An Encounter at the Museum

by Claudia Dain

  She shrugged.

  “They don’t. I feel sure of it. They would want you to gradually learn to be happy again, to go on building a new life.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am positive. I knew your father, remember? Even longer than you did.”

  “That’s right,” she said slowly.

  “So, let us do as he would wish and go home to begin our new life.” He stood. “In fact, I’ll share a surprise with you. It’s in my laboratory. I’ve been making something for you, but perhaps you might like to help?”

  Nodding, Aurelia stood beside him. The poor child looked exhausted, but also clear-eyed and lighter, somehow.

  “Shall we go home, Miss Moreton?” The baron pitched his tone to be soft and soothing.

  She knew, suddenly, that she could not. Staying in his home longer would only hurt Aurelia. It would only prolong her own pain, kill her aching heart with a slow bleed instead of a quick stab. She reached suddenly into the pocket folded into her skirts and found Mrs. Hollendale’s letter.

  “No, thank you. As you two will be occupied, I think I will seize the opportunity to take care of some business.”

  Lord Cotwell objected. “It’s growing late.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Very well. You take the carriage and we’ll walk.” He grinned. “Aurelia knows the way.” Taking Aurelia’s hand, he started downstairs.

  And she followed, just a step behind.

  They trooped through the entrance hall, all three of them, while James’s gut churned.

  He’d come today, to the spot where he should have met Lisbeth, because he could not erase her from his mind. Because he’d been sober now for more than a few hours straight and because he could not quite believe what he’d done, what he’d meant to do, what he’d allowed himself to become.

  He’d been on the wide landing, staring out the window, as Lisbeth must have done on that day. Was he punishing himself? Looking for answers? He scarcely knew. But then she’d come tearing by, with Cotwell beside her.

  They hadn’t noticed him. Swept right on by as if he didn’t exist. Anger tore swiftly through his veins, though he could not summon a good reason for it. He’d descended to the entry to await them, though he could not think what he wished to say.

  God, but he was a mess.

  Now they passed him by again, with the girl this time, thoroughly caught up in their private drama—and anger punched him again. It fled swiftly this time, though—leaving him empty, aching and longing for . . . something.

  He took a step in pursuit, not knowing whether he intended to make mischief or ask for help—when a feminine voice, very low and close, said his name.

  “There are better ways to get what you are looking for,” it said.

  He spun around. A woman emerged from the shadows behind Roubiliac’s Shakespeare.

  He knew her, of course. Everyone in London and most of Europe knew Hestia Wright, the breathtakingly beautiful Courtesan Queen.

  He was in no mood, however. “How could you know what I want?”

  She smiled, a predator’s expression full of wisdom and certainty. “I know because I’ve been where you are. I know what it is to want to destroy someone so badly you’ll sacrifice anything—even yourself.”

  Shocked, he stood silent.

  “There is a better way.”

  “Is there?” He could not suppress the weary bitterness that seemed to have invaded his soul.

  She laughed. “Oh, yes. Do you not see? The greatest triumph lies in surviving. Thriving. Imagine your father’s fury when his predictions do not come true. When you do not perish in the flames of your own making, but you grow strong and successful in your own right, instead.”

  He made an involuntary sound of protest.

  “I don’t ask you to give up the battle, sir. Only take it underground. Keep your nemesis befuddled, bewildered, never sure if it is you he fights or his own fate.” She laughed, low and throaty. “You think him a little mad now? Just wait.” She sobered. “But first you must heal yourself.”

  James closed his eyes. “I don’t know how. Or if it is even possible.” He looked toward the door, after Lisbeth. “I’ve done things—”

  “I know. But you ask forgiveness and you make amends where you can. And then you learn how to fight without damaging yourself.” She pulled a hood over her shining curls and pausing, offered an arm. “Would you care to take me to dinner and discuss it further?”

