by Jade Lee
“Tie it back, as severe as you can manage,” she instructed her maid. Mr. Camden preferred her neat as a pin. Plus ten minutes with him would do more than any number of stratagems for keeping her wayward nature in check. He had a dampening effect on all of her less proper thoughts.
“Do you think he’ll propose?” asked her maid Ginny.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“An’ if he does…?” she asked.
“I…” She swallowed. He was on her list. The one set on her dressing table in full view every moment she was in London, and often in her reticule for when she needed to consult it. It was labeled “Acceptable husband candidates.” Mr. Camden was number 27. Certainly not high on her list, but to be fair, sixteen of the higher names hadn’t ever even danced with her. She’d never spoken a single word to twelve of them. So considering that, Mr. Camden was very high up on the possibility list.
“But do you want to marry him?” pressed Ginny.
She wanted a home. She wanted to begin her life as a wife and a mother. And she wanted a productive function in Society. For that, she needed a husband of influence. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to say the word yes. Not after throwing herself into Lord Whitly’s kiss.
Lord, she wanted more of those kisses too. She wanted to be held in that man’s arms and touched in his bed. She wanted everything her sister had whispered about. She just hadn’t expected that her first experience of wonderful kissing would be with Lord Whitly.
“I shall give him every consideration,” she finally managed. Then they were out of time. The clock chimed the quarter hour, and she stood up so quickly that Ginny accidentally dug a pin deep into her scalp.
“Bloody he—” She bit off her curse. None of that. Even she knew that ladies did not curse.
“I’m so sorry, miss!” Ginny said, but Mari waved it away.
“It was my fault entirely. Now do I look neat and tidy?”
“As a pin.”
“Then I believe I am ready to hear whatever it is Mr. Camden wishes to say. And I shall undoubtedly say yes,” she abruptly decided. It would be a yes. It had to be a yes, because potential husbands number one through twenty-six had barely given her a second glance.
Five minutes later, she and her suitor were walking at a fast pace down the street. It wasn’t so fast as to be rushing, but it was certainly faster than a pair ought to walk on a casual stroll.
But then Mr. Camden was of a more hurried nature. It was a telltale symptom of the rising rich that Lady Eleanor had often deplored. Gentlemen who had things to do and places to be were most assuredly not aristocrats bred to enjoy the leisurely pace of their class. Therefore, if Miss Powel wished to catch a peer in her matrimonial net, she had never, ever to give the appearance of being rushed.
Sadly, at this particular moment, Mr. Camden set the pace, and Mari was forced to maintain it or be left behind. She chose to maintain in the hopes that the man would slow the moment he began to speak. But she did try to hint to him as she tilted her face up to the sun.
“It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think? I adore a slow stroll on a sunny day, don’t you?”
“Careful,” he warned. “Don’t want your skin turning brown.”
Right. His mother was quite fond of her skin-bleaching creams and had even sent a pot to Mari as a kind gesture. Or a hint. It was hard to tell which. Nevertheless, Mari looked down from the blue sky and waited with every appearance of calm for Mr. Camden to get to the point. It took him another two hurried blocks before he finally managed it.
“I have had some very exciting news, Miss Powel. Very exciting indeed.”
“I am breathless with anticipation.”
“I had a frank discussion with Lord Rossgrove. Do you know of him? He’s been very active in my circle, intimate with the men who watch the Exchange. And he’s extremely influential in the Anti-Corn Law League. Quite a forward thinker.” The man spoke in rapid tones, his excitement obvious as the words went on. “He’s got a sharp mind, you know. Is well monied and has a genial attitude toward the common man too. My spirits are lifted whenever I have the great fortune to be in his presence.”
“My goodness, Mr. Camden. You sound quite enamored.” She was teasing him for his flowery language. She was sure he never spoke of her with such warmth, but he did not seem to understand her meaning.
“Oh, I am, Miss Powel. I am most enamored. Especially as he condescended to ask me to dine with him for nuncheon.”
