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

by Isabel Simonds

  First things first, she told herself, settling down in her bedchamber to take off her outdoor shoes. She put the purse with its heavy load in her dressing-table drawer, then drew it out, impatient with herself. There must be somewhere safer for it!

  She settled on hiding it in her wardrobe, in a hat-box, right at the back. It wasn't foolproof, but it would take anyone looking a long time to find it. And who would be looking? It was only her and Hinsley in the house.

  “Now,” she said, slipping on some indoor shoes and heading up the hallway. “Tea. And then those cards.”

  When Hinsley brought the tea, she asked her if she could bring the cards up, along with a slice of ginger loaf. When they both appeared, some minutes later, she set the loaf aside and read the cards. The first was from Stilton. It had an address on it, partially obscured by small, neat writing in black ink.

  Milady, you are in danger. Your creditors grow impatient. And I do not think I can hold them at bay. Please, consult me as soon as you may at this address. Your faithful confidant, Alfred Stilton.

  Faithful, eh? Mirabelle surprised herself by feeling angry. She set the card down on the table, breathing heavily. She would deal with that later. The second card she lifted up to read more closely, frowning at the address she didn't know.

  North House, she read. She turned the card over. On the back was a message, written, in a flowing hand in blue ink.

  Lady Mirabelle, she read. It has been but a few brief hours since I encountered you last, but already I find my thoughts are returning, once and again, to you. If you would meet me at twelve of the clock at Salford's for luncheon, I would be most obliged. Yours with sincerest regards, B. N.

  She felt her heart melt at the words. There was no doubt in her mind as two who had sent the latter. Bradford. Lord Bradford. She smiled. She knew very little about him, other than what she'd gleaned from Marguerite's scathing assessment, during which she'd learned that his father was the Earl of Denham. She ought, she thought wryly, to have found out who the Earl was.

  Something with an “n.”

  Her heart skipped like it had when she was a small girl at the prospect, and she set the card down on the table, taking a sip of tea. At midday tomorrow, she thought, letting herself consider the prospect of meeting Lord Bradford for luncheon. Alone.

  “Mirabelle Steele,” she said to herself, harshly. “That is foolery. You haven't time to waste on such. You need to settle matters with Alfred Stilton. Tomorrow.”

  She closed her eyes, feeling suddenly weary. If only this burden would be taken from her! She considered the possibilities with some reluctance.

  I can't go alone. That would be insanity.

  As far as she could see, Stilton was nobody she ought to trust. The man had “shifty” written all over him. She simply wasn't going to risk it. But who could go with her?

  Lord Bradford.

  The thought shone into her mind with sudden clarity, bright as diamonds. But she dismissed it.

  “If he knows, then the whole of London will know, and then I'll be an outcast.”

  She bit her lip, knowing it was absolutely true. The Dennhursts and their like would be only too happy to crow about the downfall of Lady Steele of Dalford. She would never be able to appear in public again with the taint of Arthur's underhanded dealings, and her own unconventional solving thereof.

  Selling off diamonds to pay a debt was scandalous enough. That a lady would go, alone and unaccompanied, to a jeweler's establishment and sell them herself was horrifying.

  “No,” she said firmly. “It can't be him.”

  She closed her eyes wearily. A plan began to form in her mind. She would take the cash to Hensley – she needed something to put it in – and ask him if he could discharge the debt on her behalf. It was what she should have done in the beginning. But then, she hadn't known she could pay.

  “Hinsley?” she called, ringing the bell to summon her maid.

  She winced when she heard the slow, limping motion of the woman mounting the steps and heading along towards the drawing-room. She really had to have something done for Hinsley's knee!

  “Yes, milady?” she asked, appearing in the door, face drawn.

  “I'll be going out at ten of the clock tomorrow morning,” she announced. “And, Hinsley? Think you that you could summon Doctor Bates?”

  “Yes, milady! Of course,” her maidservant said, frowning. “You're not poorly, are you?”

  “No,” Mirabelle said. “It's not for me. It's for you. You need medicament for that knee.”

