Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  “I have no—” She was denied the chance to explain why her interest focused on Lord Spencer.

  “Lord Spencer has more charm than a man should, but no fortune due to his father’s errors and his own wasteful habits. Shameful.” Lady Bedham concluded, poking her parasol into the ground to emphasize her words. What a quantity of accessories she must ruin in a season.

  “Many in the aristocracy would be shameful by those standards,” Sophie observed, packing away her easel. “Perhaps you could share what you know to prevent Ella from making a tragic mistake.”

  Sophie’s request sounded magnanimous, but Ella suspected her friend’s ulterior motive. Gossip on Lord Spencer would make a juicy entry in their journal. Lady Bedham seemed on the verge of refusing, but the proliferation of gossip fed her soul.

  “The elder Lord Spencer, before his death, became involved financially in several manufacturing businesses in London,” she began. “He invested what remained of the family fortune after his own wasteful habits depleted the money severely.”

  “Did the businesses fail?” Sophie prompted, encouraging the storyteller to continue.

  “On the contrary. Lord Spencer made money, but wanted more. He insisted the managers cut the workers’ wages and skimp wherever they could to increase profits. Lord Bedham owned shares in similar factories and tried to convince Lord Spencer to change his ways.”

  “Shocking.”

  “Indeed. The employees were expected to work longer hours for lower pay, violating the new laws. A number of accidents resulted, and still Lord Spencer refused to improve conditions.”

  “Despicable.” Their interjections, though minor, were enough to drive Lady Bedham along with her story.

  “Finally, the employees went on strike, refusing to work and picketing the factory. When the management, at Lord Spencer’s direction, threatened to fire them all, the laborers locked themselves in the factories. Lord Spencer insisted on government interference and the Royal Guardsmen were called to break the strike. I’m unclear exactly what happened, but I think it was quite violent.”

  “Was Lord Spencer’s father held accountable?”

  “It ruined him,” Lady Bedham declared. “He died a few months later, leaving his son debts and not much more. A different kind of man might have learned from his father’s errors, but Lord Spencer continued to borrow money and spend extravagantly. I hear he’s lost everything, including the family’s properties in London and the country. The coat on his back is probably mortgaged.”

  September 20, 1858

  Disaster. Tragedy. Calamity. A marriage proposal. Lord Spencer has officially asked for my hand. For the sake of accuracy in documenting my debutante year, I must report the details (although I shudder to think of them).

  Early this morning, Richard called me to his study, looking more grim than normal—a feat for him. I knew something was amiss and reviewed my behavior over the past day or so. Finding nothing to warrant Richard’s displeasure, I waited while he insisted on talking of triviality. (Since when has Richard ever been concerned with my gown for a ball or the music for the supper dance?)

  Finally, he announced that Lord Spencer had come to see him late the prior evening to ask permission to wed me. For once, Richard showed sense and compassion by not accepting on my behalf. In his words, “I neither granted nor denied Lord Spencer my permission.” This was followed by a stern lecture on the sanctity of marriage and the importance of finding a “true” companion for life. On the second point, I was unclear if we were discussing dogs or people. If my choices are a lifetime with Lord Spencer or a boxer, I shall take the boxer and keep my fortune.

  I suppose it’s my fault for flirting with the man so abominably, but one would not suspect Lord Spencer of taking me seriously enough for a proposal. Although that little episode in the cellar could be perceived as him exerting his great passion for me, I suppose. More to the point, I suspect Lady Bedham’s information is correct. He really must be destitute and desperate. I should feel sorry for him, but something about his nature prevents me from doing so. He’s not the charming, yet shallow, man I thought, but something more manipulative. Oh, give me an honest, handsome man like Jim Ferguson with broad shoulders, thick hair the color of sunshine, and eyes like a summer sky. I digress…

  Back to the problem at hand. What to do about Lord Spencer at the ball? Richard’s noncommittal response will prevent any public displays on Lord Spencer’s part, but he’ll be sniffing around me when I want to attract Jim. If Lord Spencer were a boxer, I’d put him out for the night.