Now the man slowed down, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he grinned at her. Clearly she was supposed to understand what that meant, but she had no true idea. Except, of course, that gentlemen never met for nuncheon. That was a time reserved for workers.
“Do tell me what happened,” she finally pressed as he was nearly hopping back and forth in excitement.
“Lord Rossgrove has a nephew. Young, wild lad, dashing with the ladies and all that. Bit of a buck about town.”
“Mr. Oscar Morgan, yes, I know of him.” Then she remembered what had happened. The young man had been racing his curricle in a wild manner from…well, somewhere to somewhere else. It was hard to keep track with the youngest bloods. But he had an accident in Piccadilly Circle, broke a spoke, and crashed. One of the horses had to be put down. But even worse, Mr. Morgan had banged his head and took days to regain consciousness. Days with the family praying by his bedside. “Oh dear. Do you mean that Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes!” Mr. Camden answered, somewhat gleefully.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You don’t? Of course not. Ladies don’t follow this sort of thing, but the boy was to stand for the House of Commons, sponsored by his uncle.”
“Oh,” she whispered, finally putting the pieces together. “You think Lord Rossgrove wants you to stand for the seat instead?”
Mr. Camden grinned. “He has said so already. When we met.”
“But that is marvelous! It is exactly what you wanted, is it not?”
“Well, of course it is, but I never expected that it would come so soon. I’m a bit young, you know, to have garnered such attention from so significant a man. He shows great condescension to take an interest in me. Great fullness of spirit and an extraordinarily keen eye.”
She wasn’t quite sure what he meant by the fullness of spirit or extraordinarily keen eye, but she knew better than to argue. This was an incredible opportunity for Mr. Camden and exactly why he was on her list in the first place. He had a significant future ahead of him, and she could be the woman at his side, helping him do good work in the nation.
“I’m so pleased for you, Mr. Camden. What is your next step?”
“As to that, Lord Rossgrove had a few reservations. It is natural in a man with such true insight that he would have some requirements. A need to be sure that I would measure up.”
“Requirements?”
“Before he could fully support my campaign, he would like certain proofs, so to speak, of my suitability. Trifles, really, that I am all too eager to demonstrate.”
“I see,” Mari said slowly. “What are they?”
“Well, first and foremost, he believes, quite rightly, that a man can be considered mature—something most dreadfully important in any man who wishes to lead—only if he has, to wit, a wife.”
It took Mari a moment to sort through the man’s verbiage. He did not normally talk in such a roundabout manner, but when he was most excited, the worst of this tendency showed through. And as his sentences were very complicated, Mari could deduce that he was most excited. So excited that she nearly missed the importance of his statement as he stood before her, blinking his dark brown eyes.
“Mr. Camden?” She frowned as she pushed through his words. “Lord Rossgrove would like you to wed before he supports you to his nephew’s seat?”
“Yes, yes, that is it exactly.” He sw
allowed. “And, you see, in a man so attuned to the subtle rules of Society, he had some few suggestions as to whom that lady might be.”
Oh dear. That she understood very easily. “And…” She hesitated. Did she push the point? Demand to know her situation, or play the shrinking violet? Two weeks ago, she would have chosen modesty. But having spent the last week being battered about by Lord Whitly, she was sick to death of being diffident. So she lifted her chin. “Was I on Lord Rossgrove’s list?”
He swallowed. “Sadly, no, Miss Powel.”
“Then I’m sorry, Mr. Camden, I cannot see Lord Rossgrove in a kindly light.”
“Of course not, of course not.” Then he bit his lip. “I told him of your many fine qualities and my deep respect for your person. He did of course refer to what he called your wayward Welsh ways, but I assured him that you have grown past such nonsense and are now a most respected and quiet woman.”
“I do try, Mr. Camden.”
“Yes, yes, and so I told him. Though he had heard about the wager, you see, with the parrot. That made it more difficult to convince him.”