  “Och, milady!” the woman stared at her, as if she'd suddenly changed color. “You mean...Och! Bless you, milady.”

  Mirabelle smiled, though inside she felt uncomfortable, and guilty. It was a simple thing she should have seen to years ago! But then, years ago, they couldn't have afforded it. She could now, though. And she would.

  “Get him as soon as possible,” Mirabelle said firmly. “And tell him to send the bill to Hensley.”

  She would have two surprises for her solicitor tomorrow.

  Chapter 14: Moment of danger

  The next morning, Mirabelle took breakfast early. She sat overlooking the town, eating toast lavished with marmalade, and made plans. At nine, she went to dress for town. She ought to reach Hensley's by half an hour past ten, at this rate.

  She was just going down the stairs when Marguerite arrived.

  “Mirabelle!” she said, smiling, rushing up the last few stairs and through the door as Mirabelle opened it. Then her face fell. “Oh. You're going out. Might I ask where? Can I accompany you awhile?”

  “Marguerite...I...I have to go,” she said quickly. “I have an appointment. With my solicitor. It's urgent.”

  “Oh.” Marguerite looked upset. “Well, never mind. I'll come at lunchtime, then?”

  “By lunchtime I should be back,” Mirabelle said, then frowned. The old Mirabelle might have scarified her chance to see Lord Bradford. The new Mirabelle saw no need to. “Actually, could you come for tea instead?” she asked.

  “Oh!” Marguerite nodded, smiling. “Yes. A capital plan. I can bring some of the new cordial for you to try. Cook is ever so proud if it.”

  “That sounds good,” Mirabelle enthused. She tried not to look as if she was in a hurry as she hastened down the steps to the coach Hinsley had called. “Shall we meet at half an hour past four of the clock, then?”

  “At half an hour past four,” Marguerite agreed, then looked after her somewhat bemusedly as Mirabelle hoist herself up into the waiting coach. “Will you be back by then?”

  “I will be,” Mirabelle called firmly through the window. “Until then!”

  “Until then!” her friend called back. The words were partially lost in the roll of coach wheels on cobbles as they sped away.

  I am not worried, Mirabelle told herself, and was surprised that the statement was true. She wasn't worried – not particularly. She knew she could trust Hensley to settle the matter in her name. And then it would be off her shoulders at last.

  And then I can finally settle down and do what it is I wish to do.

  She smiled, as little sparkles of delight shot through her heart. She knew what it was she wished, now. She had wished for happiness, and it had found its way to her, in so many utterly-unexpected forms.

  I feel like a little girl again.

  She grinned and looked down at her hands. Strong and supple, her long fingers with their tapered nails gripped the handle of Arthur's cash box. In it was the five-hundred and fifty pounds. The key was in her purse, for Hensley to take. Once she'd handed the box over, she could forget all about it.

  “Chancery Lane, milady!”

  “Thank you,” Mirabelle called as the coachman opened the door and handed her down from the high door. She felt her ankles jar on the cobbles, but barely noticed it. She felt like she was floating. Soon all her business would be concluded.

  She was met a the door by a dour fellow with a thatch of white hair. She looked up into
those small, suspicious eyes and recognized Stilton's man. Her back stiffened instinctively.

  “You have something to give Mr. Hensley?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Mirabelle said firmly. “I do. And if you'll kindly step out of my way, I'll give it to him.”

  The man's brows shot up in surprise. Mirabelle felt a flare of triumph. Then, to her surprise, he walked down the steps towards her, making her step back, out of the way.

  “He's busy,” he said. “I'll take the box in to him, milady.”

  Mirabelle stared. “No you damn well won't,” she said, and then flushed, realizing she'd sworn in public. At this point, she didn't care, either. There was a level of rage that was entirely appropriate for matters such as these, and she felt it now. “Get out of the way, sirrah,” she demanded.

  He didn't move, and for a heart-stopping instant, Mirabelle felt the threat of violence in the air, as shocking as the acrid scent of meat. She stepped back instinctively. He brushed past her down the stairs.

