Treasured Vows

by Cathy Maxwell

  Reluctantly Grant lowered her hand to the seat. “We’ll talk tonight,” he promised before he jumped down from the carriage and helped her down. He pulled out his pocket watch and then gave a start of alarm. “Good heavens, it’s half past the hour. I have to change and get to the bank immediately for that meeting with Wakefield.” He started to escort her to the door, but Phadra waved him on. Without a backward glance he took the steps two at a time and went in the house, calling for Jem to fetch water almost before he was through the door. She entered at a slower pace. Wallace followed after he found a boy to hold the horses.

  An anxious Henny met her at the door. “Phadra darling, we have a terrible problem.”

  “A problem?”

  Henny pulled back a moment and stared hard at her. “Mercy, what happened to you? You look as though you were in a fight with a ratcatcher.” She covered her nose with her hand. “And you smell as though you lost.”

  “Ratcatcher. That’s a very good description of the man…and he lost,” Phadra said proudly with a touch of her husband’s dry humor.

  “And your bonnet. Where is it? Don’t tell me you have been running around the streets of London without a headdress!”

  “All right, then, I won’t.”

  “Phadra Abbott, what is going on here?”

  “It’s Morgan,” Phadra said proudly. “My name is Phadra Morgan.” She drew out the sounds of her new last name as if they were music.

  At that moment Grant ran down the stairs, still tying a clean neckcloth. Wallace appeared with another hat for him, not as fine as the destroyed one, but suitable.

  Grant took it from him, placed his hand on the door handle, and then stopped. He turned to Phadra and ran his gaze up from her sturdy leather boots, past her stained and torn dress, to the top of her disheveled hair—and he smiled, a smile so full of promise that she thought she’d melt from the heat of it. “Tonight,” he said. “We’ll talk tonight.” Then he was out the door.

  Phadra didn’t think she could move from the spot. She would stand rooted right there until he returned later in the day. Unfortunately, Henny had other plans.

  She stepped in front of Phadra and gained her attention by waving her hand in front of the younger woman’s face. “We have problems.”

  “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Read this,” Henny commanded, and handed her a letter addressed to Phadra. The seal was broken. When Phadra shot her a frown, Henny shrugged and said, “Who knew when or if you’d be back?” Before Phadra could read the note, Henny added, “It’s from Dame Cunnington. She’s holding a salon of her own, here, tonight.”

  “Here? Tonight?” Phadra repeated. Quickly she skimmed the note. Popov had always bragged about Phadra’s suppers, and so the dowager was inviting herself and her guests for dinner. The postscript stated that she preferred her champagne iced.

  She looked up at Henny, her eyes wide in alarm. “Dame Cunnington’s salons attract the leading figures of the art and political worlds. Henny, what are we going to do?”

  “Do about what?” came a clipped voice from behind her.

  Phadra whirled around to see two young women standing on the steps. Their looks were identical to the miniatures Grant kept of his sisters—except in the miniatures they were smiling.

  The one who appeared to be the elder stepped inside the door. She forced a smile, but her eyes remained suspicious. “I’m Anne Morgan Ballentine, Grant’s elder sister. And this is our youngest sister, Jane Morgan Edwards.” She appeared to catch a whiff of Phadra’s alley perfume and backed away in sudden surprise. Then, in a voice cold enough to ice Dame Cunnington’s champagne, she announced, “We’ve come to see what manner of woman our brother married in such haste.”

  Chapter 16

  The meeting with Wakefield, the War Office’s representative, went better than Grant had expected, although he doubted if Wakefield or even Sir Robert understood much of what was transpiring.

  No, what gave him cause for optimism was Lord Phipps, who accompanied Wakefield. The portly little lord demonstrated a keen mind for finance and understood the intricacies of the government’s financing of the war against Napoleon. He and Grant moved the meeting along to a satisfactory conclusion without their seniors being the wiser.

  After the meeting, Grant made a point of paying his respects to Phipps. The man actually blushed. “Thank you, Morgan.”

  “Now, if you men in government would negotiate an end to Boney’s embargo so British goods can start being traded again in foreign markets, I would bow down and kiss your feet.”

