by Emily Royal
He led her to a thick oak-paneled door and knocked.
“Come in!”
The voice on the other side reeked of authority. Peyton gave Lilah an apologetic smile, then opened it.
“Mr.—er—Samson, to see you.”
“Bring him in.”
Sunlight streamed from the office window, leaving the room’s occupant in what must be an almost permanent shadow.
He moved into the light, and his clear blue gaze fixed on her.
“What are you doing here, Delilah? I’m busy.”
“I’m here on business.”
“I’m expecting a Mr. Samson. Not you.”
“Think about it, brother,” she said. “Haven’t you read the Book of Judges?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve no time for riddles.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me to sit, Dex?” she asked.
“In my place of work, I’m addressed as Mr. Hart.”
Mr. Peyton cleared his throat, and Dexter gestured to the chair opposite the desk.
“Sit,” he said, “before Peyton here accuses me of being unchivalrous.”
“I can’t imagine anyone here criticizing you,” she replied. “I suspect frankness is not a quality conducive to the longevity of a man’s tenure in your employment.”
She sat, and her brother dismissed Peyton in a gruff voice.
“Now we’ve concluded the pleasantries, tell me why you’re here,” Dexter said. “Shouldn’t you be simpering over your trousseau or skipping in the park with your betrothed?”
“Until I’m shackled to Sir Thomas, I’m my own woman,” she said, “and can do as I please.”
“Which is what?”
“I have a proposition relating to the loans secured on Clayton House.”
His face remained expressionless, but his body stiffened.
“I cannot discuss my clients’ financial arrangements.”
“I wish to make a financial arrangement of my own,” she said. “But before I do, have you sold Clayton House yet?”
“Not yet,” he said, “but that’s none of your business.”
“What if I could persuade you not to?”
“Delilah, I run a bank, not a charity.”
“I, of all people, know that,” she said. “I want you to draw up a loan agreement for me. I was considering something in the region of…”
“Stop there, you fool!” he interrupted. “This is why I maintain that women and business don’t mix.”
He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “What in the name of all that is holy, makes you think my bank would lend you money?”
She waved her hand in a perfect imitation of his gesture. “This is why women are disadvantaged in a world of men. We’re not even permitted to complete our sentences. I don’t want to borrow money.”
“Then, what do you want?”
“I wish to invest a sum of money in the form of a loan to the owner of Clayton House so that he might retain it and continue to further his business interests.”
His eyes widened. “What sum were you thinking?”
“I don’t know how much is needed,” she said, “but I have twenty thousand at my disposal, deposited at this very bank.”
“That’s your dowry!”
“It’s not entailed,” she said. “I was thinking of a loan, with terms generous enough such that he’d accept it, but not so generous as to arouse suspicion.”
“Generous terms?”
“Minimal interest and no security.”
“You’d be a fool to consider it,” he said. “Molineux is not a good prospect. The market for whisky is yet untested. You may not see your money back. And don’t think I’d be foolish as to settle another twenty thousand on you should you lose it.”
“It’s a risk I’m prepared to take.”
“And is Sir Thomas?” he asked. “He won’t want a penniless wife.”
“He’s told me several times that he loves me, and he doesn’t care about my fortune.”
“Men make pretty speeches when they believe the bird—or the fortune—is in the bag,” Dexter said. “Go home, Delilah. You may have good intentions, but this is not your province. As your banker, I would caution you against this. As your brother, doubly so. You’re a young woman…”
“If you’re about to tell me that my sex renders me incapable of making rational decisions, I’ll throw you out of that damned window,” she said. “I’m not asking for your advice. I’m instructing you to make the arrangements.”
She scraped her chair back. “Of course, if you won’t accommodate me, I’ll ask Mr. Peyton to withdraw my funds today so that I might approach another bank to assist me.”
“Do what you wish,” he said. “I care not. But you’ll find the banks hereabouts are not disposed to accommodate the wishes of a woman.”
“Don’t be silly, Dex,” she said. “There are plenty of women in the city who deal with bankers.”
He rose to his feet, his tall form giving a menacing air.
“Let me clarify for you,” he said quietly. “I will not accommodate your wishes. In fact, I’ll do everything in my power to instruct my colleagues in the other banks to refuse to admit you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she cried.
“Try me, dear sister.”
He gave her a smile of triumph, which she longed to wipe out with her fist.
But words would have more of an impact, for they could more easily strike the center of the target.
“Then I have no choice but to announce my condition to the world,” she said.
He paled. “Your—condition?”
“Yes,” she said, placing a hand over her belly. “I’m with child.”
“Don’t mock me, Delilah,” he said. “You’ll regret it if you do.”
“Ask Thea if you don’t believe me.” She grasped the hem of her skirt. “I can reveal the evidence if you like. It’s just beginning to show.”
His hands curled into fists. “What the devil have you done?”
“Rather an inane question, given your extensive experience of the act,” she said. “Perhaps the Times could mention it in their society pages.”
He placed his fists on the desk and leaned forward, his nostrils flaring.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me, dear brother.”