  “Was that conversation in Richard’s study what I think?” Sophie slipped into the room, clicking the door shut behind her. “A proposal?”

  “Yes, but from the wrong man.” Ella stuck her pen in the holder and twisted to face her friend. “Lord Spencer has made an offer.”

  “You can’t be surprised after your behavior.” Settling on the ottoman, Sophie waited to hear the story.

  “I know, but why hasn’t Jim responded as he should have. Why must I love a man too rational for jealousy? Do you think he’s jealous even a little?” His absolute retreat from her following the episode in the cellar suggested he didn’t care. Ella’s spirits faded like a depleted firework.

  “Perhaps he’s just been busy with whatever he and my brother are doing,” Sophie suggested.

  “Too busy for love?” More fizzling fireworks.

  “He did try to warn you off his first day here. Maybe he was being sincere.”

  “Do you really think so?” Her embers extinguished in a pool of water. “No, no. That can’t be it.” The memory of his kisses rekindled a spark. “I need to find a solution that will rebuff Lord Spencer and captivate Jim Ferguson.”

  “You could try honesty.”

  “Being honest with Jim gained me nothing. No, I need some decisive strike. What if I accept Lord Spencer’s proposal?”

  “Are you mad?” Sophie’s eyes widened, and she pointed a finger at Ella. “You don’t want to be saddled with him. What about Lady Bedham’s story?”

  “It would just be an engagement. Easily broken. And it might be enough to jolt Jim into action.”

  “Making and breaking an engagement will make you look fickle.” Sophie’s lecture continued. “Exactly what you’re trying to avoid.”

  Her friend was right. She did want her family, and most of all Jim, to see she was making an adult decision. But why must all of this take so long? “Girls break engagements all the time and no one thinks them capricious. Miss Bender did it twice,” she said, referring to one of last year’s debutantes.

  “And ended up married to a drunkard because no one else would have her.”

  “And Lady Emily Stewart?”

  “Ran off with her butler after six months of marriage to the third man she was engaged to.”

  “Do you have a better suggestion?” Ella deflated, mentally searching for a match to relight her imaginary fireworks.

  “Patience.”

  “I’m no good at that. And I’ve already waited months for Jim.”

  “You met him in June. It’s only September.” Her friend reasoned.

  “That’s three months and I didn’t see him for two of those. Oh no, he’s not getting away from me.” She crossed the room, swung the doors of her wardrobe wide and reached for her newest ball gown. The creation, done by Annabelle’s shop, was a soft pink iridescent silk that fell in petals to the floor like a rose opening upside-down. Her mother didn’t quite approve of the low, sweetheart neck, but Annabelle designed the gown to flatter Ella’s figure and complexion. No man, especially one already half hers, could resist.

  Chapter Seven

  Jim meant to hover on the ball’s fringes and retire early. Escaping the music and noise of the gathering would be impossible, but he could avoid watching Ella dance, laugh, flirt and yank at other men’s hearts. He’d fortified his heart against her, carefully wrapping it in work over the past few days.

  As with the ship he desi
gned, he protected any vulnerable spots in metal plating. With his armor securely in place, he chose a location to wait out his time at the ball like a man at the gallows. Guests arrived and began a slow circuit of the ballroom while he clung cowardly, he admitted, to the open garden doors. A path of retreat available if necessary.

  And a strategic mistake.

  A feminine rustle behind him and a hand on his sleeve preceded the rush of Ella’s perfume. He wanted to shake her off, run from the woman who filled him with a chaotic mix of desire and disappointment. The surge of lust he could force himself to ignore, but the empty sensation in his belly whenever he encountered and parted from her tortured him. God help him, he wanted her.

  Without conscious thought, he swiveled to face her. Her green eyes shone in the dim light and, like the rosy scent she wore, her pink gown cascaded in layers like petals. Allowing a perusal of her slim upper body encased in a tight, low-cut bodice heightened his lust as the soft skin of her almost bare shoulders invited his touch. His hand rose involuntarily, but he stuffed it in his waistcoat pocket before it could betray him.

