“Was this his idea or yours?” he asked then, folding the paper and placing it next to his plate. So much for catching up on old news, he considered, rubbing an eyelid with a forefinger.
Josephine made a sound that hinted at her impatience with him. “Mine, of course. Morganfield doesn’t know yet.”
“But you’re going to tell him.” It wasn’t a question. George knew of Josephine’s occasional visits to Carlington House to apprise the marquess of her latest deductions on the political and social happenings in England. She had been doing it since before George knew her, and she had been up-front about her intention to continue doing so even after Joseph Bennett-Jones arranged for her exclusive services on George’s behalf.
“I will … discover if arrangements for his daughter have been made. And, if not, I will make the suggestion. Unless you’d rather me not,” she added, suddenly acting as a submissive wife might.
One of George’s eyebrows cocked into an arch. This wasn’t like Josephine. Not at all. “Not having met the chit, I cannot yet find fault with your plan. However, Josie,” he added, his voice taking on a tone of warning. “Should Miss Carlington …”
“Lady Elizabeth,” Josephine corrected him.
“Should Lady Elizabeth turn out to be some spineless milk water maid who faints at every turn and frequently suffers from vapours, then I shall demand your hand in marriage as recompense.”
His mistress stared at him for a full second, stunned that George Bennett-Jones could be so … persuasive … when he needed to be. “I assure you, George, Lady Elizabeth will never be mistaken for a milk water maid, she probably hasn’t fainted a single time in her entire life and, as for vapours, none of us seems to know what that even means, so I rather doubt she has succumbed to them, either.”
Grinning at her insistent tone, George nodded. “Then I suppose I must look forward to the day Lady Elizabeth and I are introduced.” Seeing Josephine’s look of satisfaction and conciliatory nod, George reopened The Times and returned to his reading.
Chapter 5
A Charity is Born with a Bribe
August 1815
“I must admit, Lady Elizabeth, I am quite curious as to why you would wish to see me,” the banker said as he motioned for her to take a seat in front of his rather large, ornate mahogany desk. The portly, bald man, Avery Whittaker, took care in seating himself in the leather chair on the other side of the desk. When he was comfortably ensconced, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the gleaming surface. He gave his visitor an expectant look. “I thought your father’s solicitor did all the banking for the Carlington family,” he ventured, wondering if she had come without her father’s knowledge to request an advance on her allowance.
“Thank you again for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” Elizabeth said with a curt nod. She’d had a footman deliver a note that morning with instructions to wait for a reply. The footman wasn’t gone long, and her requested appointment time of two o’clock was confirmed in the return note from Whittaker. “It’s about a position you have open. For a clerk,” she added quickly.
Mr. Whittaker regarded her for a long moment before one bushy eyebrow cocked up. “Indeed?” was all he could get out, suddenly afraid Lady Elizabeth had come to apply for the position.
Elizabeth saw his sudden fright and gave the man one of her brilliant smiles. “Oh, Mr. Whittaker,” she admonished him with a wave of her gloved hand. “I ask not for myself, of course, but for one who has served King and Country and has held such a position here at the Bank of England prior to his service with the army,” she explained, her voice light as she leaned forward to place a character on the banker’s desk. “Mr. Streater is quite qualified and looks forward to the opportunity to continue his work in the banking field.”
Picking up the character by the edges of the paper, as if the document might explode in his hands, the banker glanced quickly at the perfectly penned resume, taking in the name, Theodore M. Streater, and the qualifications of the man in question. He noted the fact that Streater had worked as a bank clerk for many years at the Bank of England prior to serving nearly three years in the British Army. His time with the army had ended nearly five months ago, however, and Mr. Whittaker raised his eyebrow in query. “And why hasn’t Mr. Streater come to apply for this position of his own accord?” he wondered, impressed by what he was reading about the man and his experience.
“He has. Twice,” Elizabeth replied lightly, keeping a pleasant expression on her face despite the nervousness she felt.