For a moment, they stared at each other. Then he sat, resignation in his eyes. Had she believed him capable of emotions, she would have thrown her arms around him and begged him to understand.
“All right, you’ve made your point,” he said. “I can issue an offer to Molineux. As to the terms, I’d suggest a term of no more than two years and a yield of no less than twenty percent, which is an acceptable rate given the level of risk.”
“Five years and fifteen percent,” she said. “I believe those are appropriate terms for enterprises of moderate to high risk. And it goes without saying that I remain anonymous.”
He sighed. “Very well. If Molineux accepts the offer, I’ll ask my lawyer to prepare the documents.”
“Thank you.”
She stood, and he followed suit and offered his hand. She took it, and the ghost of a smile played across his lips.
“Careful, Dex,” she said, “or I might believe you have a heart.”
“Then you’d be wrong,” he replied. “But for the sake of the man who professes to have given his heart to you, I would ask that you tell him what you have done before you marry.”
“What I do with Sir Thomas is none of your business,” she said. “Just as what you do with your women is none of mine.”
His head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you courting someone?” she asked. “You must be very proud of her if you’re keeping her a secret from your own family.”
“I don’t court,” he said. “I claim.”
“So it’s true,” she said. “You’ve been feathering a nest in the country for a particular bird. Have you bagged her yet?”
His smile disappeared, and he withdrew his hand.
“You have, haven’t you!” she cried. “When are we to wish you joy? We could have a double wedding to save on the expense.”
“It’s time you left,” he said through gritted teeth. “Forgive me for not showing you out.”
Evidently, she’d struck a nerve.
He remained standing while she left, but any trace of warmth in his expression had disappeared.
Perhaps marriage to Sir Thomas was not the worst fate to befall a woman. She found herself pitying the woman unfortunate enough to secure Dexter’s hand in marriage.
Chapter Thirty-One
Fraser shook his head in disbelief. “Simpkins, is this some kind of joke?”
“Of course not, Your Grace,” the lawyer replied. “The document is legal and perfectly clear. An unsecured loan of twenty thousand at a competitive rate of interest for a period of five years, or an earlier date as the debtor sees fit.”
“And the creditor?”
“Wishes to remain anonymous, according to Mr. Hart,” the lawyer replied.
“Doesn’t he wish to be thanked?”
“In my experience, investors prefer a dividend to a hearty thank you, Your Grace. One cannot live off the latter.”
Only one person could have made such a generous offer. Harold Pelham was the only man of Fraser’s acquaintance—and his only friend—with access to such funds. Affable as the man was, he wouldn’t have made a decision driven by sentiment. He stood to gain if Fraser’s business succeeded, for who would Fraser turn to in order to distribute his whisky?
Nevertheless, the terms were generous, and it was the best offer Fraser could hope for. And Pelham’s request for anonymity had removed that degree of awkwardness, which would have prevented him from accepting.
When the time came, he could swallow his pride and thank his friend in person.
He stood and shook the lawyer’s hand. “Write to Hart directly and tell him I accept. Now, please excuse me. I have much to do.”
He ushered the lawyer out, then headed for the distillery.
He found Hamish in the main building chatting to Rose, the young woman who’d arrived from London yesterday with her son, Will, and baby daughter. He found himself eager to hear an English accent again. Though his heart belonged to Glendarron, he missed London.
Five months had passed since he left, but his mind still wandered there, during those periods of silence when his thoughts were subject to the influence of his heart. And now he had reason to return. His business prospects reignited, he could restore Clayton House and rebuild the aviary. He could furnish Mrs. Forbes with enough supplies to feed and clothe every starving mouth in her shelters.
He would do it to prove himself worthy.
Worthy of her.
“Hamish!” he hailed. “I have good news!”
Hamish turned and waved. The young woman dipped into a curtsey.
“There’s no need for that, Rose,” Fraser said. “How’s your Will settling in?”
“Ever so well,” she said. “He’s already made a friend at school and has been learning his letters.”
“A friend?”
“Aye,” Hamish said. “Old Alistair’s grandson, Callum.”
“Such a polite boy,” Rose said. “I can’t thank you enough, sir, for taking us in.”
“I should be thanking you, Rose,” Fraser said. “We’re always in need of good workers, and Mrs. Forbes has nothing but praise for you.” He turned to his foreman. “I trust she’s settling in well, Hamish?”
“Aye, sir, very well, indeed.”
“Then, Rose,” Fraser said, “with your permission, I’ll write to Mrs. Forbes to let her know.”
“May I send her a letter, too?” she asked. “I’m anxious to hear about the wedding.”
“Is Mrs. Forbes getting married?”
“Lord, no, sir!” Rose laughed. “I meant Miss Delilah.”
Fraser’s throat tightened at the mention of her name.
“Miss Hart?”
“We were glad for her when she told us,” Rose said. “Mrs. Forbes made a special tea for us all to celebrate.”
She clasped her hands to her chest. “I’m that happy for her! To think—she’ll be Lady Tipton!”