  Ella’s eyes drifted from his pocket to his face, reading his action. “I think you’ve been hiding from me.”

  “Just busy,” he lied, now wishing his back wasn’t to the ballroom. She’d cornered him expertly.

  “With?” Was her question curiosity or just conversation? Either way, he didn’t answer. The fewer people who knew about the project the better. With the hint of espionage suggested by the committee, and his own suspicions, he wanted her far away from any knowledge of The Iron Lady.

  “Your family is fortunate in such a nice evening for the ball.” He retreated into the safer topic.

  “I’m sure Richard commanded the weather,” she said, her tone light and humorous. “He tends to be that way.”

  “If that’s the case, I hope he grants me dry roads for my trip.” She’d given him the opportunity to say what he needed to.

  “You’re leaving?” The humor dropped from her voice.

  “In the morning. I’m returning to Bristol.” He withheld the information about his upcoming stay in London.

  “But you’ve not taken advantage of fall in the country.” She waved one hand out past the gardens, but tightened the other around his arm where it had been resting during their conversation. “We have excursions planned for next week and the shooting season is just beginning.”

  The gulf between their worlds grew wider with each of her words. “I work for a living and my work is in Bristol. I don’t belong here.” His statements sounded cruel, but they were necessary. He couldn’t stay any longer as much for himself as for her. Although he’d avoided her during most of the past week, just being in the same house was dangerous to both of them.

  “When will I see you again?” Her sensuously full lower lip trembled.

  “I don’t know,” he answered and then said what had to be stated. “Although we might meet occasionally because of your family, it’s best if we don’t seek each other out. I must return to my work and my life.”

  “And what about me?” Her eyes switched from shining to flaming in an instant as her hand jerked away from him. “What am I to do?” An edge in her voice sliced through him.

  “You said marriage was your objective at this house party. I guess you should pursue that.” Emptiness engulfed him with every word he said.

  “You expect me to marry someone like Lord Spencer.” Her tone went flat, unreadable.

  “If he is your choice.” The words passed between gritted teeth, making them sound anything but supportive. Please God, any man but Spencer.

  “He offered for me yesterday,” she declared, scrutinizing his face.

  He thought he kept his expression neutral, but his mind flew to where he didn’t want it to travel. Ella and Spencer on their wedding day, walking in the park, playing with their children. He fought the worst of the images, but it burst through. Spencer making love to Ella. His Ella. Blood roared through his veins, dimming his senses, but not his anger. “My congratulations,” he managed, walking away from her.

  The garden would have provided an escape where he could let his emotions loose, physically release his anger, throw rocks, tackle a statue, beat a hedge. But she might follow him, so he skimmed the edge of the dance floor and made for the male refuge of the card room. He’d settle for a glass of whiskey and fleecing some unsuspecting aristocrat.

  “I’d appreciate it if you would avoid monopolizing my fiancée, especially so close to the open doors. I wouldn’t want anyone to think she’d been in the garden with you.” Spencer stood at the entrance to the card room in a dandified evening ensemble of deep red and silver. In his progress around the room, Jim had failed to notice him.

  “I was unaware that congratulations were in order,” Jim lied. Every instinct told him to keep walking. He’d avoided a private conversation with Spencer throughout the house party.

  “Very recent.” Spencer smiled across the ballroom at Ella who still waited by the doors. Hooking his fingers, he gave her a little wave, beckoning her to approach. Crushing Spencer’s fingers appealed more to Jim’s taste, especially when Ella returned the gesture. “So much so that her brother doesn’t wish to announce the engagement this evening as family needs to be notified first.”

  “Who? Ella’s family is all in attendance and yours is dead. Or were you referring to your mother?” Lady Spencer, seeing the end of the family fortune, decamped with an Austrian Count several years prior, leaving her husband to seek refuge with his mistresses until his death.

  “Ah, thank you for confirming that we’ve met before.” Spencer continued to gaze at Ella like she belonged to him. “I shouldn’t say met as we were certainly not equals.”

  “I don’t—” Jim cursed himself for giving Spencer the opening he needed. He hadn’t been positive until this moment that Spencer identified him.

