Treasured Vows

by Cathy Maxwell

  Sir Cecil sank down into his chair behind his desk. “But grave robbers—real robbers, not men like us—had beaten him to the treasure. Can you imagine what Julius felt, Morgan? To have made so many sacrifices, only to discover the treasure gone, stolen?”

  “So he returned to England?” Grant asked.

  “He was preparing to return,” Sir Cecil said. “Our money was used up, finished. Then one of the agents he had worked with over the years came to him in the middle of the night. He’d discovered a French deserter dying of fever with a story Julius should hear. Julius hurried to the man’s deathbed.”

  Sir Cecil stared off into space as if he could see the scene between Sir Julius and the deserter. “The Frenchman was one of the men who had broken into the tomb. He and three other soldiers had come across the tomb by accident. They stole the treasure, deserted the army, and headed up the Nile, hoping to escape Napoleon’s long arm. The trip was a disaster. All of the men contracted fever, and three died of it. The last man, alone and frightened, hid the treasure and headed back to civilization. But he died in Julius’s arms.” He smiled disarmingly. “Of course, that was after he’d given Julius a rudimentary description of where the treasure was hidden.”

  “But Sir Julius had no more money for a search,” Grant said.

  “We were so close,” Sir Cecil answered, pinching his thumb and index finger together. “We couldn’t give up. Not at that point. It’s true, though, that we needed more money. The bank already had the Abbott emeralds and would sell them to pay his debt once it became known that he was penniless. I wasn’t much further away from dun territory myself.”

  “The Abbott emeralds were also the collateral my father used to secure a living for my mother and myself through the bank,” Miss Abbott explained to Grant. “They were our only means of support.”

  “Yes,” Sir Cecil agreed. The word hung in the air for a few seconds, and then he continued in a rush, as if he suddenly felt a need to make a clean breast of everything, “One night over a brandy bottle, we hatched the idea of replacing the real emeralds with paste copies. After all, no one really knew about them, since I had managed to keep this account relatively to myself.”

  Grant’s sense of foreboding grew stronger.

  “So,” Sir Cecil said, “I borrowed the real emeralds from the vault and sold them.”

  “Borrowed?” Grant choked on the word.

  “He does have a funny way of looking at thievery, doesn’t he?” Miss Abbott asked.

  Slamming his palm down on his desk, Sir Cecil rose and turned toward her. “I didn’t steal anything. We are going to pay it all back as soon as Julius returns. He wasn’t supposed to be gone this long. He was supposed to find that damned treasure and come home.”

  “How long has he been gone?” Grant asked.

  “Nine years,” Sir Cecil said.

  “Nine years!” The words shot out of Grant. “Have you lost all sense of reason? Do you realize what you’ve lost for some wild tale of a tomb full of treasure?”

  “I wouldn’t have lost a thing if she’d stayed where she was supposed to and not upset the scheme of things,” Sir Cecil returned heatedly, pointing his finger at Miss Abbott.

  “Stayed where I was?” She placed her hands on her hips. “I’d been in that boarding school for the last sixteen years, since the day after my mother died. And I’d still be rotting there if I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands.”

  “Who has been responsible for you since your mother’s death?” Grant asked.

  “The Bank of England is my official guardian,” she replied, seemingly angry that he didn’t know the answer.

  “We are?” Grant turned to Sir Cecil. “Isn’t that unusual?”

  Sir Cecil shrugged. “Julius and I didn’t know what else to do with her.”

  “Heaven forbid that my father should take responsibility for his only child,” Miss Abbott said.

  Sir Cecil defended his friend. “Well, you were fine.”

  “Fine?” she exclaimed. Sir Cecil backed up as she stalked him in her anger, her toe bells accentuating each step. “Do you know what it was like to be cloistered in that boarding school without benefit of friends or family? With nowhere to go on holidays? No one to turn to when I’d finished my studies and watched all of the other girls leave to go out in the world? I had to stay behind. To wait for my father and the Bank of England. Thankfully, someone introduced me to Mary Wollstonecraft and her ideas on women’s independence, or I’d still be back at Miss Agatha’s in my serge uniform—waiting.”

