by Jade Lee
Unfortunately, none of that made the least difference to his mother.
“You promised, Elliott. You said you would attend luncheon at the Smitherbees home. You expressed an interest in meeting their youngest daughter.”
He had not. In fact, he already knew that Ada Smitherbees and her mother had an unfortunate interest in gambling. He’d noted that last night when her carriage had been waiting outside the ladies’ entrance to the Lyon’s Den. A quick chat and a shared bit of tobacco with the coachman had told him more than he wanted to know about the Smitherbees.
“Now get up, Elliott. We will leave in—”
“She gambles, Mother.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. All ladies gamble. Why, even I…” Her voice trailed off as Elliott stared hard at her. Eventually, she deflated. “How badly? You know I went to school with her mother.”
He remembered. He always remembered details like that. “The mother has lost thousands of pounds this year alone. The daughter shows every sign of continuing the tradition.”
His mother took the news with her usual dramatic flair. She slumped against his bedpost and set her palm to her forehead as if checking for a fever. “You’re sure?” she said in a feeble tone.
He didn’t respond because he knew he didn’t need to. Plus, his head ached abominably.
“Of course, you’re sure,” she muttered. “And you’re always right.” She lowered her hand and glared at him. “But you have to marry someone. I work my fingers to the bone, trying to find you an appropriate wife, and you always find some excuse.”
A gambling habit was not a petty excuse. The Smitherbees could lose a few thousand pounds a year without a blink. Elliott’s family could not. And though their finances were immeasurably better since he’d taken the reins, they were not buried in blunt like so many of his mother’s friends.
“You have to marry, Elliott, and soon. If you won’t do it for an heir, then do it for Gwen’s sake. Your sister needs a married woman to get her out of those books. Someone who can take her to parties and introduce her to an appropriate husband.”
“Someone like Lord Dunnamore?”
His mother huffed out a breath. “Will you cease prattling to me about Lord Dunnamore? You don’t remember what it was like after your father died. I was terrified, I tell you. Terrified. And Lord Dunnamore was one of your father’s oldest friends.”
Old was the significant word. His sister Diana had been seventeen. Lord Dunnamore had been nearing sixty with grown children of his own. And Elliott had been in school, so he hadn’t known to object. Hell, he hadn’t known anything except his own grief.
And so, Diana was married off to a man three times her age as a sacrifice to his mother’s fear. That was bad enough, but then Lord Dunnamore had mismanaged their family finances until Elliott came of age. His other sister, Gwen, had retreated into her books and never come out. If it weren’t for the companionship of his father’s by-blow, Lilah, Gwen’s voice would likely turn to rust from disuse.
All of which was to say that he did not think kindly of Lord Dunnamore, even more now that Diana was trapped in a sickroom with the elderly man. But his mother could never hear a word of criticism without hours of self-indulgent tears, so Elliott had found it easiest to spend as much time as possible away from her. Which was difficult given that she had barged into his bedroom without leave.
All these thoughts filtered through his mind while she continued to prattle on about the injustices of ungrateful children. In the end, Elliott settled for expediency.
“Mother, you are correct.”
Naturally, she did not hear him the first time, so absorbed was she in her own words. Despite how it worsened his sore head, Elliott pitched his voice loud and hard.
“Mother! You are correct!”
“Why I never.” She blinked. “What did you say?”
“You are correct that it is high time I rose from my bed. I will not thank you for waking me. I had a long night—”
“I do not wish to hear what you were doing!”
Well, thank God for that since he had no intention of telling. “Pray, let me get up and dressed. I have an appointment.”
“Yes. To luncheon with the Smitherbees. There must be some eligible lady—”
“No, Mother. I never said I’d go as I am promised to walk with an entirely different lady.”
If his head weren’t throbbing, he wouldn’t have made such a grievous error. Never would he have spoken of any lady at all, but he had, and now his mother pounced on the word as if it were a prize horse for her to examine before a race.
“What lady is this? Where is she from? Do I know her? How could you not tell me of this earlier? I insist on meeting her.”
“She is not a marriage prospect,” he said with some exasperation. “She is assisting me with a…a political matter.”
“Every woman is a marriage prospect,” she said with equal exasperation.
Now that was patently untrue. Except looking at his mother’s face, he realized that she was indeed becoming desperate, though about what he couldn’t fathom. Their finances were in decent shape, her health was good as was everyone else’s in the household, and they were heading toward spring, the most robust time of the social season. She ought to be in a fine state, but something had turned her into a nervous woman who burst into his bedchamber unannounced.
“Mother, what is going on?”
She exhaled in a dramatic rush, then raised a handkerchief to her eye to wipe away a pretend tear. “You never listen!”
He had to give her that one. He’d ceased listening to her years ago. “Enlighten me, Mother. I am paying attention.”
“You need to marry, so there is someone to help Gwendolyn!”
Off all the people in this house, Gwen was the most self-sufficient. Give her a book on some rare plant, and she was happy for days, if not weeks. “Lilah is here to give help and whatever companionship Gwen needs.”
“A companion cannot make her attend parties! Or meet a husband! I have given up asking you to help.”