Of course it did, and here was yet another difficulty she laid at Lord Whitly’s feet. “But did you convince him?”
He flashed her a slow smile, one filled with canny understanding. “I am pleased to tell you that he was impressed by my determination. He could see that my affections were firmly engaged.”
They were? “I am gratified to hear that, Mr. Camden.”
“And so, Miss Powel, he would like to meet you.”
She stared at him, her mind whirling. “Meet me?”
“Yes,” he said. His eyes grew serious as his excitement drained away. He reached forward and took her hand, drawing it tight to his heart. “I should like very much to marry you, Miss Powel. I believe you and I suit extraordinarily well.”
“I—” she began, but he did not allow her to continue.
“We have a shared vision, you see. I believe you would make an excellent wife and mother to my aspirations. But none of that can come to fruition, none of our hopes can appear unless you pass muster with Lord Rossgrove.”
“I see,” she said, her voice quiet. “And if I do not?”
“Then I will have no choice but to end our association. Please understand, I have a great personal liking for you, but without Lord Rossgrove’s support, my aspirations might as well be wishes on a falling star.”
“But surely he’s not your only option.”
“He is the one here now. And if you cannot manage his approval, then you are not the helpmeet I need.”
She exhaled slowly. He was right.
“I mean no disrespect, Miss Powel.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Is there a time and place for this inspection?”
He didn’t even wince at the word she used. “He has invited you to call on him for tea tomorrow.”
“Me?” she said. “Won’t you be there?”
“No. Indeed, he was quite specific upon that point. You may bring your maid and no other.”
She nodded. She had wanted to begin establishing herself as an asset to a husband with aspirations. Apparently God had seen fit to test her even before she wore an engagement ring. “I won’t disappoint you,” she said firmly.
“Good, good,” he said as he resumed walking. “And if I might be so bold, pray do not wear pink.”
She jolted. “What? Whyever not?”
He gave her a pitying look. “Because the color is flippant.”
She took a moment to allow the idea to sink in. Or perhaps what she needed to understand was the way Mr. Camden was staring at her, as if the character of a color was common sense. “What does he think of jonquil?” she ventured, not expecting an answer. She was simply trying to make a joke as a way to diffuse her nerves.
“Jonquil would be most unwise, Miss Powel. Most unwise indeed.”
Ten
It’s generally considered crass to speak to a woman’s father while still hard from kissing his daughter. Unfortunately, given the amount of lust Miss Powel inspired, Peter would be unlikely to find a time when he was not achingly ready to plant himself between her thighs. Which meant there was no point in delaying his discussion with her father. If only he could find the damned man.
Mr. Powel did not frequent the usual gathering places of gentlemen. He’d certainly been seen at White’s, Brooks’s, Watier’s, and Boodle’s, but usually as a guest and without any predictability. There was a coffeehouse near the docks that he sometimes enjoyed, and every gentleman wandered through a gaming hell or three at some point. But in general, no one could predict when or where the man would appear, except to say that he had an office on Cowper’s Row.
An office like a solicitor or a banker, very bourgeois. So it was that Peter tromped up the steps into Mr. Powel’s London office and found himself struck dumb.
He had been in many offices in his life. The headmaster’s office at school burned dark in his memory, as did his father’s ponderous edifice of dark wood and condescending tomes. But he’d also found happiness in his messy corner of the office he’d shared with a half dozen other East India employees. He’d cooled his heels by enormous, ornate desks in India, and once sat scribbling for two days next to an elephants’ watering hole. But this place—this vast space of Mr. Powel’s office—was as near to heaven as Peter had ever imagined.
Mr. Powel’s place of business took up an entire floor of the modest building. Whereas most offices had doors and walls, this space had none of those things. It was an imposing place of desks, all covered in paper. Three secretaries sat shoved into the farthest corner. Fortunately it was near a window, so the hunched men at least had light. But the rest of the floor was filled with tables covered in sketches, notes, and a treasure trove of maps.