  “And we wouldn’t be in this bloody mess, either!” Sir Cecil shot back, finally standing his ground. His hands shook with anger as he reached down to scoop up a handful of papers from his desk. “Do you know what these are, Morgan? Bills. Bills she’s run up since she checked herself out of that boarding school six months ago and set up her own establishment without so much as a by-your-leave. Even hired her own companion—”

  “I had to have a proper chaperone—something you never spent a moment worrying about,” Miss Abbott said.

  Sir Cecil ignored her, caught up in his tirade. “She’s been holding ‘salons’ for starving pamphleteers and poets. Paying a hundred and fifty pounds a night to feed them strawberries and champagne.”

  “It’s important for the reputation of my salons that I serve the very best—”

  “And do you know what they discuss, Grant? Atheism!”

  “I’ve explained to you before, Sir Cecil,” she said, “that it is not atheism to discuss modern theology.”

  Sir Cecil looked down his nose at her and frowned. “Are you a vicar?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you have no business discussing such matters out of church!” he declared. He turned to Grant. “And they go on and on about the Enlightenment and silly nonsense such as letting women own property and having a voice in government!”

  Miss Abbott bit each word off as she said, “Those ideas aren’t silly—”

  “In short, this woman runs through money she doesn’t have the way a thirsty man gulps water, and she spends it on radicals and insurrectionists!” Sir Cecil let the bills fall through his fingers and onto the desk for emphasis.

  “Money I don’t have?” Miss Abbott clenched her fists as if she’d have liked to box his ears. Her body practically quivered with anger. “Oh, that is a rich one, Sir Cecil. I had money secured with the Abbott emeralds until you decided to steal my inheritance.”

  “I didn’t steal anything. Your father made that decision.”

  “Or so you say!”

  Sir Cecil’s eyes opened so wide they looked as though they would pop out of his head. “No one has ever questioned my integrity—”

  “Ha!”

  Grant stepped between them. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. You’re both on your way to debtor’s prison once the auditors discover the jewels are paste.”

  “And they will,” Sir Cecil said to Miss Abbott, leaning around Grant to throw one last accusation at her head, “since you have alerted them by over-spending your accounts.”

  Miss Abbott faced Grant, her expression bleak but her voice reasoned and sober. “It’s not my fault. I thought I had money. I didn’t expect my father to leave me penniless.”

  Grant admired her ability to face reality without hysterics, unlike others of her sex. She repudiated his assumption with her next words. “And when I see him, I shall ask him why.”

  “When you see him?” Grant repeated.

  “Yes. You see, while Sir Cecil has been hashing history, I think I have the solution to our problems.” She raised her head proudly. “I shall lead an expedition to search for my father.”

  Sir Cecil burst into laughter, practically doubling over and slapping his knees. “Don’t you think that if Julius was alive, he would have returned by now?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “If my father were dead, I would know it. Here.” She touched her heart. “We are of the same flesh, the same blood. I know he�
�s alive—and he may need our help.” She turned to Grant. “One of my reasons for coming to London was to mount an expedition to search for him. I used my salons as a way to meet people who could help me.” She ignored Sir Cecil’s snort of disbelief. “It is more important now than it was before for us to find him.”

  “How do you propose to pay for this?” Sir Cecil asked. “I haven’t got the blunt to pay for hack fare home, let alone such an expedition, and you don’t have enough to cover your rent.”

  “Surely the bank—,” she started.

  “Will have us both clapped in irons if they know about this,” Sir Cecil finished.

  Miss Abbott slowly closed her mouth, her brow furrowed in concern.

  Sir Cecil came around the desk to face him. “Morgan, you have to help me. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but a man can make a mistake, can’t he?”

  Only if it’s not discovered, Grant thought, shaking his head. He knew better than anyone the number of times Sir Cecil’s greed had exceeded his responsibleness. Except that maybe this time Sir Cecil might have taken that one step too far. For years he’d covered for Sir Cecil with his own funds and would do so again, because in spite of his bumbling, the man had the power to recommend Grant for a seat on the Bank’s Court of Directors and the one thing he worked for with every breath he took: a knighthood.

