possessed me to say that! In fact, what possesses me the whole time I am with her? It was like he was a different person with her – at once much more free and much shyer than he usually would be.

  “I do think so,” he said firmly, nonetheless.

  She smiled. “I am not sorry to have met you, Lord Bradford,” she said.

  It was such a quiet statement that Bradford had to lean closer, and it took him a moment or two for the words to assemble into a sentence. But when the meaning carried through to him, he blushed.

  “I am not sorry either, Lady Steele,” he said quietly.

  They sat for a while, not speaking. The tea arrived, and the meringues – vast confections, dripping with fresh cream – and Bradford ate and drank in silence that was nonetheless contented.

  He glanced sideways, seeing Lady Mirabelle cracking into her meringue with some relish with her cake-fork. He bit back a grin and looked away, strangely affected by the sight of her doing something as ordinary as eating.

  I am very glad we came to tea, he thought. Elton was happy, Laurel was happy, and so was he. Yes, I am very pleased indeed.

  Chapter 7: Disturbing news

  Mirabelle shifted in her seat opposite Lord Bradford. She felt her heart beating faster, even as she felt a strange uneasiness creeping over her.

  I shouldn't be feeling like this.

  Running into the fellow here, of all unexpected places, was disconcerting in itself. And his effect on her was even more so. She looked at her plate, her heart thumping. He was so handsome! She wanted to smile at him, to stare at his beautiful eyes, his chiseled mouth. Sitting here at the tea-table with him was a distraction, a very exciting one. But at the same time, she couldn't let herself think this way about a man who clearly had a suspicious past. His interest in her – if such even existed – was not to be encouraged.

  “A fine tea, is it not?” Marguerite asked, eyes shining.

  “Very fine,” Mirabelle agreed. She grinned at her friend, who was clearly enjoying herself. She glanced at the two young men who were talking with her friend, and noticed they had both gone slightly pink.

  Well, if I think I am too old to indulge my interest, it seems the same laws do not apply to Marguerite.

  The thought surprised her, and she sipped her tea, emboldened.

  “You seem thoughtful,” Lord Bradford said, interrupting her reverie.

  “Thoughtful? Um, no. I was just thinking about my plans for today,” Mirabelle said quickly.

  “Oh,” he said, giving her that mild smile that made her heart twist in spite of herself. “What plans?”

  “I have to visit my solicitor,” she said, which was true. She hadn't meant to mention it, but Alton Hensley, her London-based solicitor, did need a visit. She had to find out what was happening in Arthur's old accounts.

  “Your solicitor?” he seemed surprised. It occurred to Mirabelle that most women didn't deal with solicitors.

  “Yes,” she said, feeling embarrassed. She dabbed her lips with her napkin and reached for her cake-fork. “These meringues are excellent, aren't they?”

  “Um, yes. Very sweet,” he said.

  She laughed. “Well, they ought to be,” she said, amused. “That's what they're supposed to taste like.”

  “It was a bit silly to say so,” he agreed. “But, well...they are.”

  They both chuckled. “Never a truer word,” she mused, reaching for a cup of tea.

  They sat quietly, and it occurred to her that sitting with him like this, silently and thoughtfully, felt good. She hadn't felt as at ease with someone since...well, as long as she could remember.

  “You're going to the theater?” he asked. “I understand Sheridan has a play on.”

  “Um, I won't,” Mirabelle said quickly. Besides never having cared much for theater, she couldn't afford to go.

  “Oh,” he shrugged. “Well, maybe I'll see you at Almack's again.”

  “Probably,” she agreed. She saw Marguerite looking at her and blushed. She knew her friend likely thought she was unwise, associating with a notable dissolute such as this Lord Bradford apparently was.

  “So,” a fellow across the table interrupted, “should we all go on to St. James' Park? I've a mind to play croquet there.”

  While the sounds of enthusiasm echoed round the table, Mirabelle looked away, feeling awkward. She caught Marguerite's eye and noticed her friend's slightly wry smile. It was time for them to leave. Croquet in the park was a thing for young dandies and younger lasses than themselves.

  “I'm feeling a bit tired,” Marguerite said, stretching elegantly. “I'll return home and lie down awhile. Will you accompany me?” she asked Mirabelle, who nodded.

  “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

  Strangely, even though every part of her knew it was right to do so, she didn't want to go. She looked at her hands, knowing that if she looked across the table at Lord Bradford she wouldn't be able to persuade herself to leave.

  “Milady?” he asked. “You will attend Almack's on Friday, won't you?”

  “Mayhap,” she said quietly. In truth, she didn't know yet whether she would attend or not. All she knew was that she had to leave here and the thought was upsetting. She saw Marguerite push back her chair and did likewise, trying not to look at Lord Bradford or notice the apparent distress on his face.

  Probably just apprehension about the croquet party, she decided. He's not as young as the rest of them, either.

  Marguerite was already saying her farewells and reaching for her bonnet, which hung on the hat-stand just beside the table. Mirabelle turned away and did the same, hurrying to fasten the ties under her chin.