  James hesitated—but then did as he had not done in a long time and followed his heart. “The Dog and Duck—”

  “Oh, I had something finer in mind. And more visible.” She cocked her head. “For what do you think your father will say when he hears you are hanging about me?”

  Once before Lisbeth had sat in this parlor, waiting. She’d been with her mother that time, who had sat just there, on the maroon settee. There’d been papers to sign after her father’s death. So many papers, having to do with settlements, jointures and trusts. They’d come to London to sign them, just for a day or so, because her mother had needed a change after the first, dark weeks of her bereavement. And she’d thought it proper to pay a call on her cousin, the man in charge of their financial futures.

  Mr. Thorpe had been less enthusiastic. He’d stood just inside the parlor door and rubbed a hand across his bald head. “Your visit is unnecessary. Did you not understand the nature of the arrangement I made with your husband? You are to do the nurturing, the guiding. I am to handle the money. I am good at handling money. I made your husband a fortune, which is why he asked me to act as trustee for your children. But that is the extent of my interest and involvement.” He’d made a curt bow. “Good day.”

  Now Lisbeth wondered if the man would even consent to see her. But she wouldn’t be dismissed without a fight. She fought back a sob. She was tired of being shunted aside, overlooked. Her choices for her future were rapidly dwindling. She was going to seize upon Mrs. Hollendale’s position as her best option.

  For nearly two years she’d run Aster Park. Thorpe knew her work. She’d kept strict accounts and sent him quarterly reports. Once he’d responded, questioning the high price of seed. It meant he’d read them, at least. And now he could exert himself long enough to write her a recommendation.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, but it appears that Mr. Thorpe is from home.”

  Rising, she answered with sarcasm. “Oh, what unfortunate timing.”

  The man’s servant did not meet her eyes. “If I might suggest, he’s certain to be home on Friday at two o’clock.” He bowed and waited for her to follow him to the door.

  Calmly, she turned right instead and started toward the back of the house.

  “Now, wait,” he called.

  She paid him no heed and began opening doors. Why was the house so musty? It felt dank and unused. Not until she reached a double door and swung it open did she understand.

  Here was where all the living in the house was done. If it could be so called. It was a cavernous room, perhaps once a library. Now the bank of windows were covered with heavy draperies and the walls were covered with endless bits of paper. Maps, charts, shipping schedules, clippings and lists. Several points of heavily concentrated lamps created bright spots in the shadows. In one of them, at a paper-strewn desk, sat her trustee.

  He spoke without looking up. “Now, draft a letter to the chit’s mother. Tell her the girl’s in Town after all and due back here on Friday at two o’clock. If she wants her, she can come and get her.”

  Lisbeth closed the door behind her. “I’d prefer to avoid all that, actually.”

  Thorpe raised his head. “Abandoned manners as well as propriety, have you?” He reached for a file. “What do you want?”

  “Only what you’ve just ordered. A letter. It won’t take much time.”

  “I’m not a secretary.” He ran an eye over her. “Why did you run off? What have you been doing with yourself?”

  She chose to answer only the one
question. “I’ve gone into service.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Better than prostitution, I suppose.” He looked away. “But you would have done better to trade yourself for the cow.”

  “Yes, well, it felt a might too close to prostitution.”

  He shrugged. “You would have had a house of your own, at least.”

  “I might still, with your help. Or as close as may be.” She explained Mrs. Hollendale’s proposed position and her need for a recommendation.

  “No.” He bent over his desk again. “Good day.”

  Stunned, she asked, “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “A letter is all I’ve asked for. You know I did well, running Aster.”

  He shrugged.

  “My father trusted you to see to my welfare!”

  He set down his pen. “No, he trusted me to see to your fortune. A different thing entirely, and if you object, you may take it over yourself once you are one and twenty.” He frowned. “And I don’t believe your father would wish me to write that letter.”

  “What?” She gasped. “Why not?”