  “You mean that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. Good God, man, England is on the verge of bankruptcy, and that will destroy us faster than any fleet of warships.”

  Phipps’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “One of the problems is that we don’t have men in government who understand that fact. Parliament acts as if its members don’t believe revolution can happen in Britain.” He leaned closer to Grant. “We can’t fight two battles, one against Bonaparte and the other against the weavers and tradesmen. What we need is more men like you, who understand how strained the financial markets are right now.”

  “Are you suggesting that I consider working in the government?” Grant asked in surprise.

  “I’m suggesting the War Office, to be more specific.”

  “I’m flattered. However, my career lies with the bank.”

  “Are you so certain you couldn’t find a similarly rewarding career elsewhere? I could say a word to Perceval.”

  The idea of being a topic of discussion between Phipps and the prime minister was a shock. “My lord, I deeply appreciate your offer, but unfortunately my circumstances are not such that I can entertain a move of that sort. At least, not right now.”

  Phipps looked pensive for a moment before rocking back on his heels and confessing, “I admit that I do begrudge you that change in circumstances. I’d looked in favor on Miss Abbott. You’re a lucky man, Morgan. I wish she could have been mine, although I am not surprised you beat me out. How could a runt like me hope to compete with a gentleman such as yourself?”

  “But you are a lord. You have a title.”

  “And I’m short and rather unhandsome,” Phipps said morosely. “A title doesn’t make a man.”

  “Nor do looks.”

  “Oh? It was a love match, then?” Phipps asked, his expression rather hopeful.

  Grant almost answered bitterly, “No, a lust match,” but wisely kept his own counsel. However, on the ride back to the bank, he realized that Phadra was rarely far from his thoughts. Nor were all the images that played through his mind erotic ones.

  Instead he remembered clearly the sight of her standing up to Mad Bob in defense of that poor country girl. He was sure that his petite wife would be no less passionate in her defense of one of their own children. The idea of Phadra as a mother filled him with such a warm sense of pleasure and pride, Dumbarton asked him why he was smiling.

  Nonplussed to be caught daydreaming, Grant mumbled something unintelligible, excused himself, and returned to his office, where his mind quickly drifted from the ledger sheets spread before him. Yes, Phadra would be a good mother—provided he could tame some of her more flamboyant ideas. The thought of taming Phadra brought him back to those hazy erotic images that had teased his mind ever since he had woken with his body intertwined with hers in the inn.

  Those same images teased him now as the hours of the day dragged by until he thought he might go mad. He had no doubt that Phadra’s appetites were as strong as his own—and he had very strong appetites, especially after having held them at bay for so many long years. At one point during the day, he actually entertained the notion of leaving work and going home then and there to bed his wife so he could think rationally again.

  But he didn’t.

  His father, a man eager for immediate gratification, would have done it in a trice, but Grant was different from his father. He was a man, not a rutting stag. He
was in control of his desires. He could wait until his responsibilities had been discharged before he rushed off in search of his own gratification.

  And he would be gratified. He’d seen how quickly the flame of desire had been sparked in Phadra’s large sapphire eyes when he kissed the tips of her delicate fingers in the carriage that morning. Just the thought of those fingers and what he’d like to teach them to do made him—

  “Morgan!”

  Sir Cecil’s bellow brought him to his senses. He looked up from his desk to see the banker standing before him.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Grant forced a smile. “Did you say something?”

  “I’ve been trying to gain your attention for the past five minutes! Good God, where is your mind?”

  That was a question Grant wasn’t about to answer. Embarrassed, he pushed aside the papers that had been sitting untouched on his desk and tried to change the subject. “What may I do for you?”

  Sir Cecil dropped a stack of papers at least six inches thick on the desk. “I need you to look over this for me,” he said. “Draft a statement for me to deliver to the House of Lords on the morrow.”

  Grant stood and placed his hands on his desk. “But it’s already half past five.” He riffled the top few pages. “And this concerns the effect of higher interest charges on the weaving industry! Sir Cecil, it’ll take me hours to form some sort of opinion based on this report.”