She had never done this before.
Never used her relationship to a marquess to secure an appointment.
Never come to an employer and basically begged him for a position on behalf of someone else.
Never carried a purse stuffed with thirty guinea in the event a bribe was necessary to secure the position.
But when a person of good character couldn’t gain employment on their own, she decided she could use her name and influence in helping them secure a position. If she could succeed on behalf of Theodore Streater, she was prepared to continue finding positions for others like him. An unusual charity, to be sure, but one of her own creation and, at the moment, a bit thrilling.
“I don’t understand, Lady Elizabeth. I would have hired Mr. Streater directly based on this character,” Mr. Whittaker claimed, confusion quite evident on his face. “When may I meet the man?”
Elizabeth felt a jolt of excitement at the banker’s claim, but tamped it down. The next few minutes would be most telling. “Why, this very moment, if you would like. Are you prepared to make him an offer?”
Mr. Whittaker sat up straight, his eyebrows now forming a single caterpillar of gray hairs. “I … I would like to meet him first, milady,” he hedged, wondering why Lady Elizabeth hadn’t brought the applicant into the meeting with her.
“Before I ask him to join us, please tell me, Mr. Whittaker. How much would you require to give Mr. Streater the position for a one-month trial period?” she asked as she struggled to keep her face impassive. We’re almost there.
“How much?” the banker repeated, his expression turning to one of puzzlement. “Do you mean ..?”
“How much does one pay to secure a clerking position at your firm, Mr. Whittaker? Will twenty pounds be sufficient? Or do you require more?” Almost. Almost. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought perhaps Mr. Whittaker could hear it from across the desk.
The banker stilled himself as he regarded the young woman who sat across from him. He had to admit to a certain attraction to the auburn-haired beauty. Who could resist such pretty eyes, fair skin, and pink lips? But he was old enough to be her father. Grandfather, even, he thought with a bit of dismay. And an alarm bell was going off in his head that would give him a headache if he didn’t address it that very moment. “I insist on meeting Mr. Streater,” he announced as he stood up, or tried to as the movement seemed to take a great deal of effort on his part.
Startled, Elizabeth had to suppress the urge to counter with a protest. “Very well,” she sighed, moving to the door to open it. “Mr. Streater, please do join us,” she said in as calm a voice as she could muster. When the nattily dressed man moved through the doorway, he bowed in a most formal fashion and nodded to the banker. Besides wearing clothes that could have been tailored by Weston for a lean body obviously well exercised, Streater’s hair was trimmed short, and he carried himself as if he were still a soldier of the British Army.
“I am Theodore Streater. Thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said by way of a greeting.
The banker stepped forward and held out his right hand. Streater regarded it and held out his left hand, clasping the back of Mr. Whittaker’s hand and shaking it, the motion quite awkward for both the banker and the applicant. It was then Whittaker realized Mr. Streater was missing his right hand, perhaps most of his arm. “Avery Whittaker, at your service,” the banker said, suddenly nervous.
“It was blown off in a battle in France,” Streater said before Whittaker could ask. “But since I write with my left hand, I am able to work quite effectively. All I ask for is the chance to prove myself.”
The banker’s frown worried Elizabeth; she had seen his immediate reaction and was momentarily angered that Whittaker would change his good opinion of Theodore Streater based him lacking a right arm. “How much, Mr. Whittaker?”
His eyes widening, Avery Whittaker swallowed and regarded Streater with a quick glance. “Twenty guinea,” he announced with a nod. “And you have three weeks to prove your worth,” he said tersely. The banker was obviously a bit miffed at being put in the awkward position of having to hire Streater, but there was a hint of anger in Streater, as well. The man had tried twice before for the position; nothing had been said about a bribe making it possible to secure the position those two times.
But a bribe required blunt, and he didn’t exactly have it to spend in that way.
