Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.
Rockland, Ontario, Canada
Copyright © 2016 JoMarie DeGioia
Exclusive cover © 2016 Laura Givens
Inside artwork © 2016 Joanna D’Angelo
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.
A catalogue record for the print format of this title is available from the National Library of Canada
ISBN 978-1-927555-85-9
A catalogue record for the Ebook is available
from the National Library of Canada
Ebooks are available for purchase from
www.lachesispublishing.com
ISBN 978-1-927555-84-2
Editor: Joanna D’Angelo
Copyeditor: Debra Glass
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I’m grateful to my family for their unending support. To my husband Jay and my daughters Julianne and Jamie, for understanding the challenges that a writer’s path presents. Thank you to my mother Barbara, for being my biggest fan and cheerleader. I also thank my agent Michelle Grajkowski for her encouragement and my editor Joanna D’Angelo for helping me bring this first story in a new series to life!
DEDICATION
To my grandsons, Anthony and Dominic, for filling my life with immeasurable joy. You’re allowed to read this book in fifteen years!
ALSO AVAILABLE
Dashing Nobles Series
More than Passion – Book 1
Pride and Fire – Book 2
Just Perfect – (Novella) Book 2.5
More than Charming – Book 3
Gentlemen Undercover Series
A Hero and a Gentleman – Book 1
That Determined Mister Latham
CHAPTER 1
London, England 1821
Patrick Latham Stafford strolled down Bond Street, bound for the fashionable rooms he kept on the West End of London. While his home wasn’t set precisely in Mayfair, the most desirable address for the ton, it was well appointed to a gentleman of reasonable wealth and a lack of attachments. At twenty-seven years of age, Patrick was quite happy to be unattached, living a fairly modest life by the ton’s standards. He was content with the comfortable stipend paid to him from his family’s solicitors, even though he hadn’t spoken to his father, the Earl of Stafford, in five years. His income certainly wasn’t enough to sustain a wife and children, but that was of no concern to him, since he had neither. No. That dream had died five years ago.
After an evening spent at the theaters on Drury Lane, and a few hours spent with one very gifted opera girl, he was eager to find the comfort of his own bed. The night air was stagnant and damp, and clung to his dark, tousled hair and rumpled evening clothes. He glanced absently at the windows of the exclusive shops along Bond Street as he walked home. His eyes landed on an elegant storefront. “Elliot’s Fineries,” the sign proclaimed in grandly-scrolled letters. His eyes narrowed as he read the promise written beneath the name of the store, the words nearly obscured in the dim light of a streetlamp.
“Where you can find your heart’s desire.” He laughed bitterly. “My heart’s desire? Not bloody likely.”
His heart wanted nothing. He drew his greatcoat closer around his shoulders and continued on his way, the click of his booted heels echoing in the still night.
* * *
Victoria Elliot carefully folded the beautiful multi-colored silk scarves and set them on a display table. As the cool fabric slipped through her fingers, she hummed to herself. She was very fortunate to work at Elliot’s Fineries, and silently thanked God that her uncle, J. B. Elliot, had given her a comfortable place to live as well as a sense of purpose since her father’s sudden death little more than one month ago.
Polished mahogany display cases, with sparkling glass doors, lined the store and rich burgundy draperies dressed the windows facing Bond Street. Fine linens of rose and gold and ivory covered the display tables. One table was reserved exclusively for tasty biscuits, small sandwiches, and strong tea that her uncle shrewdly had in ready supply. The shop was packed with chattering customers who were either perusing the fine merchandise, waiting in line to pay for their purchases, or chatting amiably at the refreshment table. It was little wonder that the ton preferred her uncle’s store to the larger shopping arcades in town. It matched the arcades in variety of merchandise, but the shop was more intimately proportioned.
J. B. had emblazoned a pledge on the store’s large sign hanging above Bond Street, “Where you can find your heart’s desire.” Victoria wished that were true. She came across a beautiful swath of silk. Oh, wouldn’t it feel marvelous against her skin? The particular shade of blue would serve as a lovely accent to one of the dresses she wore for work. The ring of a bell interrupted her musings. Laying the scarf on the table, she turned toward the well-dressed matron tapping the silver bell set on the purchasing counter. It was Lady Bowler. Lovely.
She made her way through the crowded store. “At your service, my lady.”
Lady Bowler sniffed as she ran her eyes over Victoria.
Victoria self-consciously touched one hand to her upswept hair, worried that the thick mass might have come loose from its pins. Everything seemed as it should be, including her modest dress in a muted rose. In Victoria’s short tenure at the store she’d come to recognize the look in the older woman’s eyes. Disdain. The older woman saw Victoria as her inferior, and felt no hesitation in treating her as such. Oh, not every member of the ton behaved as Lady Bowler did, but it still hurt . . .
Victoria had grown up in a small parish, with a loving father who was the local vicar. Her mother, Elizabeth, had died when she was but five years old from a fever that had swept through the area. When Victoria was older and could understand what had happened, her father had told her about her mother’s tragic death.
