by Sara Portman
Emma lifted their joined hands to hold his to her cheek.
“But if you must take ownership of your own choice, Miss Betancourt, then so must he claim responsibility for his.”
Lucy straightened her shoulders. “Then we shall bear joint culpability, Your Grace, but if I am in a position to repair the damage, I should like to do so.”
“Bu you said the cost to Mr. Brantwood was the loss of Ashby’s investment,” Emma pointed out. “How could you be in a position to change his mind?”
Lucy exhaled. “I cannot persuade Lord Ashby, but I could find another investor.” She looked to the duke.
He pressed his lips into a grim line before he answered. “I believe we have already established Mr. Brantwood’s unwillingness to accept charity from me.”
“This would be an investment,” she reasoned, but even as she argued, she knew the duke was correct. Bex would view it as charity. She bit her lip and considered. “What if it were not only you?” she asked. “What if you were one of a pool of investors?” Bex had invested that way, hadn’t he? He certainly didn’t consider that charity.
The duke stepped forward to lay a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “Your affection for my cousin is very clear, Miss Betancourt, and I do admire your determination to come to his aid.” He sighed before continuing. “But given the fresh scandal, even I would be hard pressed to persuade many gentlemen to consider an investment with Mr. Brantwood at the present. I am sorry, but Mr. Brantwood may need to puzzle out a solution to his own financial affairs.”
Lucy’s head and heart fell. If even a duke could not assemble a group of investors…
She lifted her eyes to the duke. “What if someone else could?” she asked. “Could assist me in assembling a group of investors?”
The duke looked dubious.
“But who else could that be?” Emma asked.
A smile broke—her first of the day. “I believe I know just such a man.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bex sat at a table in the corner and sipped scotch. He had been there every night for a week. He had come to the only place from which he was reasonably certain he would not be thrown out.
Of course, it would not be long before Gibbs knew all the sordid details and concluded there would be no forthcoming payments from the duke on Bex’s behalf. Perhaps then he would be turned out.
If Lucy were there, she would tell him he should have some plan for that eventuality, but she was not with him. She would never be with him. He could not imagine a scenario in which he would likely ever be in the same room as Saint Lucy of Beadwell again.
Besides, he did have a plan. Eventually, he would return to the townhouse and collect his things.
There. He lifted the glass to his lips again. He had a plan.
A shout rose from the hazard table. He glanced idly in that direction, but couldn’t muster the curiosity to go see what the fuss was about. To be honest, it was best he did not. He was just angry enough that if some fool managed to bump into him, he would punch said fool in the mouth. Since the hell was crowded, he was safer in his chair.
There was a murmur of activity at the entrance, so he allowed his attention to wander listlessly in that direction instead.
And regretted it.
Damn.
He shook his head, certain either his drink or his melancholy was playing tricks with his eyes.
He looked again. They were not.
He rose, slamming his glass to the table as he did.
She was there. She had walked into the Birdcage in that flame of a dress—his dress—on the arm of Archibald Gibbs. What the hell was she doing there? What the hell was she thinking to be anywhere in that dress?
He had covered half the distance between them before he even realized he was charging at her, but he did not slow. He wanted to level every single man he passed—every man who gaped at her—but it would only slow him down, so he did not.
He knew the moment she saw him. Her eyes grew wide.
“Bex.”
He was not close enough to hear his name on her lips, but he saw it there. Then he was close enough, and he grabbed her arm from Gibbs. “What in hell are you doing here?” he barked at her. Didn’t she realize how foolish and dangerous it was for her there?
Her arm twisted in his grasp. “Bex, you’re hurting me.”
He relaxed the strength of his grip but did not let go. He turned to Gibbs. “What is this about? Did you do this?”
Gibbs surveyed the attention they were garnering. “Perhaps we should have this discussion in the back.”
Bex agreed. He wanted Lucy out of that room. He hated that she was there. He hated that she was in that dress. It meant only one thing, and it was a thing he could not even contemplate without pouring his rage onto everything, human or inanimate, that crossed his path. “Lead the way,” he commanded to Gibbs.
Their walk through the hell felt like a damned parade—a Lucy parade in which every ass in London felt entitled to ogle her. He glowered at all of them, rushing her through the crowd to the door Gibbs held open for them. He shut the door behind them, then left through a different one, at the side of the room, leaving them alone.
Leaving him alone with Lucy.
Bex knew his anger was too high. He gave himself a count of ten before he spoke, but it still came through gritted teeth. “No,” he told her. “You will not do this. I forbid it.”
Lucy stared at him. “You forbid it? Do you know why I’m here?”
“Of course I know why you’re here,” he spat. “Why else would you be here dressed like that?” He shook his head, tried to shake the anger out of it, and looked at her, pleading. “You don’t have to do it, Lucy. This is not your only option. One transgression does not define who you are.” Didn’t she know that? How could she not? Whatever had possessed her to make such an extreme choice? Had the duke and duchess turned her out?
