by Liana Lefey
Manchester stopped. “I see. Then pray tell me, what is Mr. Blume?”
“He is the Hospital’s solicitor, retained by its governors—including your brother—to attend to its business, and he has done an outstanding job. He is a good man, and he does not deserve to be abused.”
“I meant what is he to you, Lady Harriett.”
She blinked in surprise. “I will not deny he is my friend,” she said, hating that she sounded so awkward. “He has helped me through many hardships these past two years.”
A cynical brow lifted in response. “A friend? Is that all?”
Suddenly, she understood. Her cheeks heated. The unmitigated gall of the man! “He was William’s friend, as well,” she countered, anger winning over embarrassment. “But if you require further explanation, then let me say also that I have had the great pleasure of befriending his lady wife and, indeed, of seeing his youngest child born.” She stood her tallest, which put her at eye-level with his lips. “And the honor of being named her godmother!”
Those lips quirked. “God, you really are a Puritan, aren’t you? Proper and starched, just like William—only far braver.”
How dare he laugh at her after just implying she’d been indecently involved with a married man! “William was the bravest man I have ever known,” she said in her most cutting tone, determined to have the final word, to strike the final blow. “You may share the same blood, but you share nothing of his noble spirit, his kindness, his generosity. You are nothing like him, and you’ll never be half the man he was even if you try for a thousand years! Not that I would ever expect such a thing—that would require you to have a heart.”
Manchester’s mouth thinned, and she knew she’d hit her mark. It felt damned good to know she’d wounded him, even if it was only a superficial injury. He advanced on her, but she held steady.
“You’re absolutely correct,” he said, bending until his face was level with hers. “I’m nothing like Saint William. Which means you can neither influence nor control me the way you did him.” Abruptly, he backed off. “I shall return in the morning. And when I do, I shall expect you to accord me the proper respect due my position. Unless, of course, you’d like me to immediately appoint someone else to serve as Assistant Administrator?”
He wasn’t making her leave? “That won’t be necessary. I am, thankfully, mature enough not to allow my personal feelings to hamper my sense of duty.”
“Until tomorrow, then.”
“Until tomorrow,” she replied with a nod. Only after the door closed behind him with a soft click did she release the breath she’d been holding. She launched into motion at once to prevent her knees from giving out and leaving her in a heap on the floor.
Why had he agreed to keep her on? Lord knew how he must hate her. She could only surmise it was to enjoy bedeviling her. Well, if he thought to run her off by means of intimidation, he would soon learn she was made of sterner stuff. It would take a lot more than a drunken bully to make her abandon William’s legacy.
Six
Roland stormed out, slamming the front door behind him with enough force to rattle the brass knocker. George’s piles! That woman was enough to make a man’s teeth itch! Why her? Of all the people in the world, why her?
He rummaged in his pockets for a moment and then cursed. Turning, he looked back up the steps at the door he’d just tried to take off its hinges. He’d left his flask in that bloody place, but damned if he’d go back in after it. It was empty anyway. He stalked to his waiting carriage and slung himself inside, slamming that door behind him, too.
As he rolled away from the awful place, uncomfortable thoughts rolled around in his now aching head. Harriet Dunhaven. Mr. Dun. Her sheer audacity struck him. In a way, he had to admire the bollocks it had taken for her to do such a thing.
The thought soured him further. The last thing he wanted was to admire the enemy. And make no mistake, an enemy is what she is. She despised him utterly. That she’d try to sabotage him was an absolute certainty.
Her problem was that she had no sense of self-perseveration. She hadn’t batted an eyelash even when he’d had her, literally, up against the wall. She’d not been afraid of him the day of William’s funeral, either. Her eyes, how they’d burned with fury—then and now.
He meant what he’d said. William had always been compliant and easygoing. And Harriett was the managing type. No doubt about it; she’d nudged his brother in the direction of her preferences, and he’d gone along with it and let her have her way.
Fists clenched, he made his decision. He would come back tomorrow morning. Early. It would be most satisfying indeed to see the look on her face when she walked in to find him already there. If she had the courage to show up. And God help her if he found as much as a single shilling misspent. For half a moment he debated going back right then, but he quickly let go the idea. There was no way she’d have time to hide evidence or falsify any records by tomorrow morning.
Besides, it would be better to cool his temper and clear his head before wading in. Had he known she would be there, he would never have indulged in spirits before coming. Not because he cared a feathered fig for her opinion of him, but because—he grudgingly admitted it—of her seemingly innate talent for arousing both his temper and his lust.
He hated that she caused such a base reaction in him. Firstly, she was his brother’s fiancée and secondly, she was a complete virago who would like nothing better than to see him fail.
The carriage slowed and Roland realized they were about to make the turn. He rapped on the roof and the driver’s slot opened. “Take me to The Royal,” he told the man. He needed to see Rich. Rich would know how to handle a hellion like Harriett.
Harriett the Hellion. He grinned. That had quite a nice ring to it. She’d been a right mess in her nurse’s frock. And that awful cap! He’d had half a mind to snatch it off her head and dance a jig atop it. No one had vexed him so in years. Two years, to be precise.