When Victoria had come down with the fever, her dear mother had cared for her night and day until she was well again, but then her mother had succumbed to the fever herself, and being with child at the time, she was not strong enough to withstand the illness and passed away. Her father, though heartbroken, had made certain that Victoria was loved and cherished, and that she knew all about her beautiful and loving mother.
Victoria had been happy assisting her father in his work, and tending to their beautiful garden behind their small home in St. Ives in Cornwall. She had dreams of marriage and raising her own children, but that all seemed so long ago, and here she was now, tending to the whims of London’s well-to-do. Oh, she was thankful that she had a place to live and work to occupy her days, but it wasn’t home. London was a bit stifling and even the air was very different from the crisp, salty fresh snap that seemed to surround St. Ives. And dealing with difficult customers in a shop all day made it a challenge to a girl used to spending her days out of doors.
“Do see to these purchases, Miss Elliot.” Lady Bowler was a broad matron with a bosom like the prow of a skiff. “I have calls to make. I don’t wish to delay them.”
Victoria gave a small nod. She swiftly totaled and wrapped the woman’s purchases. Without any word of thanks, the matron sailed out of the store, her beleaguered maid jostling the many packages as she hurried behind her.
Victoria fought
the feeling of vexation at the woman’s demeanor. Yes, Lady Bowler was a member of the ton, and Victoria was a shop girl, but her father had always taught her that no amount of money or power could buy you dignity or self-worth. You were born with that and it was up to you to keep it in the way you conducted yourself throughout life. She forced a smile at the next customer awaiting her attention.
As the gentleman in question leered at her, she found herself longing for the dismissive looks paid her by the female customers. While her day dress was simple in cut, it nonetheless hugged her figure as was the current fashion. Apparently, the man found the lace peeking out of her scooped bodice quite fascinating. She stifled an urge to step on his foot when his gaze drifted to her modest décolletage again and again. He was old enough to be her father, for goodness sake.
She proceeded to wrap the ivory combs the man set on the counter, but she could feel his eyes continuing to ogle her. She let out a sigh as the man took his leave from the store.
“Don’t let them upset you, Victoria,” a kind, soft voice said in her ear.
She turned to find Mrs. Floss smiling at her. A motherly, yet young, widow who also worked in the shop, she’d treated Victoria warmly from the first moment they’d met. Her kindness and calm disposition eased Victoria’s entry into the role of catering to society’s privileged, and there was little that escaped the widow’s notice.
Victoria tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I don’t understand it.”
“You are a beautiful girl,” Mrs. Floss said with a wink. “With your curvaceous figure, you have every man who comes into this shop mesmerized.” Victoria blushed at her compliments. Mrs. Floss continued, “Make use of that to convince gentlemen customers to purchase items they might not think of on their own.”
She shook her head. “But that would be wrong, Mrs. Floss.”
“No, my dear. That would be business. The more items you sell, the more profit the shop makes, and the more your uncle can afford to pay us.” Mrs. Floss smiled a world-weary smile. She was but eight and twenty years of age with shining black hair, a rosy-cheeked complexion, and sparkling blue eyes, but she had the wisdom of an old sage. “Sweet child, you have your entire life ahead of you, but remember that life can be both kind and unkind, so ‘tis better to have money in your pockets for those unkind days.”
Victoria pondered what Mrs. Floss had said. It was true, she was not married, and while she was under the protection of her uncle, she knew full well that life was as fickle as Cornwall weather on a fall day. One moment, it could be sunny and warm, and the next, a cold rain could be lashing at your door. Mrs. Floss was a widow with two daughters, ages six and eight. She had no choice but to work and provide for her family. Life could be so unfair, Victoria thought to herself, but Mrs. Floss was right, she had to think of her future.
“Besides,” Mrs. Floss said, arching her elegant dark brows, “You can’t leave all of the customers to Nan, can you?”
Victoria glanced across the store at Nan, a rail thin girl near Victoria’s age of twenty, who was painfully shy and so pale as to seem nearly invisible. She kept her flaxen hair in a tight bun and covered with a small lace cap, hiding the golden strands from notice. None of the gentlemen approached Nan for assistance, although if they’d stopped to truly look at her, they would surely notice her striking green eyes, and beautiful smile. Another gentleman walked up to Victoria holding a box of dark green cravats, his eyes running slowly over her. She cast a glance at Mrs. Floss, who gave her a swift nod.
“These cravats are very fine,” she said with a bright smile, revealing a set of charming dimples. “May I recommend a few others that I think would suit you as well?”
The man’s eyes widened and he nodded with enthusiasm.
* * *
Patrick found himself standing before Elliot’s Fineries as he had the previous evening. He glanced into the window of the fashionable shop, noting the bustling activity within, and once more read the sign above the entrance.
“My heart’s desire,” he murmured.