Lucy eyes grew startlingly large. “Define who I am?” She released an incredulous huff. “You think because I…with you…that I am here to…” Her voice fell to a scandalized whisper. “You think I am here to find a protector, to become someone’s mistress? You think because I can no longer be a governess, I have decided to become a paramour?” Betrayal mingled with disgust on her features.
“What am I to believe? Why else would you be here? What the devil are you doing in that dress?”
She crossed her arms in front of her and turned, presenting him a profile of her hardened jaw. “I will wear whatever dress I please and go wherever I choose.”
He worked to quiet his temper so that she would hear his words. He began again, more softly. “You do not have to do this. Just because my father has set out to destroy your reputation, there is no need for you to aid his cause. If the duke has turned you out…”
“No one has turned me out.” She turned then. Her head was high and her voice was steady when she responded. “I may be guilty of ill-advised indiscretion, but I have no intention of turning such behavior into my livelihood.” Her eyes bore into him, her ashen face a painting of so much quiet dignity and devastation. “I may have lost the good opinion of polite society, but it does not necessarily follow that I have lost my own sense of self-worth. Whatever line I have crossed in the view of others, I will continue to answer to my own conscience and my own sense of decency.”
Bex felt a flash of guilt. Though she had not said it, the accusation was present between them. She may not have considered falling to such a fate, but he had believed her capable of it.
“Then why are you here?” he asked.
“It is not to barter myself, I assure you,” she said softly.
“Then why are you in that dress?” Seeing her in it—displaying it publicly, to other men—it was too much of a betrayal for Bex to bear.
“Because it is a fitting costume for what I have come here to do
.”
“Which is what?” he demanded. She was daft if she thought he was going to send her back out into that den of iniquity dressed as she was.
“Play music, for a start.”
“For a start?” he asked. “What else have you arranged with Gibbs?”
She cast him a speaking glance. “Mr. Gibbs is only interested in my musical talents. My other business is with Mr. Thistlewaite.”
“Who the devil is Mr. Thistlewaite?”
“The Mathematician,” she stated simply, her expression ripe with censure for his failure to know the man’s true name.
“Why do you require the Mathematician’s talents?”
She exhaled in a huff and glared up at him, placing one clenched fist upon each side of her waist. Her head tilted, taunting, to one side before she answered. “Presently, I am not entirely certain. I may have changed my mind.”
“Good,” he declared. “I’ll send for your cloak and we can remove you from this place.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Ridiculous. He was getting nowhere with her. He strode to the door, yanked it open, and hollered to the first staff person who happened by. “Bring me the Mathematician.”
“I’m not leaving,” she repeated quietly.
Bex walked to where she stood, her tiny frame rigid with red-draped resolve. “Whatever your intentions are, you know precisely what others will assume when you appear here.” He shook his head. “What do you think to accomplish? Why do this?”
Lucy looked up at him with round blue pools of sorrowful resignation. Her voice was soft, timid even, when she spoke. “Why? I suppose because the end seemed to justify the means. Now if you will excuse me, I have an obligation to fulfill.”
She walked away.
He couldn’t stop her. He wanted to stop her. If she had looked up at him with anything other than that haunting look of devastated betrayal, he would have dragged her out of this place, declared his intention to marry her, and happily lived out the rest of their days, starving and dressed in rags. Society could be damned. They could be disgraced and destitute for all he cared, so long as he could have her. He should have made the decision days ago. He should have protected her from all of this, and from his own jealousy-driven judgments. He should have done so when she still looked up at him with longing gazes and sweet admiration. But he had failed her. The way she had looked at him today proved he had closed any door to her heart that had once been open.
So he couldn’t stop her. He watched her progress across the crowded room filled with people unworthy to touch her—unworthy to even look upon her. With her head held high and with the unhurried pace of the perfectly dignified, she crossed the room. Her pale hair caught what light the room possessed and shone unnaturally above the deep scarlet of the gown that draped her form and trailed in her wake. A silver angel engulfed in the flame of sin.
She reached the far side of the room and slowly lowered herself, spine rigid, onto the painted bench before the pianoforte. Her face was placid, her sea-blue eyes intent and focused as she arranged her sheet music and ran delicate fingers across the instrument’s bone-white keys. Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath, and she turned. She faced the room, with the full attention of its occupants, and bestowed upon them all a smile so blindingly brilliant he wanted to possess it for himself alone.
They applauded her. She hadn’t played yet, but they applauded her beauty, the promise of the performance to come, the grace of her presence.
She nodded in acknowledgment of this warm welcome into the world for which she was too good, too pure to belong; then she turned back to the instrument, bowed her head, and began to play.
She was magnificent. The music was beautiful. It rose above the din like a hymn over Babylon.
