by Liz Carlyle
“My cousins—?” said Isabella, sinking into a chair. “Why, I hardly knew I had any. What can they possibly want with me?”
Mr. Colfax’s expression darkened. “Mrs. Aldridge, we have been corresponding with you since your grandfather’s death in an attempt to settle this business.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Colfax, but I never heard your name until today,” said Isabella, her voice rising. “There is no need to become impatient with me, whatever your business.”
Mr. Colfax looked suitably chastised, and he exchanged apologetic looks with Jervis.
“Do sit down, everyone,” said Hepplewood charitably. “I think you can now see, Colfax, that everything Mr. Jervis has told you about Mrs. Aldridge is quite true.”
“What is true?” interjected Isabella irritably. “I only met Mr. Jervis once in my life—at Loughford. I declare, this has been the most frightful day.”
“My apologies, ma’am.” Jervis hung his head.
“My dear, it is like this,” said Hepplewood gently. “I sent Jervis up to Liverpool to attempt to intercept—or at least discover the exact business of—Mr. Colfax. Colfax believes, you see, that he has been corresponding with you at Thornhill.”
“At Thornhill?” she echoed incredulously.
“Yes, he believes you’ve been living there all this time—indeed, he thinks you never left, because that is what Lady Meredith has led him to believe. I suspect that’s why, when your grandfather died, the portrait he bequeathed you was posted to Thornhill.”
Isabella turned her watchful gaze on Colfax, who had flushed faintly. “My father died nearly six years ago, sir,” she said, “leaving my sisters and me on our own. We live in Knightsbridge, over our bookshop. I can’t think why my aunt would suggest otherwise. On the other hand, I can’t think what your business might be with me.”
“Why, it is the terms of your grandfather’s will, ma’am,” he said stridently. “It must be settled. This lack of direction is beginning to make strategic investment decisions difficult for the Flynts. They simply wish to know if you are in, or if you are out?”
“In or out of what?” she blurted.
“The family business,” said Colfax. “Ma’am, do you not understand you own half the company?”
Isabella felt her eyes widen. “I . . . I beg your pardon?”
“But the cash is piling up,” continued Colfax, clearly grateful to finally have his audience, “and capital investments are direly needed. The Flynts have written and waited and written and waited, but you—well, someone—kept putting them off.”
“I know nothing of this.” Isabella sat very rigidly in her chair.
“Well, that is neither here nor there now,” said Colfax, waving an obviating hand. “Now I merely need to know if you wish to sell out. The Flynts are poised to buy out a steamship company that will limit the company’s liquidity. You need to choose a path, Mrs. Aldridge.”
“Anthony.” Her voice quavered a little, and she did not dare turn to look at him. “What is this man talking about? And how do you come to know about it, when I do not?”
Hepplewood considered Isabella’s question but a moment, then set his hands firmly on his thighs. It was time, he realized, that they had a very private conversation.
“Gentlemen, I must have some time alone with Mrs. Aldridge,” he said, rising. “We have important things to discuss.”
Colfax’s eyes widened. “But—But I have come all the way from Montre—”
“As I’m well aware, sir.” Hepplewood had already thrown up a staying hand. “But the Flynt family has fallen prey to a liar, and that is not Mrs. Aldridge’s problem. You should have sent one of your Liverpool associates down here years ago.”
“But how were we to know Lord Tafford had died? Or that Mrs. Aldridge had removed from Sussex? Or that someone would have the audacity to pretend to . . . well, to be her?”
Hepplewood simply shrugged. “In any case, Mrs. Aldridge now requires time to consult her own solicitors,” he insisted. “She cannot depend on you or Jervis to advise her—or even me, come to that. You’ve brought the financial records, I trust? And the Flynts’ offer?”
“Well, yes,” said Colfax.
“Leave them with Jervis, then, and Mrs. Aldridge will be in touch,” he said, herding both men out the study door. “Jervis, see Mr. Colfax up to Claridge’s and arrange a suite of rooms to be billed to me.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Just then, Fording approached. “Mr. Wells has taken his leave, sir,” he said. “He said he was late for tea, and his wife was expecting him. He leaves Mrs. Aldridge his kind regards.”