  “Then you’d better get started.”

  Grant leaned across the desk. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you get started and, for once, form your own opinions?”

  For a long second Sir Cecil stared at Grant as if he could scarcely believe his ears. Then he shut the door quietly to ensure their privacy and said, “Perhaps you’d be wise, Morgan, to remember what exists between the two of us.”

  Grant straightened. “There is no longer anything between the two of us. I’ve paid Phadra’s debt.” He paused before adding, “And your debt also.”

  Sir Cecil grinned smugly. “That was good of you. I hope it didn’t set you back too much. However, you still need my goodwill, Morgan. Oh, I know you believe we are quits, but you’re wrong.” He clasped his hands in front of him, evidently waiting for Grant to ask why.

  Grant didn’t want to ask the question, but as the long moments stretched between them with his lordship grinning like a cat, he couldn’t stop himself. “Why do I need you?”

  Sir Cecil laughed triumphantly. When he had his title, Grant vowed, no one would force him into this nonsense again.

  As if sensing his anger, Sir Cecil abruptly erased the smile from his face and said, “It’s Dumbarton. He doesn’t hold with dueling. I see nothing wrong with it myself. After all, gentlemen have to have a way to settle their differences, and—”

  “Dumbarton doesn’t approve of dueling?”

  “The man’s a bit of a Puritan, you know. He follows a rigid code of rules and expects his bank officers to do the same…but then I don’t have to tell you that, do I? He’s always admired you, truly he has. However, after hearing about the duel and the admittedly havey-cavey way in which you married Phadra…and then some nonsense going around about your cuddling a pregnant wench out in the middle of Piccadilly with your wife sitting on the other side of you—well, he finds it all quite confounding, and frankly, Morgan, so do I.” Sir Cecil’s expression turned to one of fatherly concern. “After all, I’d thought of you as a suitable husband for my Miranda. Of course, I’d always considered you more of a monk than a Bluebeard. This new pattern is somewhat a concern—especially since we’d considered you a valued member of the bank.”

  “Had considered me?”

  Sir Cecil looked out at him from under bushy eyebrows drawn together in stern contemplation. “Nothing like that. Not yet, at least. I managed to assure Dumbarton that you are still the stalwart young man that we have always had so much confidence in. Of course, a banker’s reputation is very important. It would be unfortunate for you and your ambitions if at some point I found myself unable to give you such a strong recommendation. Dumbarton and I were at Eton together, you know.”

  So. There it was.

  Grant struggled with his pride, looking not at Sir Cecil but at the reports and their tightly written script. The words tasted bitter in his mouth when he finally said, “I’ll draft the statement and have it sent to your house this evening.”

  Sir Cecil clapped his hands together in satisfaction. “I knew I could count on you, Morgan. If it is any help, I’ll have my secretary stay and run it over to me when you’re done.”

  Grant tightened his jaw muscles, biting back the sharp retort.

  His lordship appeared to take his silence as acquiescence. “Well,” he said brightly, “I must be off. I dine with Sir Robert and some of the others at Fitzgerald’s club.” With that, he left Grant’s office.

  “Enjoy yourself,” Grant muttered at the empty doorway.

  He sat down at his desk and scanned the top sheets of the report. Actually, if he hadn’t been so anxious to get home to his wife, he would have welcomed this opportunity to have his opinions presented in the House of Lords. Not that he thought Sir Cecil would add any eloquence to his words. If things had been different and money hadn’t been so tight, he might have considered taking Phipps up on his offer of a position in government.

  But then, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, Grant thought wryly. With a sigh he began reading the report on the hosiery and lace industry around Nottingham, silently admitting to himself for the first time that he was secretly pleased he wasn’t Sir Cecil’s son-in-law. He tried not to think of his warm, willing wife waiting for him at home.

  By the time Grant made his way home, the lamp-lighter had preceded him on his rounds. He was surprised to see in the dim, foggy lamplight a line of vehicles up and down his normally quiet street.

  Someone must be having a party.