  “I look forward to Friday, then,” Lord Bradford said, surprising her.

  “I'll see if I can attend,” Mirabelle said quickly, turning away. She swallowed, surprised by how upset she was to be parting from him after such a short time.

  Don't be ridiculous, she told herself briskly. The fellow isn't likely to be interested in you – he's just charming. It's in his nature.

  “Farewell,” someone at the table called out to Mirabelle and Marguerite as they reached the doorway. Marguerite waved brightly and then the two of them were out in the lengthening afternoon sunshine.

  “Well,” Marguerite said, raising a brow. “That was an unexpected turn of events.”

  “Indeed,” Mirabelle said softly. She drew her shawl tighter about her, surprise
d by the fact that she didn't want to talk about it. She just wanted to get home and shut herself in with her account books, prepare for the meeting with Hensley later that day.

  “Well! A fine group of people,” Marguerite continued blithely. “Oh, and here's a Hansom – just when we need it. Yoo hoo!” she stuck her hand in the air, waving down the coach.

  The hired coach rolled to a stop, and Marguerite looked up at the driver, head tilted back. She called up the address and passed up a coin, and the cabbie jumped down and opened the door, bowing gallantly as Marguerite and Mirabelle climbed in. She shut the door firmly and turned to Marguerite, who faced her with a grin.

  “Well! That was a surprise. That fellow's quite taken with you. Isn't it diverting!” she laughed.

  “Fellow?” Mirabelle asked, feeling her cheeks flame. “Which fellow do you mean?”

  “Why, Lord Bradford, of course! You surely noticed how attentive he was?”

  “Well, no...” Mirabelle stammered, feeling desperately shy. “He was...pleasant and polite,” she added.

  “Pleasant and polite!” her friend laughed. “I would say insistent and insisting,” she elaborated.

  “I don't know what you mean.”

  Marguerite must have guessed she was feeling discomforted, for she relented. “Sorry, old friend,” she murmured. “I suppose it's all those young fellows getting to my head. It did me good, that afternoon!” she laughed, leaning back in the coach seat expansively. “I feel young.”

  “You're not so very old,” Mirabelle said defensively. Marguerite was, after all, only two years older than she was.

  Marguerite smiled, eyes twinkling. “I suppose not, by some reckoning. By others, I am a veritable ancient. But then, for a Mayfly, a week is a lifetime.” She shrugged. “It's in the eye of the beholder.”

  “True,” Mirabelle murmured. She herself was simply confused.

  The image of Lord Bradford, eyes sparkling as he looked at her, played through her mind, mingling with her friend's words. It wasn't possible, she decided. Why would it be so? The young fellow was just polite. And, if Marguerite was to be believed, being charming had once been something of a hobby for him. She wasn't going to let herself think it was anything more than that.

  The coach lurched over a bump, making Marguerite slip forward in her seat. She let out a surprised gasp, then chuckled, leaning against Mirabelle,who helped her settle back into her seat again.

  “Whew!” Marguerite laughed, wiping a stray hair out of her eyes. “I must say, eh, this has been a day of surprises! I shall need that lie down.”

  “Yes,” Mirabelle agreed softly. “It has been surprising.”

  When they reached Marguerite's home, Mirabelle waited while they paid the driver and then turned to her friend.

  “I should go home,” she said. “I need to make ready for my meeting this afternoon.”

  “Why, of course!” Marguerite nodded. “Or we could send for your books to be brought here, if that would suit? You're even closer to Chancery Lane here, after all.”

  Mirabelle nodded, biting her lip. She knew it was sensible to stay here and ask Hinsley to have her books sent over, but there was nothing she'd like more than to shut herself into her office and stay there. She felt shaken by the whole encounter, and a little raw.

  “I think I would prefer to go home,” she said carefully. “I still have some business to attend to.”

  “Well, as you wish,” Marguerite shrugged. “I'll see you on Thursday, then? I thought we might take a turn about the park in the morning? I have no particular dislike for St. James', but the thought of sharing it with half a dozen croquet hopefuls was a little overwhelming for me.” She laughed.

  “Indeed,” Mirabelle said softly. “Until then?”

  “Capital,” Marguerite said, grinning, and waved. Then she headed up the last steps and into her house. Mirabelle hailed a coach to head home.

  At Dalford House, she hurried up the steps and knocked at the door. Hinsley opened it, and exclaimed as she saw her.

  “Why, mistress! I was just fretting about you! There you are!”

  “It's not so very late, is it?” Mirabelle asked, frowning.

  “It's two of the clock! I was all fretful, wondering if you'd seen Mr. Hensley yet or not.”

  “I only need to meet with him at four,” Mirabelle reminded absently. She shrugged out of her coat, handed it and her bonnet to the maid and headed lightly up the stairs.

  In her office, she went through the books and tallied the figures again – just to be sure. She looked round the place, eyes weary with squinting at the small figures through the lenses of her lorgnette. The office – green wallpaper with acanthus patterns, thick carpet on the floor, vast desk – asserted itself boldly on her senses. It had been Arthur's, but now it was hers. She wondered what he would think about that.