William’s Widow, everyone called her. Except that she wasn’t. Not really. She was, however, a damnable botheration.
Rich was arranging sets for the evening performance when he arrived backstage. “What are you doing here so early?” said his friend, smiling. “It’s hours yet before the show.”
“I have a problem,” Roland said, eyeing the new backdrop for Rich’s latest satire. “Did Hoggie do that?” he asked, pointing at a painting of a woman peering out of a false window. “Looks like his latest fascination, what’s her name? Lavinia?”
“Yes, he did. And yes, it is,” answered Rich, tying off the rope he’d been holding. He mopped his brow with a kerchief. “What sort of problem?”
“There is a woman I wish to be rid of.”
“I see. Mistress? Lover? Annoying marriage-minded chit?”
“William’s fiancée.”
Rich’s brows rose, and Roland reconsidered. Unless he wanted to see his personal life played out on the stage, it might not be wise to tell Rich every detail. The man tended to “borrow” material from everyone around him—without asking. A playwright’s prerogative, he’d always said. “I discovered her today during a visit to William’s charity,” he finally went on. “She’s managed to insinuate herself with the other governors and has been influencing matters there. Heavily. We have just now had a confrontation.” There. That sounded reasonable.
Rich’s eyes twinkled. “And her assertiveness has set you on edge, has it?”
“To put it mildly.”
“Almost as much as her attractiveness?”
Roland scowled at his grinning face. Damn the man. His ability to see through people was uncanny. “She was hardly attractive.” Not in the conventional sense of the word, anyway...“She is a puritanical pain in the arse—an interfering, overbearing female who has buried her nose far too deeply in matters she oughtn’t.”
“She’s quite firmly entrenched?”
He nodded.
“Perhaps a chat with her husband might be the t
hing.”
“She is not married.”
Rich’s smile spread. “Then why not take two birds with one stone? Get her out of your blood and out of your hair at the same time.”
The suggestion sent a flash of heat throughout Roland’s vitals, followed by a cold dousing of shame. “She would have been my sister-in-law, had William lived.”
“Ah! Then you don’t deny you desire her,” said Rich, leaping on his failure to answer the question.
“Rich...”
“So, let me see—she would have been your sister-in-law,” said Rich, raising a finger. “But as it currently stands, she is not actually any relation to you at all.” He waggled the digit at him. “Thus, that cannot in truth be the source of your reluctance to bed the wench. It must, therefore, lie elsewhere.”
“Our families were nearly united, Rich. Thus, I cannot simply ‘bed the wench’ as you so eloquently put it.” He frowned. “God, man. One might think you of all people would speak with a bit more grace concerning such things.”
His friend shrugged. “Flowery speech is reserved for the stage and for the wooing of beautiful women. Continue.”
It was pointless to try to evade the man. Roland sighed. “Regardless of the fact that she never married William, I feel obliged to treat her with a modicum of respect. Or at least I would if she ever bothered to treat me with any. The woman detests me.”
“Ah, now we come to it,” said Rich, his eyes gleaming. “I take it some past interaction of a disagreeable nature lies between you?”
“You might say that.”
“In other words, you were an ass, which is why she dislikes you. And she put you in your proper place, which is why you dislike her.”
“Why do you assume the fault lies with me?” Roland replied, indignant. Never mind that Rich’s assessment of the situation was uncomfortably accurate—there was such a thing as loyalty, after all.
“Because aggression does not come naturally to women,” answered Rich. “They don’t typically attack a man without reason, which means an offense must have been committed on your part.” He held up a hand, forestalling the protest that leaped to the tip of Roland’s tongue. “It makes no difference whether that offense was real or perceived. To the female heart, they are one and the same. So, regardless of your opinion of your behavior, in her view you were behaving like an ass.”
Roland ground his teeth. Rich was definitely too perceptive. He forced his jaw to unclench. “As I have been judged guilty either way, what would you advise?”
His friend’s smile was beatific. “Apologize for your boorish behavior and smooth the lady’s ruffled feathers, thereby engendering peace and cooperation rather than discord and unpleasantness.”
“Apologize?”
“Yes. I understand the concept is a foreign one to you, as it is to most of our sex, but when it comes to bruised female pride, I think you’ll find a little humility on your part will go a long way.” A knowing smirk twitched his lips. “Apologize to a woman, and you’ll find yourself the object of her devout affection thereafter.”
“Even if I did such a thing, she would never believe me,” Roland countered. “Our conflict is one I doubt may be resolved by something as simple as saying I’m sorry.”
A low whistle issued from Rich’s pursed lips. “You must have been an ass of unparalleled magnitude to have earned such enmity. Knowing you as I do, I can well imagine her umbrage. What in heaven’s name did you say to the woman?”
He wasn’t about to tell that story. “Nothing of any great significance. A few words were exchanged at William’s funeral. She mistook what I said and was not in a state to be reasoned with.”
“Well, it was significant to the lady,” said Rich. “Peace comes at a price for us all, my friend. Tell me, would you rather humble yourself for five minutes and have it or would you rather matters between you continue in their current state?”
Roland maintained his silence.
“Start with an apology.” Rich laughed. “A sincere one, if you can possibly manage it, and then work your way back into her good graces.”
