She frowned. This letter made no sense in light of the news from her solicitor. But was it something she could trust? The name Alfred Stilton meant something to her, though she couldn't quite remember where she knew it or how.
“This was delivered today, you say?” she asked, frowning. “By an unknown person?”
“Um, yes,” Hensley said, looking up from the page he perused. “Sorry. I was distracted. Yes. A fellow brought it this morning. No idea where he came from, mind.”
“You don't know who brought it? But...” she frowned. Whoever had sent this note here knew very well that she would be here today, and so he must have connections to Mr. Hensley, surely.
“Can I help, milady?” the solicitor frowned. “Is it a demand?”
“Not exactly,” she said.
She held the letter, about to pass it over the table to him, but something stayed her hand. If the situation was worse than she thought, it was likely better that Hensley didn't hear about it. This man clearly had some connections to debts nobody knew about – perhaps some illicit business in which Arthur had been involved. Smuggling of brandy and other goods was commonplace, and it wouldn't have surprised her to learn that Arthur had been purchasing contraband goods on the sly.
And if some nefarious characters were entitled to money from the estate...well...no. It was better she dealt with this herself than let them get their hands on the accounts that supported the household. If she could talk to this Stilton, who she could barely remember, then mayhap she could settle something privately with him. Thoughts of the diamonds came to mind.
He might be able to sell them, and use the profits to settle these debts.
As soon as she'd decided it, she nodded to herself. She would meet with Stilton tomorrow. She knew enough about the accounts to be able to tell straightaway if Stilton was lying to her. But if she found out his case had merit – and it likely did – she would settle the matter alone.
“Milady?” Hensley frowned, one brow raised.
Mirabelle realized she'd been sitting with the letter in one hand, about to pass it across. She blinked, returning to the present, and took it back.
“Sorry, Hensley,” she said, looking at her hands, distractedly. “I got lost in thought. Happens, sometimes,” she added with a soft giggle. “I'll take this with me, and those...” she reached across for the books. “And a report, if you have one to show me?”
“Yes, milady,” he nodded, seemingly surprised, as ever, by her alertness. He reached for his books and passed them over, showing her the tallies in the left column.
While he explained to her which were debts and which credits, and showed her how the debts were slowly balancing out, Mirabelle listened with half an ear. Her mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with her concern about tomorrow's meeting.
I will take Hinsley with me, she decided. She can escort me to the coffee-house and wait outside. That way, I will be quite safe, should this fellow be more dangerous than we expect.
“So you see, milady? All adds up.”
“Yes,” Mirabelle nodded. “Well done, Hensley. It seems like we are making progress.”
He looked up, surprised. “Well...er...yes,” he said, looking down, clearly bashful. “I suppose it does.”
“We are indeed,” Mirabelle said, standing and gathering her books, then heading to the hallway where she had left her coat. “I am most appreciative of your work these last years, Mr. Hensley,” she added, setting aside her load of books and shrugging on the coat. “You've taken great care of the estate.”
“Why, thank you, milady,” Hensley said, swallowing. His narrow-jawed face was red, eyes wide. She would have smiled at his discomfort at the praise, were she not preoccupied.
Hensley opened the door for her and she stepped through, tying on her bonnet as she went. She shivered in the street – it was much colder now than it had been when she'd entered. And it was getting dusky.
“Good evening, Hensley,” she called, stepping forward and raising her hand to hail the passing Hansom.
“Good evening, milady,” he yelled from the step. “A fine evening may it be.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, and stepped up into the waiting coach.
The driver climbed up and the coach set off, drawing Mirabelle on through the falling dark. As the city flashed past, a painting in grays and orange, the mist from the river drawing in like a blanket as they passed the Thames, she shivered.
I hope tomorrow all goes half as well as it did today, she thought. The meeting loomed ahead, a frightening prospect. She was taking a risk, agreeing to it, and she knew that full well.
At least, she thought as the coach drew on out of the town, heading towards her home again, the tea today had gone off well.
She looked at her hands, feeling at once happy and wistful. It had been a lovely afternoon, she thought. Her mind filled with images of the tea-house, the guests, and Lord Bradford's smile.
I wonder, she thought. He seemed at once so remote and so interested, a strange mix of friendliness and distance she couldn't unravel. She smiled a little sadly. If things went awfully tomorrow, and her life was about to change for the worst, she would be glad she'd met him. She wondered if she would see him again.
Chapter 8: Of gloves and cravats
Bradford sat at the breakfast table, wondering where Elton had got to. He wasn't sorry for the peace and quiet, mind you: he needed time to think.
Lady Steele.
The mysterious woman's face would not leave his mind, anymore than would their conversation, or the awful, irrefutable fact he had discovered about her being married.
Bradford snorted, impatient with himself. Had he really been thinking seriously about her? How could he? The woman probably thought he was a raving madman, or a fool. He never managed to speak sense when he was around her! He had no indication that she as much as liked him – not really.
She is clearly a refined, witty woman. Not the sort with any patience for raving madmen.Or fools.
Her refinement, her wit, they shone out of her. And, sometimes, he got the impression she was despairing of him – or laughing at him – or both.