Lady Tipton…
Invisible cold fingers clenched his stomach, and he swallowed the bile rising in his throat.
“Are you all right, sir?” Hamish asked.
Fraser nodded, but the cold tightened his chest until he struggled to breathe.
He’d lost her. Because of his stupid pride, anger, and resentment, he’d dumped her on her brother’s doorstep and fled to Scotland to lick his wounds.
Which had paved the way for that fool to snatch the spoils.
But perhaps it was not too late. If he left today, he’d reach London in four days—five at the most.
“When’s the wedding?” he asked.
“I believe it’s tomorrow,” Rose said.
The nugget of hope died. Not only was he too late, but he’d have to endure the day of her marriage, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it.
*
Delilah smoothed the skirt of her wedding gown and looked at her reflection. The woman staring back did not look like a bride. Her belly protruded through the delicate lace, and no amount of work on Madame Dupont’s part could disguise her condition.
Tomorrow she would be married. Sir Thomas had insisted on restricting the guests to close family only, ‘to preserve sensibilities,’ and Dexter had agreed. They’d even kept her from going to church while the banns were being read.
To prevent attention being drawn to you, Delilah. There’s plenty of time to parade yourself round London once you’re Lady Tipton.
What Dexter had actually meant was that she’d be permitted to present herself in public once an appropriate period of time had elapsed after her child was born, so as to prevent the gossips commenting on the fact that her child would be born three months after her wedding.
The chamber door opened. Dorothea’s face appeared in the mirror, and she placed a hand on Lilah’s shoulder.
“You look beautiful, Lilah,” she said. “My little sister, the prettiest bride in London.”
Lilah lifted her hand and placed it over her sister’s, interlocking their fingers. “Hardly that,” she sighed. “I’m marrying a man I don’t love to prevent my child from being born a bastard.”
“Delilah!”
“Forgive me, Thea,” she said. A tear splashed onto her cheek.
“Society marriages aren’t based on love,” Thea said. “You’re a strong woman—stronger than me. And clever. You’ll have him bending to your will in no time. Think of it, Lilah! A home and children.”
“I suppose it’s the least reprehensible option,” Lilah said.
“It could be worse.” A look of sadness crossed Thea’s expression, then she smiled. “Sir Thomas is not a bad man. He loves you, and your fortune is guaranteed to enhance that love.”
“Except I have no fortune.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve invested it,” Lilah said. “Though, according to Dexter, I’ve as good as given it away.”
“Good heavens!” Thea cried. “Does Sir Thomas know?”
“He’s said he’s not marrying me for my money.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Thea said. “It’s easy for a man to declare he has no need for something when he doesn’t expect to be deprived of it. You must tell him, Delilah. It’s only fair.”
“I promised Dexter I’d tell him,” Lilah said, “and I will.”
“Tell him before tomorrow. He has a right to know that your fortune is no longer at his disposal.”
“You think a marriage should be founded on funds?”
“At the very least, Delilah, it should be founded on honesty,” Thea said. “You, of all people, should understand the consequences of deception.”
Thea was right. Lilah’s
dishonesty had driven away the man she loved.
The man I love…
“Delilah? Are you all right? You’ve gone dreadfully pale.”
“I’m well, Thea, but perhaps I’ve been standing too long.”
“Let me fetch you some water.”
“No, I’ll be better once I’m out of this gown,” Lilah replied. “Would you send Sarah to help me?”
“Of course.” Thea dropped a kiss on her shoulder and withdrew from the room.
Lilah drew in a breath. The bridal gown restricted her movements, tightening against her chest, holding her captive.
Instead of this choice, she could still retire to the country, then return once the child was born under the guise of a widow. If she stayed away for long enough, a year or two, society might believe it.
But no—she couldn’t do that to Sir Thomas on the day before their wedding. It would be cruel to hurt his feelings when he’d professed to love her.
After Sarah had helped her into a day gown, Lilah slipped downstairs. Voices came from the morning room, and as she pushed open the door, Sir Thomas stood by the window, Dorothea next to him.
He rushed toward Lilah and took her hand, his grip a little too tight.
“My beautiful bride-to-be.” He bent his head to kiss her, and she turned away. A flash of annoyance crossed his expression, then he patted her hand and smiled like an indulgent parent. “There’s plenty of time for that tomorrow,” he said, “when we can start a new life together. And I promise, upon my heart, that I will never let you down.”
Thea shot Lilah a pointed look and raised her eyebrows.
Tell him, she mouthed.
“Dorothea, would you excuse us for a moment?” she asked. “I have something I need to speak to Sir Thomas about.”
“Of course.”
After her sister had left, Lilah took Sir Thomas’s hand. His smile broadened, and he squeezed her hand affectionately.
“What is it, my love?”
“I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Dearest, Delilah, nothing you do could ever disappoint me, and nothing will prevent you from becoming mine tomorrow.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Fraser climbed out of the carriage outside Clayton House and hunched his shoulders against the wind. A light dusting of snow covered the streets of London, which were deserted. The weather had driven the people indoors.
