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

by Isabel Simonds

  “Nothing,” she said in a small, tight voice. “I was just overwrought.”

  Bradford frowned. Why was she here? Why was she here in the same street where he had seen her last time, as distressed as she was?

  “Milady, if you would like me to call someone? You shouldn't be alone.”

  She really did look distressed, he realized, and up close it was clear she had been crying very heavily, perhaps not for the first time today.

  “I will be fine,” she sniffed. “If you could take me as far as the end of Chancery Lane, I would be grateful.”

  “Of course, milady.”

  They walked along the street in silence. Bradford found his mind running down avenues of questioning. How was it she came to be here? Had she visited someone? Had someone upset her?

  He glanced sideways at her and saw how stiff and resolute her face was. He decided that he couldn't ask her more.

  “You were here on business?” she asked tightly.

  “Um, yes,” he said, thinking back on his tense encounter with Mr. Delling. He felt himself chuckle. “Well, it's apparently business. I reckon it was more like a sermon.”

  “Why is that?” she asked, looking interested.

  He told her about Delling – about the way he always gave him a severe dressing-down, then told him the accounts were fine and then he checked – and she laughed.

  “He sounds like a vicious sort.”

  “Oh, all poison, is our Delling,” he said fondly. “I always head out for a spot of tea when I'm done. It calms me.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I say,” he said, trying to make it sound as if he was just thinking it, “you wouldn't care to join me, would you?”

  She frowned. “It's getting late,” she said, looking up at the sun, which was heading to the point it would occupy at noon. “I should go now.”

  He shrugged, feeling upset despite himself. “Well, if you insist,” he said, fairly. “I suppose I should recover from Mr. Delling more alone.”

  “Probably better, yes.” Her voice had that tight note in it again and Bradford wondered what exactly it was that distressed her so.

  Probably better for her if I just go away. I'm not doing her any good here, and I'm just upsetting her – and myself – worse.

  “So,” he said, clearing his throat, which was unaccountably tight. “I'll see you some time at a ball, somewhere, probably?”

  She looked at her feet. “Most probably, yes.”

  There was nothing more to say after that, so Bradford said nothing. Just stood there, looking down at her form where she stood in her white bonnet and coat, looking at her shoes.

  Bradford stood, searching through his mind for words. None came, and he felt almost frantic with the silence. Why was he such a dolt? Why couldn't he think of something..?

  Then he noticed a movement, as she looked up at him.

  “Goodbye, milord,” she said in a small, tight voice.

  Then, before he could think of any response, she was walking away.

  “Milady?” he called out after her.

  His voice was tight and quiet and she was too far away. And even if she did hear it, she didn't turn round.

  “Blast,” he said to himself as her figure disappeared up the street. “Blast, and damn.”

  He felt frustrated with himself, with the whole world. Why had he not managed to find the words he sought? What possessed him to stand there and not ask her a single question, like: “what is it that troubles you?”

  I'm a fool, Bradford thought sadly. A total fool. He turned and kicked at a cobblestone, frustrated with everything, and headed on down the now-silent street.

  No wonder Lady Mirabelle didn't want so much as to have tea with me.

  “Nonsense, Bradford,” he told himself, catching sight of himself in a shop window. “She's just sad and wishes to be alone. That's all.”

  All the same, it was cold comfort and he didn't believe it – not really. He had some suspicions from when he first met Lady Mirabelle that she was only tolerating him. He should have believed those thoughts – they were probably the true ones.

  The sun was still shining, pouring honeyed light down on the town below, but Bradford felt a coldness inside him that the warmth wouldn't shake. He had been a fool to believe she would make an exception for him – that an experienced, wise lady like herself would choose a dandyish fool.

  “A drop of tea, milord?” the tea-house proprietor called down from the steps as Bradford neared the place. He looked up, blinked with surprise, and took off his hat. The preoccupation with Lady Mirabelle – no, with his own foolishness – had engrossed him so that he hadn't even noticed he was here already.

  “A cup of your best Ceylon would be fine,” he said, striding up the stairs into the warm interior. He shrugged off his coat, left it on the rack and settled down at a table that looked through the window onto the street.

  The street was empty now – most people must be heading into town to find a place for lunch – and Bradford leaned back moodily, wishing he'd thought to bring a newspaper with him.

  “A cup of fine Ceylon tea, milord,” the proprietor said, settling the cup and saucer down before him with a click. Bradford nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said absently, reaching into his pocket to check his watch. It was almost midday. He ought to consider lunch soon.

  He sipped the tea, and as he did so, tried to make a guess as to what it was that was upsetting Lady Mirabelle so.

  Someone had said something cruel. But that couldn't be it. Why would she have been consistently here, in Chancery Lane? This was the street where people went to see accountants and solicitors.

  Lady Mirabelle was visiting a solicitor?

  He almost spilled his tea in surprise. Ladies didn't meet with solicitors! It was so unusual as to be almost unbelievable. But what if she was?

  “She's a widow, Bradford. Who else manages her accounts?” he said aloud, surprised he'd never considered it. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. She was here seeing someone and something they had told her – or said to her – upset her.