“Does he indeed?” grunted Hepplewood, glancing back at Isabella. “I daresay Jemma must have told him just how that devil kidnapped her off the street.”
Thinly, the butler smiled. “Yes, I gather the young lady likened it to being snatched up by a press gang,” he said. “Mr. Wells seemed unamused.”
“Sir?” Jervis dipped his head to catch his employer’s eyes. “Am I off, then?”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” But at the last instant, Hepplewood stepped out the door, too, and caught Jervis’s arm. “Wait, just what kind of money is Colfax talking about here?” he murmured. “Any idea?”
“Flynts’ has its fingers in timber—cutting, milling, and exporting—as well as banking and shipping,” said Jervis, arching one eyebrow warningly. “William Flynt sits on the board of the Bank of Montreal. The family has links to trading houses worldwide. Colfax values the entirety at two and a half million pounds. And having merely peeked at the financials, I’d say he’s hedging a bit.”
“Good Lord,” said Hepplewood. “They’re offering her over a million pounds?”
“Shocking, is it not?” Jervis murmured.
Shocking did not begin to describe it.
Hepplewood went back in and shut the door, his hands shaking a little.
“Anthony.” Isabella had risen from the sofa. “What on earth is going on? Kindly explain.”
Hepplewood drew a deep breath and urged her back down, seating himself beside her. “What is going on, my dear, is that you are a very wealthy woman,” he said, turning to face her. “It seems that after your mother’s marriage, your grandfather never changed his will.”
Isabella’s mouth fell open. “He never . . . what—?”
“Never changed his will,” Hepplewood repeated. “George Flynt died leaving his estate to be divided equally between his son and daughter, even though both had predeceased him. His son had two children, your Canadian cousins William and James. But his daughter had only one. You. Which leaves you owning half the Flynt empire, with William and James owning a quarter each.”
“An empire?” she repeated. “How did a Canadian wilderness become an empire? It’s preposterous. And why leave anything to me?”
“He was sentimental, perhaps?” Hepplewood shrugged. “Perhaps he simply couldn’t bring himself to cut your mother out. Or perhaps he just never got round to the paperwork. He left an old will on file with his former solicitor in Liverpool and never altered it. Jervis found it early on. And at the time that will was drawn, the estate was not likely worth what it is today.”
“And what is it worth today?”
Slowly, he exhaled. “A lot,” he finally said. “A quite shocking amount. Such a shocking amount that I should rather we had an expert run through the financials before I commit to giving you a number. If that is acceptable?”
“A quite shocking amount,” Isabella quietly murmured. “That is . . . impossible to fathom, really.”
“It is impossible for me to fathom,” he admitted, “even though I suspected the truth—or a part of it. But I did not quite expect the full extent of his estate.”
Isabella’s eyes were wide, and a little hopeful. “So . . . do you think perhaps I shan’t have to keep a bookshop after all?”
He gave a shaky laugh. “No, my dear, you definitely will not,” he said. “Of that much I can assure you. And you won’t need t
o fear Everett ever again.”
“Will I not?” she said, lifting a mystified gaze to him. “This is all so very strange. Anthony, how could I not have known any of it?”
He took both her hands in his. “Isabella, is it possible your father did know?” he asked. “And that perhaps he did not tell you for . . . I don’t know—for fear of losing you? Or out of some sort of resentment of your grandfather?”
She shook her head. “He wasn’t like that,” she said, “though my mother . . . yes, she may have known. Or suspected. But Grandfather was a hurtful subject for Papa, so she never spoke of him. And, as you say, the business was probably worth less at that time.”
“Then could your mother at some point have confided your grandfather’s plan to Lady Meredith?” he pressed. “Is such a thing possible?”
Isabella’s gaze grew distant. “I can’t imagine why,” she said. “Of course, when Lady Meredith was still married to Father’s younger brother, they often visited. She and Mamma were friendly, after a fashion, but never were they close.”