  Leaning back in his chair, he fixed her with a stern glare. “Investing is an art, young lady, and I’m good at it because I understand imports and exports, economies and expectations. At the heart, though, business is driven by human nature. People go into business, they buy, sell, succeed and fail for very human reasons. I am great at investing because I am a student of human nature. It is the key to my success.” He raised a brow. “And you stink of desperation.”

  She blinked.

  “You’ve got the bit in your teeth and you are running from something. You are reacting, not thinking. Good decisions are not made when you allow yourself to be spurred by emotion.” He shook his head. “Far better to dig out the root of the problem.”

  She almost hated him in that moment. Not because he wouldn’t cooperate, but because he was right. She sank into a chair, stared into the closest grouping of lights.

  She’d left herself at the mercy of a whole parade of emotions. Grief and embarrassment had been prodding her today, since the moment Lord Cotwell expressed the exact opposite of her own wishes. But she’d been reacting to hurt, betrayal and fear for far longer than that—since she’d heard her mother fall in with her stepfather’s heinous plans.

  The flames danced before her and she felt a little sick. Hope and passion…and even love. She’d careened about, bouncing off them all in the last weeks. Perhaps she should just stop a moment and think. Decide exactly what she wanted, realize what she could have, and devise a plan to make the most of her circumstances.

  Thirty minutes later she jumped when Thorpe barked at her. “What? Still here? What are you doing?”

  She shook her head. “I think I’m planning a letter of my own.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I said I understood people, not that I enjoyed their company.” He waved a hand. “Take yourself off and do your thinking and writing elsewhere.”

  She rose, feeling the need to yield to just one more emotional impulse. On quiet feet she approached him, but he’d already begun scribbling furiously on a chart in front of him. Before he could object, she moved in and kissed him smack on his bald pate.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Get out,” he replied. But closing the door behind her, she saw him grin and rub his head.

  The closed pocket door mocked him. Edmund sat in the gathering dark in the study, and for the first time in . . . oh, since he could remember, his lab did not call to him.

  He was waiting for Lisbeth to finish with Aurelia. He’d spooked her earlier, with his clumsy words. She’d gone from warm and lively to cold and stiff. Damn him for an ass, he worried that he’d given her the impression that she wasn’t wanted, when what he wanted to say was that she deserved so much more. But he damned her too, as he waited, for being vague about her ‘business.’ He’d brought Aurelia home, showed her the miniature giraffe and enjoyed her excitement, but the whole time he’d also driven himself mad with speculation, wondering if Lisbeth’s wounded feelings had driven her back to Vickers.

  The thought seized his brain, shredded his gut and set him off on a brooding prowl about the lower rooms. Finally he stood at the bottom of the staircase, staring up into darkness, wondering if the nightly routine was finished, if he would prolong it with an interruption.

  Surprising, then, to hear quiet footsteps come up behind him. He knew before he turned that they belonged to her.

  So easily she reduced him to heat and ache. It appeared that she’d been prowling the house already dressed for bed, bundled tight in a long nightrail and wrapper, her hair loosely braided and pulled forward over her shoulder.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  “I was waiting for Aurelia to go to bed before I came to find you.” It sounded inane. He felt incredibly, quite strongly, the opposite.

  “It was a tiring day. She fell asleep early.” She ducked her head and fingered her robe. “Excuse my disarray, I finished up a letter and wanted to be sure it could be posted without delay.”

  “Would you step into the study? There are some things I’d like to say.”

  She hesitated, then lifted her chin. “Yes. I think perhaps it is a good idea.”

  Edmund took the time to light a lamp at his desk, but he didn’t take the seat behind it. Instead he settled into the one in front of the desk, where she’d sat not so long ago, and motioned for her to take its mate.

  She sat—and he leapt up again. So many things writhed inside him, looking for a way out. He had to keep in motion to contain them.

  “I trust your business concluded satisfactorily?”

  Her spine did not touch the back of the chair. “It concluded . . . unexpectedly.” A hollow laugh escaped her. “Although after the last weeks I’m sure I should just expect the unexpected.”