  That all fitted together. But it gave rise to questions of its own: What was it that had upset her? And, secondly, why had she been here twice in one week?

  There must be some difficult matter to settle.

  That was it! She was having difficulties resolving something with her accountant. Possibly the fellow was, like so many of his gender, an obstinate fool who wouldn't listen to her wishes because she was a woman.

  “I'll go with her,” Bradford said, draining his tea and setting down his cup. That was the answer! If someone was giving her difficulties, he could help. He just had to turn up at the solicitor's and make sure he listened.

  He stood, pushed in the silk-padded chair and headed to the counter to pay.

  “That'll be tuppence ha'penny, sir.”

  “Ah.” Bradford opened his wallet and found a shilling. He handed it over and the fellow's brows went up – evidently he needed to try and find change.

  As he waited for the change, Bradford smiled to himself with the thought that his plan was not entirely selfless: going with Marguerite to the office would be a fine excuse to see her again.

  Always assuming, of course, that she wished to see him.

  “Here ye go, sir,” the man said, passing him a small handful of coins. Bradford slid them into his wallet and headed off across the street to find somewhere to go for lunch.

  He still had no idea what to do about Mirabelle – he didn't even know where to find her to deliver a card and invite her anywhere – but he knew he was going to try and see her again.

  Chapter 13: More news

  Mirabelle got into the Hansom. She was shivering, though it was sunny outside and not cold. She leaned back in the seat and drew her shawl around her.

  “I don't know what to do.”

  She had gone to Mr. Hensley's again, having received a hand-written note from Captain Stilton, in
structing her to meet with his man there. She had slipped out alone, since her maid was again suffering from her rheumatism. His man had given her a note – not in Stilton's writing, but another's – and she shivered again, recalling the words.

  Your debts are mounting, the note had said. They now amount, with interest, to five-hundred and fifty pounds. We expect payment, in full, soon. Or we shall have no choice but to exact it by other means.

  Mirabelle had almost passed out when she read the words. But she had, somehow, stayed on her feet. She passed the letter back, wordlessly.

  “Milady?”

  “I will see to the settlement of this,” she said, voice hard. “How will I convey the revenue to these people?”

  “You can give it to my master, milady,” the man said, bowing low. Mirabelle stared at him.

  “I fancy I would rather hand it over in person.”

  The man had looked discomforted, and Mirabelle began to have a twinge of doubt.

  “Milady,” his man said gravely. “I don't think that is safe.”

  “I don't care if it's safe,” she snapped. “I will see these people. I will not simply hand over a small fortune to your master, with no written, signed assurance! I will give them the money with my own hand. And,” she added, surprising herself with her boldness, “I will expect a receipt.”

  With that, she'd turned round and walked briskly away. It was only when she was heading back along Brooke street that she'd broken down. Her body had gone limp, suddenly, and the shaking had started. That was where she'd seen him.

  Lord Bradford.

  She closed her eyes, weary beyond thought. Why, in the name of perdition, did he have this habit of turning up at such moments? It wasn't because his company was unwelcome – not at all. She had wanted so badly to confide this in him. She recalled looking into those earnest hazel eyes, the words almost spilling out.

  She was glad she'd not told. What would he think of her?

  I am in debt to the tune of five-hundred and fifty pounds, for debts my husband ran up against the law.

  She couldn't tell anybody. They would be horrified.

  She felt her fingers tighten on the diamonds, where they reposed, out of their case, in the white-satin drawstring purse she held. She had made inquiries about jewelers, and been informed of one operating in Gresham street, near the top end. She felt her heart thump in her chest, afraid at the thought of actually selling her jewels.

  This is silly, she told herself firmly. She knew how to conduct her own business! The diamonds were two thousand pounds' worth when her father bought them.

  This once, she was grateful for her father's tendency to place money on a pedestal above mankind – he had boasted to her of the cost when he had given them to her.

  Anything less than two thousand pounds would be less than they were worth.

  She felt her heart almost stop as the coach drew to a stop.

  “Here we go, milady! Corner of Gresham and Forster.”

  She closed her eyes. Here she was. She'd just have to do this. It had, after all, been her intention all along.

  She let the coach-driver help her out and paid him from her dwindling supply of coinage, and then hurried across the street. She had to find number eighty-five.

  The place was a small, dark-varnished building, with the diamond-paned windows of a bygone time. She stood on the other side of the street, feeling nervous. Then she marched across, mouth dry.

  “Hello?”

  The shop door was unlocked, and the sign on it proclaimed it to be open, but she couldn't see a proprietor at first. And the place was dark! The only light came from fitful sunlight, soaking in through the thick window-panes, reflected off gold.

  There was, she thought, reassured, rather a lot of that about. There were candelabra, jewelery, even wood, picked out exquisitely in gold-leaf. She drew a breath and smelled the scents of varnish, dust and something intangible and vaguely damp. She felt herself calm down.

  “Hello?”

  “Ah! Milady! Welcome,” a small man with a white mustache said, appearing from the back, an eyeglass held to one eye. “What can I offer you?”

  “Nothing,” Mirabelle said. “I'm not here to buy. I understand you purchase jewelery?”