Oh, good. It had only taken four years for that message to get through.
“—Diana cannot leave her husband’s side.”
More’s the pity, and may the old bastard die soon. Diana will very much enjoy being a widow.
“—And so, it must be your wife, as Gwen will not listen to me. Nobody listens to me!”
He couldn’t argue with her there, either. Only that she had created this very problem with her endless sense of dramatics.
Elliott rubbed a hand over his face, trying to focus his thoughts even as he scratched at his growing beard. “This has been true for years now,” he finally said as gently as he could. “Why the hysterics now?”
She glared at him with true hatred in her eyes. It was clear that his question was a grievous mistake, but he couldn’t fathom why. In the end, he had to mollify her with an apology he didn’t feel. “I am terribly sorry. I am feeling particularly obtuse this morning—er, today. Please explain this to me again?”
She rolled her eyes but obliged. “It is Gwen’s birthday next month.”
Yes, he knew. “I have specially arranged a visit to the royal botanical gardens for her as a present. She will—”
“Did you make sure there would be eligible bachelors there?”
Elliott frowned. “She despises eligible bachelors. Why would I give her a present she would despise?”
“Because she is turning nine and twenty! You cannot want to have an ape leader as a sister. Think of the humiliation.”
As much as he knew that his mother was thinking of her own humiliation, Elliott had to acknowledge that she had yet another point. The title of spinster (he would not think the other insulting phrase) would not help his sister come out of her shell. Though she might appear to be content with her current, insular ways, he did believe she was lonely. And he did not like to think of her as unhappy, so he conceded his mother’s point.
“I shall find someo
ne suitable to join us at the royal gardens.”
His mother rolled her eyes. “That’s all well and good for you. I’m sure whomever you pick will have excellent financial prospects, a level head, and probably an interest in science.”
“Exactly,” he said.
“But that has nothing to do with what would interest a girl!”
He did not know how to respond to that. In his opinion, his sister wasn’t the typical sort of girl at all. So, whatever would interest some generic girl would definitely not appeal to Gwen. But then again, he was a man, and therefore, unable to appropriately judge what Gwen or any other girl would want in a man. The preferences of the many women he’d met over the years had never made sense to him.
Which left him unable to satisfy his mother and thereby get her out of his bedroom. “Mother, what do you want me to do?”
“Get married to a girl who can help Gwen!”
“Seems a rather roundabout way of doing things.”
She threw up her hands. “I give up. There is no talking to you.”
Which is exactly what he had been thinking but would never say out loud. And then—in an absolute miracle—his mother spun on her heels and walked out. He stared after her, determined to memorize the conversation so he could repeat it whenever he wished to be alone. But in the meantime, he had his morning toilet to accomplish, plus he had remembered a few more tidbits from last night that he must get to his secretary before he forgot. It was the endless lifeblood of his political career, this memorizing of useful facts about people and families. Who had a talent for what and who was in need of it? If he could match the one with the other, then both owed him a favor, which he then applied to his political desires.
He would get his resolution passed no matter how many favors he had to curry because his conscience demanded it of him. And because his father had never fully recovered from his battle wounds—in mind or in body. In the end, Elliott believed that is what had killed him. Not the pneumonia, but the weakness that came from frequent nightmares and a pain in the hip and back that never eased.
If his father, despite all his advantages, had died from his military service, then what was to become of all the other soldiers? Those not well fed and with more grievous wounds? They were dying, or they were turning to thievery and worse to survive. It was a national disgrace, and so he would end it if he could. And in order to do that, he needed to return a blasted brooch to get a vote. Which meant he had best dress to meet Miss Gold right away.
He arrived barely on time and in his high perch phaeton. If anyone saw him—and he was sure they would—he planned to create a bit of mystery around who was the unknown woman sitting so openly in his carriage. His political influence traded on secrets, and it never hurt to dangle a bit of drama in front of gossipmongers just to see what other information he could glean in return.
He hopped down from his seat and entered the Dragon’s Hoard jewelry store. It was a modest place but kept sparkling clean. The windows were nearly transparent as the sun streamed through to illuminate display cases of stunning jewelry fashioned in traditional and fantastic designs. And in the middle of the room sat Mrs. Dove-Lyon in her widow’s weeds as she sipped her ever-present cup of tea. Standing nearby was Miss Gold’s father, who looked refined and severe. Elliott had the brief impression that he was reporting to the headmaster’s office for a hard dressing down.
Elliott turned on the charm beginning with the lady. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Dove-Lyons. I must say you are looking quite fine in this light. Your skin is like porcelain.” What he could see of it, which was very little. The lady’s face was veiled beneath a fine black netting, and only her mouth and chin were touched by the sun’s rays. Then he turned to Mr. Gold. “An excellent day to you, sir. I have recommended your shop to a few of my intimates.” Absolute truth. “I told them to drop my name and that you would assist them in finding exactly the kind of baubles they need. Though two of them had already heard of you. Your reputation is growing, Mr. Gold.”