What he had to do was to find someone who could tell him more about her. Lady Marguerite, her friend, might have been useful, apart from the fact that he was, if he was honest, intimidated by her. And being intimidated by someone's friends wasn't a grand way to begin, he reckoned. So what was he bothering himself with all this for?
“Dash it, Bradford. You need to get your mind off this,” he said impatiently. “Where in perdition is Elton?”
He needed company. He stood, pushing back his chair, and glanced up as the mantel clock chimed, a tinkling note. It was only nine o' clock.
He sighed and settled himself back in his chair. It was usual for Elton to only surface round ten in the morning. He himself would usually still be abed at this hour – he had woken early after restless sleep.
Too much preoccupation with her, you mean. He sighed. He had to do something about this. He just had no idea what, yet.
“More tea, Lord Bradford?”
Bradford blinked, hearing Mr. Whitstock, the butler, appear at his elbow. He nodded.
“Um, yes. Thanks, Whitstock. Some tea would be good.”
He waited for Whitstock to leave before taking his tea over to the window. He stared down at the small garden moodily, sipping fine Twinings tea. He and his brother should visit their tea-room, he thought distantly. A fine, newish place on Strand street, it was sure to have a good brew.
And if I want to go out without seeing her and confusing myself all over again, I'd best go somewhere else for tea.
He heard footsteps in the doorway and turned, just as his brother greeted him.
“Good morning?”
“Morning, Elton,” Bradford said mildly.
“You look...wide awake,” Elton said, stretching as he drew out his chair.
Elton looked peacefully half-asleep, Bradford thought fondly, with his cravat
loosely tied and his shirt informally belted.
“I feel wide awake,” Bradford said, trying not to sound gloomy.
He looked up and Elton as he sat down, and noticed a sadness in those pale blue eyes.
“Something bothering you?” he asked gently.
“It's just...” Elton paused, gathering his thoughts as he reached for the toast-rack. “It's – dash it all, what have those other dandyish fellows got that I haven't?”
Bradford raised a brow, surprised at the level of emotion in Elton's voice.
“Nothing, brother,” he said simply. “They have nothing you haven't got except a lot of ponce that ought to get them shot. Nothing good, for certes.”
Elton grinned, but his eyes remained sad. “You think that, maybe,” he said wistfully. “But society ladies see differently, I think.”
Bradford shook his head. “Not the ones with any sense in their heads,” he said, reaching for the silver butter-dish and opening it carefully. “The ones without the sense, shouldn't bother you.”
Elton shook his head wearily. “I can't help it, brother. You can call me foolish if you like. But I sat at that table yesterday and watched Arabella Carter and Eustacia Harrow fawning over Francis Carrington and Henry Deede. And what have those two got that makes them interesting to women? Besides silk cravats and diamond tie-pins, that is,” he said sorrowfully.
“Cravats and tie-pins?” Bradford sighed, and took a bite of his toast, chewing slowly. “You can't wed tie-pins, brother.”
“Well, they seem to think it's a fine plan,” Elton said sadly. “I just...I can't help thinking I ought to do something about my appearance. I suppose I look countryfied, don't I?” he asked, angrily, leaning back and holding out his arms for Bradford to survey him.
Bradford looked at Elton, thoughtfully. He saw a young man with ice-blue eyes, a narrow, fine-boned face and pale hair. A handsome devil, he thought. He wore pale blue wool knee-breeches, silk stockings and a casually-loose shirt, his cravat knotted negligently. He was, Bradford thought, far better-looking than Henry or Francis ever could be. But maybe the cut of the clothes was a little behind the high fashion of London.
“Brother, I think you look grand,” he said frankly, and was touched to see a shy smile on Elton's face. “But if you think we ought to, well, improve our wardrobes, I'll be the first to join you. Let's take on the London tailors, eh?”
Elton raised a brow. “You think we should?” he sounded wary and hopeful.
“For certes,” Bradford said, shrugging. “My annual allowance was paid a month back, and there's plenty of it left. What else is it for, but to put on a fine face here in London?” He grinned. Elton stared, eyes shining.
“You really would do that? Brother!” he chuckled. “You're...” he paused, clearly running out of words. “Thanks,” he said, his voice soft.
Bradford swallowed, feeling touched. “Of course, brother,” he said. “Well, then. If we're going to tackle the tailors of Oxford Street, we'd best have a hearty breakfast and set out. Let's get there before it gets too crowded, eh?”
Elton grinned, seeming much cheered, and poured himself a second cup of tea.
They headed down to the center of the town in a Hansom, rattling over the cobbles. The streets were already lively with people – men on horseback, trotting past elegantly, women walking along the pavements in frilled bonnets, traders pushing barrows of their wares past, trying to get through the crowd.
“It starts early round here,” Bradford commented, glancing at the church tower. It was half an hour past ten.
“We should still be better off now than after luncheon,” Elton nodded. “I suppose we can take luncheon in the town?”
“We should, yes,” Bradford nodded casually. “I think we'll want to be out a good few hours at least.”
“We might be,” Elton nodded.
He and Bradford alighted at the top end of Oxford street. Bradford paid the coach-driver and then looked round the street, surprised. It was already starting to look crowded, with well-dressed gentlemen and stylish ladies packed already-densely into the street.