She was a perfect fallen angel.
He was a perfect ass.
He had brought her to the fall, and not only abandoned her there, but judged her in her lowest moment.
Bex felt very much his father’s son. He hated both men in that moment.
“You sent for me, sir.”
The voice pulled Bex from the trance through which he watched her, and he pivoted. The Mathematician stood tall and ghostly in the doorway.
Bex beckoned him forward. “I understand you have made an arrangement with Miss Betancourt,” he said when the man was close enough to hear him despite the low tone in which he spoke.
No reaction registered on the man’s face. “Mr. Gibbs has struck an arrangement with Miss Betancourt. I will be aiding Miss Betancourt in my capacity as an employee of Mr. Gibbs.”
“It is the same damn thing,” Bex bit out, possessing no patience for meaningless details.
“I prefer precision in all things, Mr. Brantwood.”
“Understood, Mr.…Thistlewaite. What is the nature of the aid you will be providing to Miss Betancourt?”
“Miss Betancourt has asked that I assist her in evaluating figures and drafting documents of agreement, sir.”
Bex waited. When no further explanation was forthcoming, he asked, “Figures and documents pertaining to what?”
“Investors, sir. Miss Betancourt wishes me to assist in forming a consortium of sorts.”
“For?” Bex prompted.
The man gazed questioningly at Bex as though deciding how much he would divulge, but eventually replied, “To fund a business venture, sir.”
“What business venture is that?” Bex peppered back.
“Whatever you decide, Mr. Brantwood.”
Bex stared at him. Was the man confused? “Whatever I decide? What the devil does that mean? What did she tell you…precisely?”
The Mathematician gave a satisfied nod as though, finally, Bex had posed the correct question that would allow him to elucidate. “Miss Betancourt explained in great detail to Mr. Gibbs and myself her fervent belief that you would have no great success continuing to gamble on the business plans of others, but rather that you have acquired sufficient understanding and perspective such that others should invest in a venture of your own oversight.” He paused, considering, then continued. “I believe her exact words were that you understood the necessary ingredients and should be allowed to concoct your own recipe, sir.”
“My own recipe?”
“Indeed.”
For him? Bex reeled. Was Lucy truly here pursuing some sort of project for his benefit?
“I am to draw up documents that confirm the value of your expertise and oversight, thus granting you with an equal share of profits until investors have been repaid with interest, after which you will retain full ownership of the business enterprise.”
The end seemed to justify the means.
He was stunned at the depth of Lucy’s faith in him. And terrified by it. “Just who is supposed to be finding these investors?”
“She is, sir.”
“How would she do that?”
The Mathematician glanced toward the source of the music. “I believe she currently has the attention of several, sir.”
“Does she really believe she could secure investors? That they would be convinced by a woman—a woman who could offer no details of what would be done with the money?”
“She has already secured two investors.”
“Two investors?”
“His Grace, the Duke of Worley, and the Comtesse de Beauchene.”
Oh, God. Bex thought his heart had already fallen to the lowest reachable depth, but he had been wrong. It plummeted even further. They had all placed their faith in him. Lucy had sacrificed the last shreds of her reputation for him.
He had no ideas in which to invest, no theories or notions to be implemented. Had she not understood? He was a man with no purpose. Their funds and their faith were wasted on him.
He could do it—he could grasp at the money and use it for a time, but to what end
? Only betrayal. These people had come into his life determined to like him. After all he had done, they had chosen to extend their support instead of their blame. They were the last people in his life willing to stand by him even when he didn’t deserve it.
He would not take their money.
He would not take their money when all he could offer in exchange were false promises and failure.
He stood quietly and listened to the sound of the piano music, intermittent notes finding their way to his ears despite the number and strength of competing noises. He stepped to the doorway and watched her. She was intent upon her performance, deep in concentrating and unaware of the men drawing ever nearer, like a pack of circling wolves.
Birdcage, indeed.
Bex left the gaming hell without a word to Lucy. He could not fathom what drove her belief in him and he knew without a doubt he did not deserve it.
* * * *
“What do you mean, he declined the money?”
Lucy stood in the back room of the Birdcage and stared at the Mathematician, her mind unable to process this revelation, though her heart understood. The weight of disappointment—disillusionment—had already settled around her shoulders. She had worked so hard to be convincing. She had spoken with so many men. Two had even pinched her backside, but at least they had contributed. After all she had done, he declined?
“Precisely that, Miss Betancourt. I am to communicate that he appreciates your efforts on his behalf, but he declines to accept the contributed funds and kindly requests that they be returned to the contributors.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“But…why?” The decision made no sense. The funds were precisely what he needed to put all he had learned to use.
“He did not elaborate, miss.”
Pride. What other reason could there be? He was too proud to accept charity. Only this was not charity. This was investment—a demonstration of faith in his abilities. And she was his friend. She was—or had been—his lover.