And in the center of it, like a maestro conducting his orchestra, stood Mr. Powel. Or rather, he walked, muttered, and inspected, moving from one spot to another, pulling out a map, making notes in correspondence, and occasionally tugging at his hair.
“Is it teatime already?” Mr. Powel said as he set down a well-worn diary. He pulled out his pocket watch absently, but then abruptly glared at it. “No. No, it’s not.” Then he looked up, his amber eyes widening in surprise. “And you are not the tea girl.”
“No, I am not.” Peter sketched a quick bow. “Peter George Norwood, Lord Whitly, at your service.”
“I know who you are. You’re Sommerfield’s heir, and the gentleman who waltzes, trains parakeets, and tosses my daughter off her horse.”
Peter felt his lips twitch in a smile. “I definitely waltz, am middling at best with birds, and sadly, I was simply too slow to catch her. I did nothing to knock her off her seat.”
“Then what caused it? She’s not a gel who simply falls off her horse.”
Very true, but Peter had no wish to talk so quickly of marriage. Not when Mari’s heart was so unreadable. What Peter came here to discover was the character of her father, which at the moment appeared more unpredictable than his wealthy cit image would suggest.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her that. She wouldn’t explain it to me either.” Then he wandered to the closest corner, clearly devoted to waterways. He saw maps of canals, seas, and oceans, with sharp lines as used by sailors to navigate. Lolling lopsided in the middle of the table sat a model of some sort of sailing vessel such as a boy might fashion, but there were three others that looked meticulous in construction in a neat row behind. He waved a genial hand at the top map and decided to start with flattery. “This looks very impressive. I probably couldn’t understand half of it. Have you plans for something exciting?”
The man frowned, clearly not easily swayed by flattery. “I always have plans. Ideas at a minimum. Only a dolt has nothing in his head.” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “You were in India. What do you know of the caravan routes
?”
“Inside or out of India?”
“Out.”
“Very little, I’m afraid.” Peter picked up the farthest model boat. “I traveled extensively inside the country, but only took the usual sailing route out.”
Mr. Powel joined him at the table, his thumb holding a page in another diary. It showed a rough sketch of Turkey, bisected with a jagged red line. Presumably the route the diarist took through that country.
“You were a taxman, as I recall,” Mr. Powel said. “Pulling rubies out of the maharajas.”
Emeralds more often, but he wasn’t about to argue. Neither was he going to elaborate.
Meanwhile, Mr. Powel leaned against the table, his expression turning pensive. “I worked shipping during my time in India,” he said bluntly. “Messy business, cutthroats everywhere, but I learned the value of transport.” He rubbed absently at a smudge on his hand. “Can’t make a profit if you can’t get the goods to market.”
Peter nodded, then wandered to the next corner. The left wall was covered by the roads of England, drawn in a precise hand, while the right was dedicated to the Continent. Both were covered with smudge marks, as if traced repeatedly with a dirty finger. “So that’s what this is? New routes to get Indian goods to market?” If Powel succeeded, that would be a treasure beyond price, but the risks were enormous. He peered around the table. There were stacks of books that looked to be more journals and travel records.
“It’s one of my notions,” Mr. Powel hedged.
A serious one, obviously. Peter started to wander to the next table, his eye catching on a map of the English canal system. “You seem to have a great many excellent notions, at least according to my father.”
Mr. Powel didn’t answer. His gaze was alternating between Peter and a larger map of Turkey, this one not nearly as specific as the one in the diary.
“He says you have the Midas touch.”
“Your father exaggerates,” muttered Mr. Powel, his attention centered on rooting through another set of papers beneath the map of Turkey.
Peter paused, watching the man intently, wondering how best to approach this unusual man. “Don’t stare. It’s rude,” Mr. Powel admonished, all without lifting his gaze from his papers.