Elizabeth, who had been holding her breath, let it out slowly. Over twenty-one pounds! Just to guarantee the position. “Agreed,” she stated, not allowing Streater to voice the objection he was about to make—the look on his face made it quite clear he was about to do so. She placed a hand on his left arm. “Congratulations, Mr. Streater. I will leave you two to work out your schedule. Please let me know how it goes.” Turning to the banker, she quickly fished several notes and a few coins out of her reticule. Holding them out to him, she said, “Here you are, Mr. Whittaker. I do hope you’ll keep up your end of the bargain. My father will be so pleased to know you have given Mr. Streater this opportunity,” she said brightly, couching the warning as nicely as she dared. Curtsying to the two gentlemen, she bid them adieu and left the office.
Once the door was shut behind her, she leaned back against it and closed her eyes. Yes! She could help crippled soldiers find gainful employment. The bribe was the key. She could simply use her allowance to bribe employers into hiring wounded soldiers. A few more weeks, and she would have enough money to help another.
Elizabeth waited until Mr. Streater joined her in the hall outside the banker’s office. “Well?” she wondered, a bit worried at how long he had been in there with Whittaker.
“Well, I have a position,” he responded with a tentative smile. There was a kind of relief that had settled over him. “Thanks to you, of course. I will be forever in your debt, Lady Elizabeth. However … however can I thank you properly?” he asked then, his eyebrows taking on a worried expression. He was quite aware of the monetary cost to the marquess’ daughter, and he still found it hard to believe a charity existed that did what Lady Elizabeth had just managed to accomplish.
“Perform well enough in the position so he cannot let you go,” she answered with a smile, pulling on a glove. “When do you start?”
Mr. Streater shrugged, the motion made awkward by the missing arm. “Now, it seems. I must go to the clerk’s office to get my assignment and will continue working until as late as seven this evening.”
Startled by the news, Elizabeth gave him a brilliant smile. “Very good then. Do you have money for a hackney to get you home?” They had traveled to the bank from her office in Oxford Street using her father’s town coach.
She hadn’t explained to anyone that her father knew nothing of it.
“Oh, I can see my way home, my lady,” the clerk replied with a nod.
Feeling as if she had embarrassed the man, Elizabeth held out her left hand, and Mr. Streater regarded it before returning her smile and shaking it. Then she pulled a pasteboard calling card from her reticule. “Should you know of someone else in your situation who is in need of a position, please have them contact me, won’t you?” With that, she took her leave of Theodore Streater and left the Bank of England.
Chapter 6
Who is Lady E?
Teddy Streater regarded the bright white pasteboard with the black script for a moment. Lady E’s Finding Work for the Wounded. At the very bottom of the card was the address of Lady Elizabeth’s office in Oxford Street. He slid the card into his coat pocket and hurried off to the clerk’s office.
When his work was complete at six-thirty—he had finished every assignment and was told to return at eight in the morning—Teddy hired a hackney coach. “Angelo’s,” he instructed the driver as he tossed him a coin. Once at the fencing academy in Bond Street, Teddy disembarked from the coach and glanced around, hoping he wasn’t too late to secure a match with an old friend. “Have you seen George?” he asked of the attendant on duty. The man nodded in the direction of a piste on which two men were sparring. Nodding his acknowledgement, Teddy moved quickly to stand amongst the three other men watching the match.
George Bennett-Jones, his rapier held nearly vertical as he regarded his shorter opponent, straightened his entire body and pulled his legs together. His opponent, a rather portly man who was sweating profusely, seemed confused by the move and let down his guard. With that mistake came George’s attack, and soon the man was stumbling backward as he was forced to parry and retreat from George’s swift advance. His retreat ended when he landed on his backside, cursing loudly enough for the entire audience to hear. A smattering of applause ensued as George offered his hand to his opponent and pulled him to his feet. After exchanging bows, George left the piste and headed toward the changing room.
“George!” Teddy called out, his head lifting a bit as he nodded toward his friend.