“Your grandfather wrote occasionally, you said,” he mused. “Perhaps Lady Meredith read a letter that was not intended for her eyes?”
Isabella’s eyes rounded. “Anthony, that’s just the sort of thing she would have done!” she whispered. “In fact, after Mamma died so suddenly, it was she who came to pack up Mamma’s things. Papa was so devastated that he could not leave his bed.”
“Well, we shall likely never know the whole of it,” Hepplewood muttered. “Lady Meredith won’t confess. But she has certainly been pretending to be you, and putting Colfax and the Flynts off in her letters. She’s likely been trying to coax from them the precise value of the company while ordering Everett to press you into marriage.”
“But eventually the Flynts would not be put off.” Isabella’s voice rose. “That’s what’s been driving Everett’s increasing desperation, isn’t it? Why he took such an insane risk today? Lady Meredith knew Colfax was coming—and that he would expect to find me at Thornhill—perhaps married to Everett. Dear God. Is that why you took us all to Greenwood?”
“In part.” He flashed a grim smile. “Brooks told you, I suppose, that Tafford had a special license in his pocket today?”
She shook her head. “I have not seen Brooks,” she said, mystified. “I was so uneasy I decided to walk here from Whitehall. But I would not have married Everett. Anthony, I would not. I would have been afraid for the girls, but I would have trusted you to take care of them. To get them back for me.”
For some moments, he simply sat beside her on a narrow sofa, holding her hands in his and drawing in her comfortingly familiar scent. His mind kept turning back to the last time he had made love to her; of the ache he’d felt wrenching at his heart after leaving her bed.
He was tired of leaving her bed. Tired of leaving her.
Tired of his worn and empty life.
But Isabella’s life—her rich, new life, full of choice and promise—was just beginning.
He drew a deep breath and smiled into her eyes. “Well, you do not really need me now, Isabella,” he said, giving her hands a reassuring squeeze. “Not to keep the girls safe; not with the sort of money you’ll have.”
“W-what do you mean?”
“You can give Jemma and Georgie the world, my dear,” he said, “and hire enough solicitors to drag Everett into court and keep him there for the rest of his natural life. But he won’t bother now, because he knows the Flynt fortune will never be his. His only hope was to keep you poor and beaten down. To get you to marry him before you learned the truth.”
Suddenly, she shivered. “Dear God, Anthony,” she said. “I owe you . . . everything.”
He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to it. “You owe me nothing, my love.”
“Oh, I do, but I can still hardly make sense of this,” she said. “Indeed, I won’t believe it until . . . well, I don’t know what would persuade me, honestly. But all I can think of is that I am so grateful it was just the money, Anthony.”
He frowned, puzzled. “I’m afraid, my love, that I do not follow.”
“I’m relieved it was because of the money that Everett wanted me,” she said. “It was just the money. It was not . . . something vile and unspeakable. It had nothing to do with Jemma or Georgie.”
He understood what went unsaid. “Oh, my poor girl,” he murmured, drawing her into his arms. “This has been one of the worst days of your life, I do not doubt. And now this strange twist of fate. Your head must be spinning.”
In his embrace, she shrugged wanly. “I don’t really care about the money,” she said, burying her face against the turn of his neck. “I care only that I am free of Everett, and that you are . . .”
“Yes?” he quietly encouraged.
She held perfectly still for a long moment. “What did you mean, Anthony, by what you said to Everett?”
“Oh, I’ve said a lot of things to Everett today,” he said grimly, “and I meant every damn word.”
Slowly, she pushed away from his chest, her hands set to the front of his silk waistcoat. “What did you mean,” she clarified, “when you said . . . that you w-would marry me?”
He held her gaze very steadily then, and carefully considered his words. “I meant just what I said; that I would marry you to keep you safe from him,” he whispered. “But more than that, I meant that I wanted to marry you. I meant that I love you. Madly. Passionately. My soul, I feel, is so thoroughly subsumed within yours, Isabella, that I cannot envision a life without you.”
