by Karen Ranney
There was no doubt as to the other woman’s reaction. No longer would Margaret be considered a proper widow, someone held up as an example of decorum and proper behavior. Instead, she would be made a pariah. Sarah would not allow her daughter to attend her small school, and Anne would ensure the tale was told throughout the village. Her school would be unattended.
Everything she had come to value in her life was in jeopardy by this one action. A thought that made Margaret consider her decision carefully. In the end, it was not as if she had any choice. If she didn’t sell the Journal she couldn’t remain in Silbury.
Margaret picked up her stationery box, then sat at the table again and began to write.
Chapter 2
A man’s impatience is a woman’s triumph.
The Journals of Augustin X
Michael Hawthorne, Earl of Montraine, nodded to his host across the room. The Earl of Babidge—Babby, to his friends—was currently engaged in his most favorite occupation, gossip. He held court over a small group, all of whom looked entranced at his words. Michael smothered a smile and turned aside.
Babby had spared no expense for this occasion. His cavernous second-floor ballroom was lit by hundreds of beeswax candles, all constantly being replaced by ubiquitous footmen. The accompanying yellow light rendered the room as bright as a sunlit day and warmed it substantially. The tall doors to the terrace had been thrown open to the night to counteract the heat.
Babby was a great believer in gilt. What could not be festooned in gold was trimmed in it. There were three large mirrors in ornate gilded frames mounted on the south wall. What walls were not mirrored or hung with crimson were painted. Set within the gilded moldings were scenes etched in delft of Babby’s country estate, or life in the City. The artist had followed Babby around for a month with sketchbook in hand.
Tonight Babby had decided upon a masked ball to enliven the season. Consequently, the room was filled with people attempting, for at least a few hours, to be who they were not. There was a plethora of Greek goddesses and men dressed oddly—and chillingly, for this spring night—in togas. More than one stout peer was crowned with laurel leaves.
As for himself, he dressed simply in formal attire. That was not, however, the reason for the surprised looks sent his way. He rarely attended these events unless required to escort his sisters and mother. When he did so, he disappeared into a quiet chamber, or sought sanctuary with friends in the smoking or gaming rooms. Tonight, however, he was attempting to be affable. Almost sociable.
Three matrons roosting upon the settee against the wall nodded at him in approval. He returned the gesture, smiling slightly. They subjected each guest to a sweeping inspection, one that encompassed costume and demeanor, hairstyle to footwear. A judgment was rendered by either a slight smile or a forbidding frown. By their sudden shocked looks he knew that the most recent arrival had ventured far beyond the bounds of propriety.
The lady standing in the doorway was not unknown to him. A beautiful woman married to an aging peer, a combination that encouraged daring. She did not disappoint. Her costume revealed more than it concealed, leaving no doubt as to the shape of lovely legs, or the enticing curve of hips. She sent him a provocative look, one designed to entice, he had no doubt. Perhaps another time.
This night was for more serious matters. He had come to Babby’s party to find a wife.
It was time he married, a fact that had exploded into his consciousness by one small and almost overlooked fact. All three of his sisters were being presented this season. Proof enough that the years had flown by. If he did not want his lineage continued by a nephew, he must concentrate upon matrimony.
In addition, there was the small matter of dwindling capital. The war with Napoleon had been ruinous, and their fortunes over the last decade had suffered like so many others. Add to that the drought that had decimated their harvests in addition to the foolish investments his father had made, and the resultant disaster was one of monumental and extravagant proportions.
They needed an almost desperate infusion of cash, else he would be forced to sell those properties not entailed.
It seemed that it was a more lengthy process to catch the eye of a wealthy noble than it was a rich heiress. A title or a respectable heritage wasn’t the least important in his case, while his mother had her heart set on, at the very least, earls for her daughters. Therefore, Michael was the sacrificial lamb destined to be hauled up to the altar and roasted. He was not, however, going to the flames without a few bleats of his own.
His requirements for a bride were sensible. Logical. A woman who would not expect love, but with whom he could deal agreeably. Someone engaged in her own interests. A woman who would give him sons but not difficulties. Above all, he didn’t want a woman of a violent temperament.
The conversation swirled around him like the drone of bees as he walked around the edge of the dance floor. Once it pierced his concentration, caught him off guard. It was a disconcerting experience to find himself the topic of whispers.
“It’s a pity Montraine is so handsome,” one young miss said. “He truly has the most fearsome glower. And he is much too somber. He rarely smiles.”
“Indeed,” the other woman said behind her fan. “Charlotte says he’s most inflexible and terribly stern, and acts twice his age. She is quite afraid of him.”
“Her own brother?” The fan was in rapid motion.
“Well, I for one would never countenance his suit. Could you imagine being constantly frowned at in that forbidding way of his?”
“It is said that he is involved in something secret with the government. Some master, or something.”
He was tempted to lean over their shoulders and tell them that his sister Charlotte was not to be considered a source of information since she was, more often than not, irritated at him. The name Code Master was an embarrassing sobriquet Babby had announced to one and all after his success at breaking the French code during the war.