The taller man halted in midstep and grinned when he caught sight of his friend. “They really do let in anybody,” George said with a teasing grin, indicating with a wave that Teddy should join him.
“As I recall, they used to welcome me with open arms,” Teddy said with a wry grin, his left arm spreading wide. The empty sleeve of his right arm, folded and pinned against the side of his top coat, was made more apparent by the action.
“That’s because you had two and the blunt to pay your dues,” George countered playfully. There was a time when George would never have been so callous in the comments he directed to his friend. Less than a week ago, in fact. But the few hours they had spent together since George’s return to London proved Teddy Streater wanted things to be as much like the old times as was possible. And that meant a good deal of teasing and a few drinks at White’s.
“I’ll be paying those dues at the end of the month,” Teddy said proudly.
George paused before continuing into the changing room, his friend on his heels. “What’s that you say? Did you rob a bank?” he asked as he set down his rapier and stripped off his gloves.
“Something like that,” Teddy countered, his lips curving.
George stopped unbuttoning his uniform jacket to regard his friend, saw the hint of a smile, and continued changing into his suit of clothes. “Indeed?” was his only reply. Curiosity was apparent in his expression, though, but he waited for Teddy to explain himself rather than asking outright. “I got my old position back. At the bank,” Teddy explained, barely able to maintain his composure.
George stared at his friend with a mixed look of surprise and horror. “I am happy for you, Teddy, of course, but … at what cost?” Teddy Streater hadn’t had a pence to his name for months now. If it wasn’t for the kindness of his friends and a younger brother who gave him a pittance of an allowance and allowed him the use of a townhouse in Piccadilly, Teddy would be living in the streets.
Teddy shrugged. “Twenty guineas,” he said, his face sobering. At George’s stunned expression, he pulled out the pasteboard card the charity woman had given him. “I will pay it back eventually, of course,” he said as he held out the card, “But it was this lady who spoke with Mr. Whittaker at the bank. And she came up with the blunt. You’d like her,” he added with a glint in his eye. “Not your typical debutante.”
Reaching for the calling card, George gave his friend a wary glance. “Debutante? Do you know her?” At Teddy’s quick shake of his head, he added, “Then how ..?” He looked
down and read the card, his brows furrowing at the information. “How did you find out about this ‘Lady E’?” he wondered. Instead of handing the card back to his friend, George slipped it into his waistcoat pocket and continued dressing.
Teddy shrugged, a movement made awkward by the lack of a right arm. “She found me. I’ve seen her before, though. In fact, I think I know who she is. But she sought me out. Left me the card. So, I met her at that address, and a day later, I have my position. And, I’ll be getting a wooden arm next week. Some carpenter is carving one for me now. She saw to that, too.”
George realized he had been staring and tore his gaze away from Teddy’s empty sleeve. “She’s paying for that as well, I take it?” The comment wasn’t meant to sound judgmental, but somehow it came out that way.
Teddy stiffened at the tone in George’s voice. “As I said, I will pay it back. The charity exists to help us cripples get our old jobs back.” He paused when George seemed surprised at the comment, wondering then if his friend had misunderstood the name of the organization on the calling card.
“And did you ask whose blunt is behind the operation?” George wondered, his expression softening a bit. He realized at once he should be happy for Teddy, but he couldn’t help but be a bit suspicious at the same time. There were dozens of charities in London that could claim they helped widows and their children, but none he knew of that existed to help find employment for wounded soldiers.
“I think the only funding available right now is this woman’s own pin money,” Teddy replied.
Pin money? Twenty guineas wasn’t exactly pin money! As he buttoned his breeches, George considered his friend’s explanation. So a woman had founded a charity with the sole purpose of helping wounded war veterans gain employment. What was in it for her? “You say you know who she is?”
Shrugging again in that way that seemed just a bit awkward, Teddy replied, “Yes. I think she’s Lady Elizabeth Carlington.”
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