Meanwhile, he sniffed the air. “Is that a special blend of tea, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? I believe I scented it yesterday, and it has haunted my thoughts ever since.” A bald-faced lie, but a harmless one. His thoughts, when they had wandered, went directly to the mysterious Miss Thisbe Gold and what she looked like beneath her plain scarf. Speaking of which, he looked around in confusion. “I don’t see Miss Gold anywhere. I do hope she’s not taken ill.”
“Not ill,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said firmly. “Just waiting for the right moment to appear.”
“Of course,” he said. Mrs. Dove-Lyon did have a sense of the dramatic. “That’s every woman’s right, isn’t it? To make us men burn with anticipation.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon didn’t respond as he expected. In fact, she pursed her lips and said not a word. But her message was clear as one by one, very large men stepped out from the back of the room. He recognized them as the bouncers used in the Lyon’s Den. Military men by the looks of them, all of them injured in some fashion but no less threatening.
And once a half dozen men had crowded into the back of the shop, Mr. Gold spoke. “My daughter is my greatest treasure,” he said quietly. “And we all protect her.”
“Of course—” he started to say, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon interrupted.
“I support your cause, Lord Byrn. Our veterans have been treated shabbily, and we wish the government took better care of them.” She paused to see if he would interrupt, but he’d learned from the cradle that one did not interrupt a woman when she was delivering a message. It took a bit, but eventually, she continued to speak. “However, even broken, hurt, and ignored by the Crown, we take care of our own, and Miss Gold is definitely one of our greatest gems. I would hate to find out that your passions overran your good sense.”
In other words, don’t take advantage of Miss Gold. “I am counted a man of great sense, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” That was the absolute truth. Then he looked at Mr. Gold. “Your daughter is safe in my care. I stake my life on it.”
“Yes, my lord,” Mr. Gold said. “You do.” And every man there nodded in agreement.
Well, that was chilling, and not the reception he was used to getting from the lower crust. But he was a man capable of listening, so he nodded. Such a show of brute support was rare for any woman—titled or not—and he was anxious to get to know the subject of such devotion.
Then—almost like magic—Miss Gold appeared. She stepped out from a hidden alcove behind the smallest display case. And when the light hit her face, he couldn’t contain his gasp of surprise.
She was not beautiful; neither was she maimed in some way. Stupidly, he’d thought that she wore a scarf in the den to hide either exceptional beauty or a deformity of some kind. His best guess was an ethereal beauty given the amount of devotion of the men around her and the smooth, delicate way she moved. But there was none of that. Her face was average, her expression bland, and her clothing modest. And yet he couldn’t stop looking at her.
She was arresting, and he couldn’t figure out why. At least not until she stepped out from behind the counter, extended her hand to him, and smiled as if she were the Queen of England. “Good afternoon, Lord Byrn. Such a pleasure to see you again.”
Poise. That was the word for it. Poise that stemmed from the confidence of knowing who you are and where you fit in the world. Never had he seen such assurance in a commoner, much less one so young and female. It drew his breath straight back into his heart, which squeezed tight. He found himself bowing over her hand and pressing her palm as a way of maintaining her touch. It was inappropriate given the number of hostile men staring at him. He released her hand reluctantly before mentally putting himself in order. He needed to be respectful, damn it, not gape at her like a boy at his first ball.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he said, his tongue thick and unmanageable. “You look divine.”
“I look respectable, unimportant, and uninteresting,” she returned, “but that is the point, is it not? I’m a cousin from the Conti
nent come to see a Joseph Wright portrait.”
“Er, yes, but I meant what I said. You look divine.” Because she did. Only a goddess could catch his attention so completely. He held out his arm, and she reached for it only to stop short. Stupid of him to have his forearm tense in reaction to her absence. She hadn’t even touched him once, and yet he tightened in anticipation and grew impatient the longer she delayed.
“My sketchbook,” she said, and one of the men handed over a well-worn book. She took it with a smile and a sweet, “Thank you.” The man—six foot and with a missing ear—blushed down to the roots of his hair.
“Be safe, Miss.”
“I’m sure I will be,” she said with a warm smile, then she turned her face to the outside. Finally, she touched her fingers to Elliott’s forearm, and he escorted her to the phaeton as if she were the queen. He certainly felt like his back was being peppered with angry glares from a legion of soldiers.
He helped her onto the bench, then took the reins. His boy servant, called a tiger, leaped into the vehicle from where he’d been holding the horses’ heads, and they started off at a smart pace. Elliott wanted to get away from her corner of London and more into his own. He believed that would quiet his unusual reaction to Miss Gold.
It worked, a little. As soon as he had the horses under his command and the scenery moving past at a smart rate, his body relaxed, and he began to enjoy the afternoon. Which led him to the one thing he always did when happiness warmed his belly--he started asking questions.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about your family. Have you always lived in London?”
“We came when I was very young, just the four of us.”
He counted the people he’d met. Father, grandfather, and her. “Your mother as well?”
“Yes. She died a few years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. Do you remember your home country at all? Does your family miss it?”
She had been looking out at the passing street, but now turned to stare at him. “No and yes. Grandfather speaks of it every day. Why all the questions?”