  “Take it to 'im, then,” he murmured, under his breath. He headed off along the street, still muttering.

  Mirabelle stayed on the step where she was and looked after him in rank astonishment. Her back was stiff, her fingers gripping the iron handle of the box. When he disappeared around a bend, her tension left her. She started shaking.

  “The audacity!” she whispered. “The bare-faced, awful, unbelievable...” she ran out of words. Nobody had ever threatened her like that in her life, and the enormity of it – of how afraid she'd been, how shocked she felt – drained her vitality away.

  The door opened again, and Hensley came out. Mirabelle's heart went weak with relief. She almost fell.

  “Milady?” he said, brown eyes large. “What brings you here? Can I assist...” he trailed off as she slumped forward and he reached out a hand to take her wrist. Carefully, he helped her through the door.

  “Hensley,” she said, gulping down her sob of relief. “I...I have to deliver something for you. And I have something to ask.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly. “Come inside.”

  She followed him in, refused his offer of tea and an inquiry as to whether he should summon a physician, or a coach. When she was sitting opposite him, she placed her hands on the box on her knee and faced him squarely.

  “Mr. Hensley, I find myself in need of a trustworthy person. Can I entrust you to carry out a duty for me?”

  “Of course,” Hensley said. “I would never cheat you, or harm you, milady.”

  “Good.” Her voice was stiff. At this moment, she wasn't sure whom she trusted anymore. Hensley was her ideal of a trustworthy person – reliable, solid – but what did she know? I hadn't expected anyone would speak to me like that fellow did either.

  “What is this duty?”

  “I need you to keep this,” she said, passing him the box, then drawing its key from her purse. “And I need you to speak to this man,” she added, passing him a slip of paper onto which she had copied Alfred Stilton's details.

  Hensley read the note, his brow shooting up. Then he looked at her. “And, am I to assume that..this man...” he underlined the name on the paper, turning back to her, “is connected to the contents of this case?” he laid a knot-jointed hand on the box.

  “He will know what is to be done with it, yes. But require him to tell you the amount before you start,” she added. “And by no means let him take this box. He will inform you to whom it should be paid, and where they reside. And, Hensley?”

  “Yes, milady?”

  “Make sure you get a receipt.”

  Hensley stared. “Of course, milady.”

  With that, she pushed back her chair, the interview over. Hensley looked up from over his gold-rimmed spectacles, surprised.

  “You're sure you're ready to leave, milady?” he asked. “At least met me summon Hudson and ask her to fetch you some water.”

  “I'm quite fine, Mr. Hensley,” she said firmly. “I will feel much better soon.”

  He nodded. “As you wish, milady.”

  With that, Mirabelle walked through the hallway, donned her coat and bonnet and headed out into the late-morning's sunshine. She walked down the road, relieved, heart soaring.

  She headed along Chancery Lane, filling up with gentlemen on horseback, ladies with purchases slung over their arms, businessmen in tweeds and bankers in black felt. She headed left, intending to go along Brooke street and then back up to the place she'd caught the coach yesterday, when she saw a shadow fall across the path. She noticed someone shambling along and the shape reminded her of the unpleasant fellow, Stilton's man. She turned round and walked briskly in the opposite direction.

  From Chancery Lane she took the right turn, and then another, feeling disoriented by her fear. She didn't want to see that man again!

  She looked round, hoping she'd see something familiar. Here, the buildings stood across the sunshine, making the street dark with slanting shadows. She was in a road she didn't recognize, with few people, and no shops to speak of. She felt her heart thump in alarm.

  “I'll go back now,” she decided, turning round. She could easily find her way back. She just had to go the way she'd come. She was hurrying along the street again, trying to head back, when the shadow fell across her. She screamed in sheer surprise, but an arm shot out and grabbed her arm, the grip on her wrist like iron.

  “What in...?” she whispered, but her words were cut off by a hand covering her mouth. She couldn't see the person who assailed her – they were standing behind her – all she knew was that they were taller than her, and strong. She twisted her wrist in the grasp, knowing she couldn't break it.