  Almost as if reading Grant’s thoughts, Sir Cecil said, “I understand that I have often asked a great deal of you, Grant. Some might even think that I was implicating you in this affair by confessing all to you.”

  Grant acknowledged that fact with his silence.

  Sir Cecil appeared to choose his next words carefully. “Perhaps it would help you to know that I have considered you almost as a son. In fact, I would favorably consider your suit if you were interested in my Miranda’s hand in marriage.”

  His words shocked Grant. He marry Lady Miranda, Sir Cecil’s only daughter? The seat on the Court of Directors would be his. This was his moment—his opportunity, his Rubicon.

  “Would you be interested in my daughter’s hand?”

  Sir Grant. He struggled to keep the excitement from his voice. “I’d be honored to marry your daughter.”

  Miss Abbott’s mocking voice destroyed the import of the moment. “And what will your daughter have to say about the matter? Perhaps she won’t appreciate being sacrificed to Mr. Morgan in exchange for your sins, sir.”

  “My Miranda knows her place in the world, Miss Abbott.” Sir Cecil practically growled the words out.

  “What place? The role of chattel? I don’t envy your daughter her place.”

  Sir Cecil looked as if he would have an apoplectic fit until Mrs. Shaunessy interrupted, “Phadra dear, not all women are as independent as you care to be. Mr. Morgan is an unusually fine-looking man. Lady Miranda could do worse.”

  In response Miss Abbott cocked her head and gave him a slow perusal, as if questioning Mrs. Shaunessy’s judgment. For the second time in their interview, he felt his face grow warm. Nor did he appreciate the laughter dancing in Miss Abbott’s eyes.

  The woman was bold. Damned bold.

  “Are you finished?” he asked. “Or shall I turn around?”

  She laughed, completely unaffected by his rudeness. “Perhaps I should ask Sir Cecil to check your teeth.”

  Her words robbed him of speech, and that apparently pleased her. “I think I would value interesting conversation over looks,” she said lightly. “Not that it is my concern. I know nothing of your conversational abilities, Mr. Morgan, but I admit you are pleasing to look at. Quite extraordinary, actually.” She grinned up at him.

  That rebellious tilt of her chin irritated him. He forced a smile. “Do you think I lack wits, Miss Abbott?”

  Her eyes grew wide in feigned innocence. “Why, I’m waiting for a demonstration, Mr. Morgan. After all, Sir Cecil has hailed you as our savior—and his heir apparent. Save us. Please.”

  She was ridiculing him! Grant felt his temper stretch almost to the breaking point. Then, in the span of a moment, the solution to their problems—and a fitting turn of the tables on Miss Abbott—became blindingly clear. She was a challenging opponent, but he held the winning card.

  “Sir Cecil, is the bank still Miss Abbott’s guardian?” he asked.

  Sir Cecil took a moment to ponder the question. “I’m not certain. Julius had the papers drawn up to state that we are her legal guardians until she turns five and twenty.”

  “And have you reached your majority yet, Miss Abbott?” Grant asked.

  Uncertainty replaced the laughter in her eyes. “I don’t reach my majority for another seven months,” she answered stiffly.

  Grant smiled, enjoying himself now. “Then I have the perfect solution. One that should see both you and Sir Cecil free and clear.”

  “And that is?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Marriage,” he answered succinctly.

  She clearly didn’t understand. Her expression turned slightly bored. “Yours, Mr. Morgan?”

  He smiled, savoring the moment. “No, Miss Abbott, yours.”

  Chapter 2

  “Have you lost your senses?” Lady Evans asked her husband, her strident voice carrying through the heavy paneled door at Evans House. Furious at being forced to accept the Evanses’ charity while they sponsored her on the marriage mart, Phadra shifted uncomfortably in her straight-backed chair. A portmanteau with a few necessities sat at her feet.

  After the discussion at the bank, Sir Cecil had taken her and Henny back to her beloved townhouse, where they’d gathered a few articles of clothing. Sir Cecil hadn’t given them time to linger but had hurried them to Evans House.