  Staring into her mobile face he asked the question he’d precisely meant not to ask. “Was your business with Vickers?”

  Shock loosened her starch and she slumped, just smallest bit. “What?”

  Her indignation gave him hope. “It’s just that I was unaware you had any other acquaintance in Town.”

  She drew herself straight. Her generous lips went tight. “There’s much you don’t know of me. More than I had thought if you believe I would run to James at the first bump—after the things he said? After finding what he did to Aurelia?”

  He should be ashamed, he supposed. Instead he just felt relief. Because she hadn’t gone to Vickers—and also, strangely, because he’d been so enervated, felt so strongly again—even if it was jealousy.

  She’d given that to him.

  She breathed deep and he wondered at the price he’d have to pay, but suddenly she exhaled and all of her ire melted away. “Although that would have been an emotional knee jerk of a response, would it not?” She sighed. “I suppose I cannot blame you for expecting me to react in such a way. I’ve done little else since we met.”

  “No, I apologize. I do not mean to criticize and I’ve no right to expect anything from you.” He softened. “It’s just that I do believe that you deserve so much. A Season, a husband, home and children of your own. Vickers won’t give you those things.” He failed to keep old bitterness from his tone. “He lies easily and makes promises lightly, and it is easy to make the mistake of believing in him. I’ve seen women do it.” He clenched his jaw. “I’ve done it myself.”

  “Have you?”

  He nodded. Crossed his arms and perched on the edge of the desk.

  Unblinking, she waited. After a moment she relaxed back into the chair. “I think that what I deserve is to hear the full story. And I think you need to tell it.”

  Alarm spiked. “I assure you, I do not.”

  She studied him.

  He could feel the stubborn set of his jaw, knew he must look mulish. He didn’t care. “It’s too racy for a lady’s ears.” And one of his most humiliating moments.

  “I can handle it.�
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  He shook his head.

  “Then I think perhaps we are finished.” She stood. “And that is perhaps the most unexpected development of all.” She gave him a small curtsy.

  He let her go. All the way through the door before desire and need won out over pride. “Fine, then.”

  She stopped, turned slowly and came back.

  He walked over and shut the door, wondering what the hell he was doing. But she should know the facts that colored the past as she faced the future. Even if it painted him a fool.

  She resumed her seat. “It was a woman, I suppose?”

  He nodded.

  “Was it serious?”

  “God, no.” He laughed. “Nothing was serious back then. Freddy, Vickers and I were young bucks on the Town for the first time, sharing bachelor’s rooms as we’d shared apartments at school. We got up to all the usual stupid tricks and I enjoyed myself, although I already told you, I did not enjoy the same success with Society ladies as the others did.”

  He cocked a smile at her. “Being young, male and of very little brain, I decided that if I was not going to get the polish I needed in the ton, then I would look for it in the demi-mondaine.”

  “Not very laudable, but still, you were hardly the first to embark in that direction.”

  “No. However, I felt the need to prove myself, so instead of just finding myself a kind, pretty girl from the ranks of the ladybirds, I decided I must have the prettiest, most sought-after of them.” He sighed. “Her name was Marquerite.”

  He should be ashamed for speaking of such things. She should be appalled to hear them, but she only grinned. “Made a spectacle of yourself, did you?”

  “A blazing spectacle,” he said grimly. “I pursued her with fervent passion, with flowers and champagne, with wine and song, with theater tickets and gifts. She led me on a merry chase and I enjoyed the hell out of it. Mostly because she was a brilliant strategist and let me a little closer every day.”

  “I’d wager the respect of your peers grew apace with her affection.”

  He brushed the hair from his brow. “There was a bit of back-clapping and hand-shaking when the rumor spread the fair Marquerite had at last decided to have me. Only Vickers wasn’t impressed. He did not enjoy my new notoriety. I thought he was merely waiting for the deed to be done before giving me credit.” He fell silent, lost to old memories.