  “What did you have in that box?” a voice demanded harshly.

  Mirabelle felt her blood go cold. She knew it could be anyone who'd seen her go into Hensley's with a strong-box and lain in wait for her here. But somehow she knew it wasn't simply that. It was him – Stilton's servant.

  He mustn't know what's in that box.

  The hand disappeared from her mouth and she drew in a gulp of fresh air, gasping.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” she said harshly, trying to fight her wrist out of the man's grasp. “I'll scream again,” she added.

  The hand covered her mouth again. He stepped back, drawing her into the shadow of a building. Mirabelle looked round, breathing in the smell of damp stone, and tried to calm herself. This was not a dangerous neighborhood – not really. She wasn't likely to be killed her, her body left in the alley.

  “I'll ask you again,” the voice grated harshly. “What – was – in – that box?” He paused. “And if you scream, I'll cut your throat.”

  Mirabelle swallowed hard as the hand was removed from her mouth again. Now she really was frightened. She had no idea if he was armed or if he had any means of carrying out his threat. The fact was, he could. The street was silent and nobody was likely to come and intervene if they heard the sounds of violence.

  I might die.

  Mirabelle leaned against the wall, her heart starting to thump with frightening urgency. “It's cash,” she said. “The sum my husband owed – is said to have owed. I have left it in the care of Mr. Hensley. He will settle the debt on my behalf tomorrow. Now. Are you satisfied?”

  “No,” the voice said.

  Mirabelle felt real terror, then, and twisted her wrist in the man's grasp. By chance, or luck, or some intervention of Mercy, the short side of her wrist lined up with the gap between thumb and forefinger and she jerked her arm, breaking his hold. She fell forward, and was free.

  She ran.

  “Help,” she whispered, running, her day-shoes ringing on the cobbles, her skirt caught up in her hand. “Help...me...”

  The words came with her breath, a rhythm. Help...me. Help...me.

  She ran.

  Without really knowing where she was, save that she had turned right, and so she should go left, she headed down and down and, finally, found herself in the light. She was in Chancery Lane, s
lightly higher up than she had been.

  By a fence, a gentleman stroked his horse's muzzle. A woman walked a dog. A pigeon flapped overhead, wings clattering in the sudden silence.

  Mirabelle collapsed against the fence, breathing heavily. She gripped the wrought iron with her fist and sobbed and sobbed. She was safe.

  Around her, the world seemed to fold seamlessly, as if the horror hadn't happened. Here, on Chancery Lane, nothing had changed. The man looked at her, curious, but not really interested. Mirabelle sniffed and straightened, trying to calm herself.

  She drew in a long, shaky breath and looked down the sunlit road, pale under a turquoise-blue sky. She was alive.

  “Now I have to go to lunch,” she said. The thought made her laugh. Here she was, narrowly escaping death – and something in her told her none of those threats were idly-made – and soon she'd be sitting at a table, eating fish pie and drinking wine as if none of it had ever occurred! It was crazy!

  “Come on, Mirabelle,” she said to herself. “You'd better clean yourself up.”

  She stood from where she leaned, sobbing, on the rails, and reached into her bag for a kerchief. She mopped her face, dabbing away the tear-streaks as best she could by feel. Then she walked, slowly, exhausted, along the street. A shop window let her see her reflection and she paused there, drying her face, rearranging her hair. She looked shocked, but not disheveled.

  While she walked, she tried to decide what was the most-sensible way to get to Salford's now.

  I'm not going anywhere near Brooke street again.

  She shivered. It was more sensible by far to head up the street, towards the town center. She could catch a coach there and head down into town. It would take longer and be less direct, but she wasn't going anywhere near her solicitor's office again, alone.

  Not until he's got rid of that man.

  Why Hensley kept the fellow on as a servant she had no idea – he seemed a shifty, unprincipled sort. She had her suspicions that he and Alfred Stilton were working together on more than cheating her, and wondered if Hensley had noticed anything.