  “I can’t quite place the incident,” Spencer continued, “but I believe it was in London about three years ago. If you recall, there was that unfortunate wave of labor unrest, in which my family’s interests were compromised.” Spencer regarded Jim over the rim of his whiskey glass. “Your current name doesn’t match with my recollection and that’s my sticking point. I so rarely forget a name. I almost think you must have changed yours because you bear a remarkable likeness to one of the strike’s leaders at my father’s factory. What was his name?” He consulted the air. “Oh, yes, James Crandall. His parents owned an inn somewhere in Piccadilly I recall. Nasty business, the fire that destroyed it.” Taking another swig of whiskey, he continued in a casual tone. “Too bad about the owner’s wife. Fire is such an unpleasant way to die. If you’re lucky the smoke gets you first, but I hear that wasn’t the case for her. Poor woman.” Placing the glass on a nearby tray, Spencer smiled maliciously. “Enjoy the party, Ferguson.”

  Bastard.

  His mother’s charred body, his sister’s hysterical sobs, and his father’s stony-faced defeat obscured the lights and music of the ballroom before him as memory snatched him back to that night.

  He leaned against the wall, afraid to move, blindly watching dancers whirling past. The colors mixing and remixing, reminding him of the leaping flames. Cigar smoke wafting from the card room mimicked the acrid smell hanging in the air even blocks from the inn.

  Nothing, nothing matched the horror of digging through the rubble until he reached his mother. Skin blackened, clothing tattered, bones made brittle by heat. The horror slammed him again, an angry fist thrusting into his stomach, punching him in the throat, robbing him of breath, paralyzing him in place.

  ****

  Her social mask placed a veneer over her feelings like patterned paper pasted to a water-damaged wall. But from the concerned faces of Annabelle and Edmund as they waltzed past, a few bumps showed and the dampness threatened to ooze out her eyes.

  A forced smile as Lord Spencer approached helped to squeeze back the tears and brush away the cracks in her façade. No cr
ying in ballrooms. No emotion but delight should cross one’s features. The rules of society were carefully absorbed until the body obeyed if not the heart.

  “Hello, darling. May I call you so?” He grasped her hands, raising her fingers to his lips. “I can’t help thinking of you as such.”

  Instead of yanking her hand back, she managed a “do you?” Focusing her attention around his head, she hoped to see Jim where he leaned against the polished walnut paneling on the opposite side of the ballroom. She’d observed their brief, but intense conversation.

  “You’re not dancing? May I hope to claim the next two and the supper dance?” Lord Spencer’s manner was as smooth and confident as an accepted suitor.

  “I couldn’t possibly agree to so much with one partner.” Her answer automatic as she craned to see Jim. Something was wrong. His eyes stared toward her, but he didn’t see her.

  “Darling, I’m sure your brother won’t object given our situation.” In what seemed an intentional action, he clasped her arm and turned her toward him, ending her observations.

  “My brother has little to do with my choices.” On the pretext of adjusting her gown, she managed a glance toward Jim’s position.

  Gone. His spot against the paneling empty.

  Chasing him down was out of the question. She’d shoved him away with her declaration about Lord Spencer. Undoing the damage was impossible when eyes around the ballroom watched her actions like an audience at Drury Lane. The only performance she could give was debutante at the ball. “But I shall be honored to dance the next set with you.”

  ****

  Just past three in the morning, Ella shimmied out of her ball gown and donned a simple muslin dress. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, placed a chair near her door and opened it a crack. Jim would have to pass her room and she intended to intercept him before he left for Bristol.

  Through all the dancing during the ball, she’d waited for him to return. By midnight, when it was clear he wouldn’t, she listlessly kept up her pretended attentions to Lord Spencer. Richard mysteriously seemed pleased with her performance, but he was alone in his approval. Her other family and friends offered her no applause. Lady Bedham attempted to redirect her to Baron Edgeton, and Sophie threw herself on the funeral pyre by intercepting Lord Spencer when he would have asked for yet another dance with Ella. Through it all, she smiled until her cheeks ached.