  Now she and Henny sat in the hallway as if they were shopkeepers and not guests in this home. They’d been relegated there by the imperious Lady Evans after Sir Cecil had introduced her and Henny. Lady Evans had taken one look down her nose at her houseguests and announced, “I must talk to Sir Cecil. Alone.”

  Henny had sat down with uncharacteristic docility, but Phadra had stood, angry and humiliated by the woman’s rudeness. Her proud show of defiance didn’t stop Lady Evans from shutting the door in her face.

  Eventually she had no choice but to sit—and listen to Sir Cecil plead his case.

  What a pathetic man.

  Lady Evans heaved a loud sigh. Phadra could imagine her massive bosom heaving with long-suffering righteousness while the salt-and-pepper hair piled regally on top of her head shook to mirror her disappointment. “Once again you’ve let your over-generous heart get in the way of good common sense. Look at the woman! She’s well past a marriageable age. We’d practically have to buy her a husband.”

  Phadra’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, and she slid a glance at the footman awaiting his master’s summons at his post by the paneled door to see if he’d heard his mistress. He maintained his stoic countenance while Henny snored lightly next to her. Dear Henny. She could fall asleep anywhere, anytime. Phadra reached over and tucked the folds of her Indian silk shawl around the kind woman, who served as her only confidante and companion.

  Inside the room, Lady Evans was asking, as if struck by a new and important thought, “She’s not an heiress, is she?”

  “Well, no—”

  “I thought not! And I assume that she has no family, or else they’d see to her come out?”

  “Yes, yes. As a matter of fact, she does have family. She has a father. You do remember my good friend Julius?”

  “Sir Julius! That rapscallion? This is his daughter? Now I understand why she’s so odd. Were my eyes deceiving me, or is she wearing sandals in the middle of the afternoon? And Miss Abbott’s companion. Can you believe the red of that woman’s hair?”

  Phadra glared at the paneled door and laid the blame for Lady Evans’s rudeness squarely on the head of Grant Morgan. If it hadn’t been for him and his highhanded ways, she would not be sitting here right at this moment. She squeezed her hands tightly in her lap…wishing she held his neck
between them.

  Lady Evans continued, caught up in her tirade, “Furthermore, what of your own daughter?”

  “Actually, Beatrice, that is the beauty—”

  “Are you so lost to sensibility that you would have me sponsor another chit on the marriage mart when your own daughter hasn’t taken? Although I would never say such a thing to our precious Miranda.”

  “I’ve found a match for Miranda. One I’m sure will please you.”

  “You have?” she asked, her voice alive with surprise. “Whom?”

  “Grant Morgan.”

  “Grant Morgan? Grant Morgan.” Lady Evans tested the name as if it was unfamiliar to her. “Do we know a Grant Morgan?”

  Phadra smiled. She’d love for the haughty Mr. Morgan to hear Lady Evans’s total lack of recognition at the sound of his name.

  “From the bank,” Sir Cecil said. “He’s been to our home several times. Good-looking lad. Smart one.”

  Lady Evans must have finally recognized the name, for she said in a horrified tone, “Not Jason Morgan’s son!”

  “Beatrice—”

  “You’ve gone mad!” Her voice went up an octave. “How can you expect me to turn my precious Miranda over to Jason Morgan, the Lord of Love?”

  “Jason Morgan is dead, Beatrice.”

  “The sins of the father rest upon the head of the child,” she declared. “The man wasn’t good ton. Oh, he was a handsome one, I’ll grant you that. He was killed in a duel, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, I believe—”

  “And left no fortune. He’d gambled it all away. Everyone knows that.”

  “Grant has restored—”

  “And this is the family you want our one and only daughter to marry into?”

  “Grant is nothing like his father,” Sir Cecil protested. “I mean, he looks very much like Jason, but that is where all similarity ends.”

  “He has bad blood in him,” his wife hissed.

  “Drat it all, Beatrice. Listen to me! In the eight years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen the lad let spirits cross his lips—not even ale. Furthermore, he’s seen to the marriages of his three sisters to good, honorable men and managed to put together a modest fortune. When I think about it, we need his investment acumen in the family.”