  It wasn’t until he drew closer to his brick townhouse and noticed that every lamp and candle in the place was burning brightly that he realized he was the one hosting the party. What the deuce was Phadra up to?

  The uncomfortable tightening in his loins that he’d suffered all day every time he thought of his wife was now forgotten, supplanted by a deeper and darker concern. He rushed up the front steps and was surprised when the front door was opened by Wallace in a dark green livery that could do a king proud.

  Wallace took one look at Grant and acted as if he wanted to shut the door quickly—but then thought better of it.

  “What is going on here?” Grant barked, even as he became aware of the loud hum of conversation and the clinking of glassware coming from his parlor…and his dining room…and the back of the house, where his personal domain, his study, was located.

  Wallace, his face turning as pale as his lace ruffles, was saved from answering by the appearance of a young man in the fine trappings of a lord who stumbled out of the parlor and leaned against the door frame with a hiccup. He turned a bleary eye on Wallace, crossed his legs, and mumbled, “Water closet?”

  Wallace pointed down the hall toward the back of the house, and the tipsy lord zigzagged his way down the hall.

  Grant watched him go for a moment before he shoved his hat and walking stick into Wallace’s arms and marched to the parlor door. The sight inside the parlor made him wonder if he’d wandered into the wrong house.

  Dame Cunnington sat in her sedan chair in the middle of his parlor. The sides of the chair had been removed so that the conveyance served as a leather-and-satin throne while her liveried chair bearers stood behind her with more military bearing than most regimental officers. Her amorist poet Alexei Popov, sat at her feet, holding up a tray of sweet-meats and a glass of champagne for her enjoyment.

  From this vantage point the dowager entertained a host of people who draped themselves nonchalantly on and across the backs of Grant’s sofas or stood in small gatherings talking and laughing amongst themselves. To his astonishment, a group of young men, their hair ove
rlong and their neckcloths tied in the manner of dandies, started throwing their glasses into his empty fireplace. Dame Cunnington cackled, and Popov tittered as if they’d done something clever.

  Grant was on his way to stop this outrageous nonsense, picking a path through the ever-shifting crowd of unfamiliar faces, when he spied Mrs. Shaunessy. Or at least he thought it was Mrs. Shaunessy. Her red hair was bound up with an Indian cotton scarf, and her eyes looked as if they’d been outlined in kohl. She carried a tray full of crystal glasses filled to the brim with champagne.

  Grant changed directions and was pushing his way through the crowd toward her when a woman grabbed his arm. He looked down and after a moment’s astonishment recognized Lady Dumbarton, Sir Robert’s wife, with a scarf of Indian cotton wrapped around her head, its ends hanging down her back in an outlandishly bohemian fashion. She looked a far cry from the staid and conservative lady to which he was accustomed.

  “Mr. Morgan,” she trilled. “We were wondering when you would make an appearance. Isn’t this a marvelous crush?”

  Pushed aside at that moment by an arrogant man wearing the single spur and well-cut coat of a Corinthian, Grant demanded, “Have you seen my wife?”

  Lady Dumbarton squinted slightly, as if trying to think, and then offered an apologetic frown. “But here are Lady Fitzgerald, Lady Sudbury, and Lady Hollywise. They brought me here tonight, and I am deeply in their debt!”

  Grant looked down at the quartet of ladies in outfits that resembled bedclothes. It took him a second to realize that they were attempting to copy the dress Phadra had worn to the Evanses’ ball. Each had her hair styled with an Indian scarf, including the chubby Lady Hollywise, who didn’t have much hair to speak of.

  “This is a most successful soiree, Mr. Morgan,” Lady Sudbury said.

  “You won’t believe who is here,” Lady Fitzgerald chimed in, her normally somber expression alive with excitement. “Everybody who is anybody!”

  Lady Hollywise tugged on his coat sleeve and whispered, “That was the Earl of Lofton who just shoved you aside. Twenty thousand a year, and holds Prinney’s ear. The House of Lords doesn’t move without Lofton’s say-so. Brummell may even put in an appearance. And maybe Prinney himself!” The woman practically quivered at the thought.