He ran his fingers through his unruly hair, trying to give it some semblance of control. His valet, Carson, had wanted to trim his hair that morning, reminding him once again that it had grown far too long for the fashion of the day, and it was far too “wild”, as he’d put it. Wild? Patrick didn’t give a fig about men’s hairstyles of all things, and informed Carson of that very opinion. Besides, his head ached from his overindulgences of the previous night, and he felt out-of-sorts. He certainly didn’t want to sit for a haircut. Instead, he had ventured out for a walk to help clear his head.
And now here he stood in front of the shop, gazing at that absurd sign. He glanced into the window once more. At the very least, he could buy a trinket for his little songbird Emmy, for she could do so much more with her mouth than sing. A reward was surely due for her services. Perhaps he could make amends for the abrupt fashion in which he’d left Emmy’s cramped little room near the theater district.
He nodded at the short, rotund gentleman who walked out of the store—Earl of Something or Other, and received nary a response. Just five years earlier, the florid-faced man would have greeted him as an equal, and engaged him in some boring discussion on taxes or the military. Thank God for small miracles. A liveried servant ran into him in the doorway, his master’s purchases nearly toppling to the ground, and Patrick accepted the young man’s mumbled apologies with a smile. He steadied the slender man and stepped aside as he hurried to catch up. The portly Earl huffed and puffed as he hefted himself aboard the fancy carriage parked down the street.
Patrick entered the store, surprised at both the quality and number of patrons assembled. The new Season had recently commenced, although he had no desire to attend any of the exceedingly dull parties it would entail. It was obvious to him that all and sundry felt the need to congregate in any number of public establishments to gossip about who’d committed what scandal at the previous evening’s grand ball, and to speculate who would scandalize the next one.
As he made his way through the well-appointed shop, he perused the variety and quality of the items available for purchase. Perhaps one of these scarves, he mused as he touched the lengths of cool silk displayed on one table. Dismissing the item as far too sedate for Emmy’s singular tastes, he approached the jewelry counter. As he patiently waited for two skinny society ladies to step away from the counter, he looked about the store once more. A flash of red hair caught his eye and he turned. Not red precisely. More like a lovely shade of auburn. He caught a glimpse of a young woman then, but before he could see her more fully, one of the ladies stepped on his booted foot. He winced and stepped back.
“Oh, do forgive me!” she giggled.
He found giggling most annoying for a woman well past her youth. The other woman, equal to her companion in both age and silliness, ran her eyes avidly over him.
He forced a smile and bowed to the both of them. “Nothing to forgive, I’m certain.”
He nearly laughed at the puzzlement on their faces. He was well-aware that he greatly resembled his father. No doubt these ladies were trying to ascertain his identity: Was he a self-made man of business or a worthy member of the ton? Men who acquired their wealth through business ventures were a “necessary” evil, and while many nouveau riche had “infiltrated” the aristocracy’s ordained world, they were still regarded with at best, a reluctant acceptance, and at worst deep disdain. He was an Earl’s son so that certainly put him in the latter category. And he did, in fact, possess his own title of Baron Latham, passed on to him by an uncle of his mother’s, though he made no use of it. His clothes were as fine as those of the fat gentleman who had so recently taken his leave from the shop, except he wasn’t wearing a hat. He shuddered at that thought. He hated hats. The ladies’ nervous smiles told him that they hadn’t yet come to a conclusion. They each dropped a half-curtsy to him and hurried away from the jewelry counter.
He turned his attention to the trinkets displa
yed beneath the glass. There were several brooches set upon a burgundy velvet-covered board, of varying beauty and price. As he leaned closer to the glass, he caught another glimpse of that luscious auburn hair reflected in its smooth surface.
“May I be of assistance?” a soft, feminine voice inquired.
He turned to see who was speaking to him and his mouth all but fell open.
She was the most beautiful young woman he’d ever seen. Her hair was gracefully upswept, several tendrils teasingly brushing her smooth cheeks. Her face was a delicate heart, her mouth a luscious rosebud. And her eyes. They were an incredible silver-gray, almond shaped and set under graceful brows.
“I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to see these brooches.”
The girl nodded and opened the back of the jewelry case. She set the velvet board on the glass top and stepped back, turning to lend her attention to the other patrons.
“I’m Patrick Latham,” he said, for no reason apparent to himself.
The girl turned back to him and inclined her head. She offered him a small smile, slightly curving her lovely lips.
“I’m Victoria Elliot,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Latham.”
He stared at her a moment longer until she nodded again and turned away from him. She was a petite girl, perhaps two or three inches over five feet tall. It was impossible not to notice her curvaceous figure, despite the fact that she was modestly attired in a pale pink dress. He watched her hips sway gently as she walked away from him. Why was he here again? Ah, yes, the brooches. He bent his head to examine the pins. Elliot? His head shot up again, his gaze settling on the girl as she spoke to a female customer at the far end of the counter. Surely she was too young to be the proprietor. Could she be the owner’s wife?
“Victoria,” he heard a man say.
That Determined Mister Latham Page 1