“Oh,” she said quietly, her voice catching. “Oh, my. How utterly . . . romantic you sound, Anthony.”
He tipped her chin back up with one finger. “But you do not have to marry me, Isabella,” he said. “Now that we’ve found Colfax first, Everett will not be back to trouble you. That’s what I meant, my dear, when I said you no longer need me. You don’t need me to protect you from Everett. His game is up.”
“And what about . . . your game?” she murmured, dropping her gaze seductively. “Is it up?”
He drew her hard against him then and kissed her—kissed her for a very long time, with his tongue and his hands and his heart—even as he prayed he would do the right thing by her. He kissed her until she was breathless and her hair was tumbling down. Until she was pressing her breasts fully to his chest, practically crawling in his lap.
It was all he could do to maintain decency; to restrain himself from pushing her back onto the sofa and rutting like some beast. He had the most dreadful fear of losing her, but never would he lie to her.
When at last she broke the kiss, her eyes gone dark with desire, he set her a little away.
“I have never played games with you, Isabella,” he said hoarsely. “What burns between us—oh, love, it is no game. It is deadly serious. And it will never be over—never—marriage or no.”
“But d-do you wish to marry me?” she asked, her voice almost inaudible.
“More than anything,” he said fiercely. “I love you, Isabella. I cannot—no, I will not live without you. And I will never let another man have you. Yes, I want to make a life with you. A family with you. And yet I’m scared of it all the same.”
“And I love you,” she said quietly. “Moreover, I am not scared. Not in the way you mean. I will be fine bearing children; I know it with certainty. But I will not be fine without you. That, Anthony, is the thing that might destroy me.”
He cupped her face between his hands. “But again, my love, I need you to understand that you do not have to marry me,” he said more stridently. “I am yours. And you—God help you—you are mine. Mine. I would have throttled Everett with my bare hands before I’d have seen you go to him. Do you understand? As I would throttle any man who dared try to take you from me.”
She looked at him almost pleadingly. “Anthony, what are you saying?”
“That you are wealthy, Isabella, and safe. Safe from Everett. Safe from hardship and poverty. Safe from,
to a large extent, even the rumor mill, because wealth is society’s greatest insulator,” he added. “Moreover, my love, you do not have to . . . to run the awful risk that marriage brings.”
“The risk of childbed,” she said. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes,” he rasped. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“But, oh, Anthony, I want more than anything to have children,” she whispered. “Your children. Children to play with Lissie and Georgie and Jemma. But I want you more, even, than that.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I think I want you on any terms. However I must take you.”
He kissed her again, more gently now.
“Yes, that,” she said throatily, drawing away and letting her gaze fall to her lap. “I want you, and what you can give me. What only you can give me. Do you understand, Anthony?”
“All that,” he murmured, brushing his lips over her temple, “and children, too?”
“I am going to be wealthy,” she said. “Yes, then. I want it all. Is that not what wealthy people say? Lady Petershaw always did.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Then God help me,” he said. “Taking lessons from La Séductrice, are you?”
“Actually, I have been taking lessons—or at least advice—from her for some time now,” Isabella confessed.
He managed to laugh. “Actually, I had noticed,” he confessed. Then he considered what next to say. “Well,” he finally added, “I had better do this properly.”
Her gaze followed him to his wall safe, hidden within his bookshelf.
“What are you doing?” she asked as he piled the Encyclopædia Britannica on his desk.
He made her no answer but instead unlocked the safe behind the books and returned to the sofa.
“Isabella Glaston Aldridge,” he said, going down on one knee, “I humble myself before you. I am a bad man, and not worthy of your goodness or your beauty. But will you have me for better or for worse? Will you marry me and live out your days doing my wicked bidding, and bearing my children?”
“It sounds like such a bargain when you put it that way,” she said. “Yes, Anthony. I will marry you, with the understanding that sometimes—sometimes—the wicked bidding will be mine.”