As a member of the Black Chamber of England’s Foreign Office, he was only one of many men who labored independently and alone for a dual purpose—to solve ciphers and protect the empire. It was occasionally tedious, always mind absorbing work that he loved.
But the French cipher that had led them to discover Napoleon’s plans to march on the east had been such a monumental undertaking and happy accident that word of it had slipped out. It irritated him to no end, since most of the people who now knew the name presumed that his occupation made him exciting, dangerous, and romantic.
Michael continued his progression around the perimeter of the dance floor, his attention focused on the dancers. Not unlike, he thought with some degree of humor, a wolf seeking its mate.
It seemed to him that his requirements for a wife were not onerous.
His life ran on a strict schedule. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday he boxed in the morning. Tuesday and Thursday he rode. He worked from nine in the morning until well after seven at night, with two hours in the afternoon set aside for lunch and personal correspondence. Family obligations occupied two nights a week. Other than that, his time was his own to do with what he wished. Most of the time, however, he found himself either involved with his newly designed mathematical engine or engrossed in a cipher. He did not wish to be pulled from a fascinating code because a woman expected him to pay her homage, take her shopping, or approve a frock.
In addition, she must not be too young, because incessant giggling would drive him mad. She should possess some sense and be level-headed and dispassionate.
He asserted the same authority over his own emotions.
His childhood had been marked by his parents passionate arguments, each occurrence ending with his mother throwing something and his father responding by breaking something equally expensive or shooting out a window. On the nights when their rages woke his sisters up, they found their way to his room. On such occasions he would reassure them that all was right in their world, a necessary lie and one they came, even
tually, to see as such.
Finally, he’d rebelled, seeking sanctuary from the cacophony of his own home at his friend Robert’s house whenever the confrontations escalated. It was an irony that his wish for privacy had led to his love of ciphers. He’d not wanted his family to be able to read his notes to Robert and had devised several codes that they used to communicate.
Give him a code any time. Ciphers did not cry and run from the room. A logical progression did not scream at the top of its lungs and then shoot a hole through the library window.
Or put a bullet through his head because his mistress had left him for another man. A gruesome discovery for a boy of fourteen. But even then, he’d been the only calm one in a house filled with tears and screams. He had been the one to pull the note from beneath his father’s limp arm and read those last words. A confession of obsessive love and despair. I cannot live without her. A warning and a caution to the boyish Michael to refrain from such excess.
He was determined to do so.
The females in his family, however, preferred not to see the world logically and dispassionately. His sisters were princesses of drama and his mother the queen of histrionics. Only one more reason to find a wife with some degree of sense about her. She might be someone with whom he could talk. Perhaps she might even become a confidante. As it was, he would never confide in his family for fear that his secrets would be fodder for London gossip the next day.
Michael presented himself in front of Miss Gloria Ronson, bowing slightly. She was the daughter of a knight, but he was not concerned with her antecedents as much as the fact that she was also rumored to be an heiress. True, she was shy, but she also seemed like someone who might suit him.
“I believe this is our dance,” he said. He smiled, wondering why his companion looked startled.
He bent his arm and she placed her gloved hand atop it. The musicians began the opening bars and the first movement began. He turned to his side, held his hand out for her. Her gloved fingers touched his, but she said nothing further, simply stared at the oak boards of the floor.
Her reticence was delightfully charming. As if she heard his thoughts, she looked over at him. He smiled at her and once more she appeared startled, looking away for a moment and then shyly smiling in return.
The evening was looking suddenly more favorable.
Chapter 3
An experienced courtesan prefers a lover
with long fingers, a sign of impressive
masculine attributes.
The Journals of Augustin X
Margaret stepped down from the carriage, smiled at the driver, and ignored the loudly voiced complaints of her fellow passengers. The wisest course was to take a hired hack to Maude and Samuel’s house on Stanton Street. But she hadn’t the funds to take a hack to Stanton Street and then back to the Earl of Babidge’s house in the morning. Nor was it close enough to walk, as the earl’s home was situated far from the draper’s shop.
The only alternative was to travel on to the earl’s home and hope that he would agree to see her despite the lateness of the hour.
She hoped that the Earl of Babridge would prove as agreeable in person as he had in his letter. His had been the first response to the three letters she’d sent.
His letter was tucked inside her reticule, but she didn’t need to read it again to recall his words. His eagerness had brought her a sense of welcome relief. I would be very interested in perusing the Journal with the idea of purchasing it.
She whispered a prayer and a few minutes later gave the earl’s address to the driver of the hack. At their destination, she dismounted from the hack, pressed a coin into the driver’s hand, and promised him the other if he waited for her. At his agreement, she turned and looked up at the house.
The structure was three stories tall, painted a white that gleamed in the light of the gas lamps. She walked slowly up the steps, gripping the Journal tightly. Mounted high on the ebony surface of the door was a polished brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. A fanlight above the door glowed with reflected light.