  “Ah, yes! I will rework it, of course,” he said, nodding. “I offer a fair price for any stones. May I see them?”

  Mirabelle nodded, and, taking a deep breath, opened her purse. She passed him the necklace – the earrings she would keep aside for the moment, waiting to see how he reacted and whether or not he was trustworthy.

  She had the satisfaction of seeing him gasp. He held the diamonds up to the light, watching the way the beams played on the stones, sparking rainbows and making them burn as if they had fire in their hearts. Then he set them on the table, squinting through his eyeglass.

  He looked up, and she could see a rapture on his face that someone else might have felt on entering an exquisite hall.

  “Milady,” he said in a low voice. “They are fine. Very fine. That's...you know their worth?”

  “I do,” she said firmly.

  “Well, I would offer you two thousand for then,” the man said, shuffling off to his desk. “I think it's fair. It's all I can offer at this time. They're Indian diamonds. Precious.”

  “I know,” Mirabelle said. She waited while the man searched behind his desk, appearing with a cash-box made of metal. Her heart thudded in her chest as he opened it, elation warring with the awful fear that she might have neglected some detail.

  As it happened, he took his time, counting out the coins. He had some notes in the box as well, she noticed, issued by the Bank of England.

  “And...three hundred...and ten, twenty...thirty...Ah! Four hundred...”

  As he counted out the money, Mirabelle wondered how she was going to manage to transport it all back with her safely. She hadn't brought a cash-box or anything else with her – only her handbag. She sighed and shrugged. She had to put it in that. There was no way she was going to risk leaving any of it here.

  “And...two thousand. Milady, this is yours.”

  Mirabelle stared at the pile of coins and notes, suddenly daunted. She swallowed.

  “Can I...” she licked her lips nervously.

  “Yes, milady?” the man frowned, looking up at her questioningly.

  “Can I have a receipt, please?” she asked in a small voice.

  He laughed. “Of course, milady! Whew, but you're a sharp 'un. Wait here, and I'll issue it directly...”

  While she waited, Mirabelle took the opportunity to slide the coins and notes into her purse, hoping the silk drawstrings would hold the now-considerable load. She looked at the bank-notes as she put them in her purse, and they looked genuine.

  “Here we go, milady – whew, that was quick,” he added as he looked at the counter. “Here we are. Your receipt, and I hope I have the pleasure of doing business again,” he added, holding out his hand.

  “I trust you may,” Mirabelle said, taking his hand shyly. It occurred to her that he had likely never conducted business with a woman before. It occurred to her later that she'd never done business with a jeweler, either.

  She walked out of the shop and into the afternoon sunshine, blinking as her eyes accommodated to the light. She felt hollow inside, as if her mind couldn't quite grasp the enormity of what had just happened. She held the purse in her hand, trying to make it look as if it didn't weigh a considerable amount. Fortunately, most of the cash was in notes. She didn't want anyone to have a chance at guessing what she had.

  As she walked, the truth slowly sank in, penetrating the numbness round her mind. She had two thousand pounds.

  I can settle Arthur's debts, and all our own. We can finally make a profit again. We're well!

  She wanted to laugh. She felt her heart soar, lifting right up above her into the blue sky overhead. They were finally free!

  She felt energized, and walked briskly to the corner, where she could hail a coach. As
luck would have it, one was just about to leave. She lifted her left hand, waving frantically.

  “Stop! Wait!”

  The coach-driver saw her and waited, and she ran breathlessly up.

  “A ride to Dalford House, please. It's in Gracely street.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  He doffed his hat and jumped down and opened the doors, and then she was in! She was safe. She closed her eyes, tears of relief flowing down her cheeks, and sent a silent prayer of thanks out for her rescue.

  She had accomplished what she had set out to do – find the means to relieve her household of its troubles – and that is what she'd done. Now all she had to do was settle this final debt.

  When the coach drew up in Gracely street, it was late afternoon. Mirabelle jumped down and handed the driver his fare – extracted carefully from her purse during the trip – and then headed on towards her house. She knocked at the door and Hinsley opened it, her face drawn with the pain in her knee.

  “Milady!” she said. “I was just fretting myself about you. I'm awfully glad you're here at last.”

  “At last?” Mirabelle frowned, setting her full purse down on the table in the hallway carefully.

  “Yes, milady. There was a feller looking for you. Two fellers, actually. They left cards.”

  “Oh?” Mirabelle's brow went up. Her heart thumped. Two fellows? That filled her with alarm. The words of the letter came back to her, the threat of other means to extort the money.

  “When did they come past?” she asked.

  “Oh,” Hinsley shrugged, turning to face her in the doorway. “The first round midday, the second at three of the clock. If you'd been half an hour earlier, you might a' seen him.”

  “Ah,” Mirabelle replied, feeling relieved. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, lifted her purse again and headed up to her bedchamber. “I'll collect the cards shortly, Mrs. Hinsley,” she called down the stairs. “I would like some tea sent up? To the drawing-room, please.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Mirabelle smiled. She was hard-pressed not to ask for cream buns with it. She should have a little celebration. They were safe!