“Thanks,” Roland muttered, throwing him a black look. “I could have gotten that advice from my mother.”
“You could, if your mother were here,” said Rich with a merry grin. “As she is not, I shall have to suffice—or rather suffer in her place.”
“You do so inspire one to entrust you with the burdens of one’s heart.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, Rich swept a low bow. “I’m glad to be of service. By the bye, I wouldn’t expect any instant transformation on her part, if I were you,” he added. “You’re going to have to earn her good regard. From what I gather, you’ll have plenty of work just to get her to speak to you in a civil tone, much less convince her to come to your bed.”
“I have no intention of doing any such—”
A loud snort erupted from his friend.
It was hopeless. “Believe me when I say that Harriett is not a woman to be trifled with.”
“Ah, but those are the sweetest of all conquests,” said Rich, his smile remaining unchanged. “Should you manage to win her affection, your ferocious Harriett will likely prove as ardent an ally as she is an unpleasant enemy. Something to think on, is it not?”
Roland’s thoughts concerning Harriett, which had already been treading the line between irritation and lust, again swung dangerously toward the latter. No. He could not afford to desire her. “I seek only to establish civility between us, nothing more.”
The corners of Rich’s mouth quirked. “Suit yourself. I should like to meet this Harriett one day. Any woman capable of sending you into such a dither is worth knowing.”
A sudden, intense dislike for the man, a man Roland considered one of his closest friends, filled him. He shrugged it off. Not that he cared, but even if Rich did approach her, Harriett was a Lady, and Ladies did not socialize with entrepreneurial men, much less actors. He might run the best theater in London, but the instant she discovered his role onstage as the ludicrous “Lun,” she would refuse any association.
But she claimed Mr. Blume as a “friend,” didn’t she?
Despite the tightness in his gut, Roland forced his face to relax, his lips to smile. “Perhaps one day the stars will align and I shall bring her to see one of your operas.”
Rich smiled back, a knowing look in his eyes. “I shall look forward to it. In the meantime, I suggest you practice the art of humility—or at least learn to give the appearance of it.”
~ * ~
Harriett still trembled inside as she dressed for tonight’s event, an evening of poetry at Lord and Lady Abernathy’s. She didn’t much feel like going, but Cat would flay her alive if she begged off. Even so, she seriously considered claiming the headache that had been pounding at her temples since the departure of that oaf, Manchester.
Just the thought of him made her stomach knot. He would come tomorrow. She’d relived every second of their encounter in her mind several times and come to the determination that it was a certainty. From the smell of him, he’d been drinking, but his reactions had not been those of a man soaked. He would remember. And because she’d once humiliated him—no matter how well-deserved her actions had been—he would never pass up an opportunity to make her life difficult.
Her chin rose as she looked her reflection in the eye. Let him try and find fault! She’d known this day would come and had prepared for it well. Her record-keeping had always been “meticulous,” as he’d put it. By the time he completed his little investigation, he would have no legitimate complaint.
The door opened. “Are you quite finished?” asked Cat, impatient as always.
“Almost,” Harriett answered, patting a curl into place. “We won’t be able to stay late, you understand.” Tomorrow would be an early start, even for her. There had been no time to tidy the office before leaving. She’d meant to do it today in preparation for Manchester’s visit tomorrow—his planned visit—but his unexpected arrival a da
y ahead of schedule had thrown everything out of order, including her equanimity.
“I doubt whether I shall wish to stay a moment longer than good manners require,” grumbled Cat. “Poetry recitals are not my idea of fun. The only reason I agreed to attend at all is because the very wealthy Lord Abernathy has an unwed son—reason enough to tolerate even the worst prose. I shall hold to the hope that he is not a poetry enthusiast.”
In spite of the heavy thoughts knocking about in her aching head, a chuckle rose in Harriett’s throat. “Well, if he is, I’m sure you’ll soon dissuade him of the habit.”
“I shall scream if he so much as utters a limerick.”
“Better to faint,” Harriett laughed. “At least then he may choose to think you overcome with sentiment.”
“Rather than nausea, you mean?” Her sister gave a delicate shudder. “You ought to bite your tongue, Harriett. You’ve always admonished me to speak honestly. Now you’re telling me to dissemble?”
“Yes, well, perhaps I should not have been so adamant,” Harriett murmured. “At least not where men are concerned. Their pride is far too easily wounded, and they never forget a slight.”
“Mm. Something has certainly soured the cream today. What was it this time? The lad in the east wing playing pranks on the nurses again?”
“Oh, how I wish.” It was pointless trying to keep it a secret. The papers would likely spill the tea tomorrow morning anyway. “Lord Manchester paid a visit today.”
Cat’s blue eyes widened. “Do you mean William’s brother? The man you knocked silly at the cemetery?”
“One and the same.”
“And? Did he remember you?”
Oh, he’d remembered her. She straightened and pasted a smile on her lips. “He did. And he will be coming tomorrow to review the ledgers.”
“But I thought you said he’d sworn never to cross the threshold of the place,” said Cat, eagerly leaning forward. “What prompted his visit, I wonder?”