  He'd doubtless laugh and say women couldn't add up.

  She raised a brow, vaguely amused at the thought. She'd just tallied three month's worth of expenses and got the same value she had a week ago. So much for women being unable to add up! She'd proven adept at managing things since his passing, hadn't she? She smiled humorlessly, wondering what he would have said about that.

  The clock on the mantel struck three, and she stood, pushing back her chair.

  It was, she thought, a relief to have spent some time sequestered in her office. The ranks of figures and the smell of dust were peaceful. She felt more at ease now, more like herself.

  She headed down the stairs and into the hallway, books under her arm, lorgnette in her purse.

  The office of Hensley and Partners on Chancery Street was at the very end of the road, clinging by its mortar to the edge of respectability, much as it clung to the drunken pitch of its roof. A small, dark building, it rubbed shoulders with a vast inn left over from Tudor times, all black-pitched logs and boards of mottled daub. She stepped out of the coach, drew her shawl about her against the chill evening, and bit back a wry grin.

  I wonder if anyone's in?

  She tried to see through the diamond-paned windows to ascertain if anyone was there, but the rime of dust on them was too thick to discern anything, so she gave up and knocked on the door.

  “Yes?” a tall, spare man replied, answering the door. He looked down at her and his eyes widened. “Lady Steele! You're early.”

  “Yes,” Mirabelle nodded, walking up the stairs and into the office. “I am. Good afternoon, Mr. Hensley.”

  “Good afternoon.”

  They went into the office at the back, which was a cheerful chaos of papers, the scent of damp boards and ink-wells. She drew back a high-backed chair cautiously, lest she run over one of the documents that had escaped onto the floor, and sat down.

  “So,” Mr. Hensley said, clasping his hands and looking at her with one reddish eyebrow cocked. “What can I do for you today?”

  Mirabelle reached for the books. “You can check these totals,” she said briskly, “and set them down in your own ledgers. And tell me what we have coming in from the rents.”

  “Ah,” he said, reaching for the books with particularly slender fingers. He was, she thought, a fine-looking man in his own way, with red hair, a long, narrow face and wide gray eyes. “Well, the former is easy to answer – your books are in perfect order,” he said, adding the columns up with a speed of long use. “As to the latter, well...that is another matter.”

  “What is it?” Mirabelle said, gritting her teeth with worry. “If it's bad, let's have it,” she added boldly.

  “Bad, oh, no, not bad,” he replied, brow shooting up again rapidly. “It's good news. Very good. Tenants are up, rents are up, debts are down. A most salutary situation,” he said.

  “Oh?” Mirabelle felt her heart flare suddenly. Could it be that things were finally settling down? The debts were finally reduced?

  “Well, put it this way,” he said carefully. “We are in the best position we have been since the late count exited this mortal realm, may he rest
peacefully, but we shouldn't be too hasty.”

  “Ah,” Mirabelle said, and nodded. She felt a growing excitement fluttering in her heart. She hadn't realized how burdensome this debt had been, how it had eaten away at the core of her joy with its worries. Now she felt free and light. Able to enjoy herself.

  “Well, here are the figures,” he said, passing her the books. “We still have a few hundreds of debt to account for, but nothing anywhere near what it was,” he added. “Oh, and there's a letter for you.”

  “For me?” Mirabelle asked, absently. She ran her finger along the columns of numbers, scrawled far less elegantly than her own.

  “Mm,” her solicitor agreed, passing her a letter. “Came this morning, in some haste, from a fellow in some livery or other. No idea who,” he added, narrow shoulders lifting in a shrug.

  “Oh?” Mirabelle frowned. She had no idea who could have sent it either – she'd lost track of who she knew in London. She slid her little finger under the corner of the envelope and lifted it, breaking the seal. It had been pressed with some signet ring whose badge she didn't recognize.

  Odd, she thought, frowning. She ran her eyes down the page, and felt herself suddenly anxious.

  Dear Lady Steele, she read. Her eye skipped over the salutations and headed down the page, alighting on words that set her nerves on edge. Unstable situation...difficulties...debts. She frowned and read over it again. Given the positive report she'd just received from Hensley, this letter seemed a trifle alarmist.

  Dear Lady Steele, she read again, more slowly this time. I send my greetings along with my condolences for your dreadful loss. I hesitate to write now, given the hard times you have recently withstood. But I have always been a close companion of your husband and I find it beholden on me to inform you of the unstable situation of your current income. I do not mean to pry, but I found it prudent to look into matters of the Dalford estate. My recent investigations have revealed them to be in difficulties. I am sure you are aware of debts your husband accrued, but I find I am compelled to tell you that the situation may be worse than you think. If you would deign to meet me at Shipley's Coffee house, Bedford row, at half an hour past twelve tomorrow, I would be glad to explain it all to you then. Your sincerely, Alfred Stilton.