“Well, here we are,” Bradford said, feeling excited in spite of himself. The bustle and hubbub of London still appealed to him, despite his best efforts to forget the sparkle and glamor of the place. “Let's start there, shall we?” he asked, pointing at a sign cast in wrought iron. It showed a needle and thread and he guessed it must herald a tailor's shop.
Elton looked at it and nodded. “Yes, let's,” he agreed.
A day shopping on Oxford street, Bradford thought, drawing out his handkerchief and gently mopping his forehead, was something for a strong constitution. The heat, the noise, the press and swell of the crowds! It was exhausting simply stepping into the street.
Bradford loved it.
“So,” Elton said, as they stepped into the third shop that sold cravats. “I think we might finally be getting somewhere.”
Bradford nodded, raising a brow as they studied the selection of cravats. Some made of silk as fine as gossamer, others thicker, weightier pieces, the price was at least somewhat less than a year's working wage for a laborer. The first shop they'd been into had been preposterous.
“Fine silk from the Indies,” the tailor had said, “don't come cheap.”
Indeed it didn't. They hadn't bought from him, which left them, after almost forty-five minutes, standing in the third shop, trying to decide.
“A cream cravat would suit best,” the tailor – a small, neat-looking fellow – advised Elton. “White would be too stark. You, sir, would look fine in white,” he added, inclining his head in Bradford's direction.
Bradford raised a brow. “If you say so,” he said, shrugging.
Elton nodded. “I'll try it. You're thinking of taking the white?”
Bradford nodded. “It's good silk,” he replied. “And not unreasonably-priced, either.” He whispered this to Elton, who laughed.
“I almost fell over backwards in the other shop,” he whispered back.
Bradford inclined his head in agreement. He waited while Elton untied his own cravat and let the shop-man fasten the new one around his neck. He stood back and looked in the mirror, frowning.
“Is it, well...too much?” he asked his brother, earnestly.
Bradford considered the effect. Then he smiled.
“You will out-do any of those fops in that,” he said. He meant it. In the high-knotted silk cravat, the color a sort of butter-yellow, Elton looked far more handsome than the Francises and Henrys of this world would in the same outfit.
Elton went pink. “Thanks,” he said shyly. “I'll take it.”
The shop man nodded approvingly. If he was delighted by making the sale, he didn't show it, his face carefully neutral.
“And you, sir?”
Bradford shrugged. “Why not?” he asked. He handed the fellow the tie, winced at the thought of the expense and then made himself forget it. He and his brother could do with something fashionable in their wardrobes, after all. And if it gave Elton the confidence he lacked, so much the better.
They left the shop with their purchases carefully wrapped in white tissue-paper and bundled into a box. Then they were heading onto the next shop. This time, it was a jeweler.
“Do you think we should look for tie-pins?” Elton asked, frowning. He looked a little nervous, which was understandable – tie-pins were certainly not cheap.
Bradford raised a brow. “Well, I've got one already,” he replied. “But it's your birthday soon, so I don't see why you shouldn't have a look...I never know what to get you as a present.”
“Bradford!” Elton said, looking at once delighted and distressed. “You are sure, are you?”
“Yes, I'm sure,” Bradford said mildly. “Now, in you go. I would come in with you, but if I do I might want something too, and then I really will spend all my income. Off with you!” he teased.
Elton laughed. “Only if you're sure.”
“I am. Now you go and
have a look and find me here in the street when you're done. I'm going to look in that bakery for cream buns,” he added, indicating the shop across the street. “I'm starving.”
Elton laughed and left him in the road.
Bradford wandered over to the bakery and stared in at the wares displayed on the counter. There were buns and cakes, pastries and flans, elegantly arranged behind glass. He felt in his pocket for loose change, mouth watering, and went in to buy.
When he came out, the crowds had subsided somewhat. It was lunchtime, he guessed, and most people were settled into cafes and restaurants. He looked round and checked his watch. It was twelve o' clock. He could still see Elton in the jeweler's shop – the fair hair showed clearly through the thick glass of the diamond-paned window – but it seemed his brother was still engrossed in conversation. Bradford wandered down the alley by the baker's shop, not wanting to rush his brother's choice. And stopped.
On the other side of the street, in some hurry, was a woman in a blue coat. Something about her seemed familiar, and he stared at her, trying to decipher what. She had blonde hair the color of glossed oak-wood and her face was tight with distress. He knew that face!
“Lady Steele?” he said aloud.
The woman whipped round to face him. It was her! He stared in amazement. Her blue eyes opened wide.
“You!” she said. “Pardon me,” she added, her pale cheeks going red. “Lord Bradford! What are you doing here?”
“Shopping,” he said with an attempt at a suave smile. “What brings you here, milady?”
“An appointment.” Her voice sounded tight and withdrawn. Bradford frowned, wondering why.
“Can I escort you somewhere?” he asked, genuinely worried. “These streets are not altogether safe.” The alley they were in was sunny enough, but it had a slightly fetid air and as the afternoon darkened he sensed it would become more sinister.
Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2) Page 7