Margaret straightened her spencer, surreptitiously pulling it down in the back with one hand. It was difficult to look entirely proper when one’s clothes barely fit. The spencer and the dress beneath it had been bought second hand. But they were clean and well mended. If the color was a washed-out blue and did nothing to flatter her complexion or compliment her eyes, it was just as well. Vanity was foolishness. She had greater concerns at the moment.
But she didn’t want to seem desperate to the earl. It was one of those lessons she’d learned from Jerome. People rarely wished to buy from someone who looked as if they needed the sale.
She had to knock three times to be heard over the sound of music and laughter coming from behind the door. A solemn-faced majordomo opened the door only slightly, peering out through the space, his eyes portraying that disinterested gaze Margaret had noted in only the very best servants.
“I realize that I have missed my appointment,” Margaret explained, retrieving the letter from her reticule and showing it to him. “But could the earl spare a moment to see me?”
“His lordship is entertaining,” he said stonily.
“Nor do I wish to intrude,” Margaret said, “but would it not be possible to see him?” Her smile was a bit too bright, but the butler looked unimpressed at her efforts to charm him.
“Please,” she said finally. “I’ve been traveling all day.”
After a long moment in which he studied her intently, he admitted her.
She sat where he indicated, on a hard upholstered bench against the wall. Music spilled down the stairs, a melody so cheerful that it was almost capable of banishing her fears. But they returned in full measure as the moments lengthened. What if the earl didn’t buy the Journal? She would have made the journey to London for nothing, and spent the last of her money doing so.
A few minutes later the butler returned.
“His lordship will be with you directly,” he said, bowing to her, a gesture so small that it was merely perfunctory. “If you will follow me.”
The room he led her to was a library, one in which a blazing fire was lit even though no one was in the chamber. A bit of profligacy she appreciated at the moment. Two comfortable chairs, a desk and tall mahogany bookshelves lined with books made the chamber a warm and cozy place. A patterned rug beneath her feet seemed almost foreign in design, its colors muted and aged.
A few moments later a man entered the room. “I am sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. He checked his entrance at her appearance, then glanced around the library. “You are not the person I expected to see,” he said hesitantly.
She stood at his entrance, the manners of a lifetime coming to the fore. Not that of subservience, but of service. She was, after all, the widow of a tradesman and had been trained in the art of selling. Respect, either feigned or real, was an integral part of success.
“Is it your wish not to deal with a woman, my lord?” She prayed that the sudden panic she felt would not be mirrored in either her voice or her expression.
“Not at all,” he said, coming further into the room. “It was simply that it was unexpected.” He poured himself a glass of brandy from the sideboard, his back to her. He cleared his throat, glanced over his shoulder at her, then turned, his attention on the floor rather than her face. His fingers tapped against the glass in a staccato pattern. His right foot ground into the carpet.
The Earl of Babidge reminded her, oddly enough, of a hedgehog. Short and rotund, his round face and narrowed eyes looked the human counterpart of that timid creature.
She untied the Journal, removed the wrapping, and placed the book in the center of his desk. She said nothing as he glanced quickly at her, then at the book.
He walked slowly to the desk, sat behind it. From beneath her lashes, she saw him place his glass down, then use both hands to open the Journal’s cover. His face, round and solemn, began to pinken as he slowly turned one page aft
er another.
She returned to her intense study of her hands, willing herself not to feel an embarrassment akin to the earl’s. But it was difficult not to remember the man in the paintings.
She looked away, studied the closed curtains. A burgundy velvet, to match the color of the chairs arranged before the fire.
The earl reverently stroked the leather binding, trailed his fingers across the embossed gilt of the title. “I have never seen the like. Is it just the one?”
“There are three, my lord,” she said, “but I’ve no wish to sell the others at the present time.”
“I would be willing to buy all of them,” the earl said, “although your price for this one volume seems somewhat excessive.” He placed the book on the top of his desk, as if he had no interest in it. His gaze sharpened, became almost cunning as he waited for her response.
“I am sorry, my lord. But it is the price I gave you to understand in my letter,” Margaret said, hiding her smile. If there was anything she had learned in the past two years it was how to bargain.
She moved to pick up the book, but he pulled it back out of reach. His smile was rueful as he fumbled with a drawer in his desk, then drew out a small metal box. Inserting a key into the lock, he folded back the top and withdrew a sum of money.
He stood and handed her the amount she had listed in her correspondence. “I believe you will find this correct.”
She tucked the money away in her reticule, and thanked him.
“Do not forget, if you wish to sell the other books, I am to have first choice.”
She smiled, agreed, and in moments had taken her leave of him.
Her arms felt oddly empty now that she no longer had the Journal clasped in them. Instead of feeling regret she should be relieved. In her reticule she had the proceeds from the sale of the book. She had a home to return to, even if it was a tiny cottage on the Downs. She was healthy, blessed with Penelope’s friendship and an occupation that gave her pleasure.
