The Madcap Marriage

by Allison Lane

  But it had to be soon.

  “Arrange a meeting with Mr. Chum of Maiden Lane,” he told Stone a quarter hour later. “Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest. I have a job for him. And tell Mr. Hicks I will call at three.”

  * * * *

  “I’m not familiar with Formsby’s Bank,” said Rafe as they passed the Bank of England and turned up Broad Street. “What do you know of them?”

  “Not much,” she admitted. “I’ve dealt with them for four years, but never in person. They’ve been Papa’s bankers since he was in school, though, so I presume they are trustworthy. Papa was quite meticulous about business associates.”

  “So you have no problem with them as trustees.”

  “It’s not much of a job.” She shifted, refusing to meet his eyes, obviously hiding something. “Papa set up the trust so I would run Audley. A London banker can hardly oversee a Somerset estate.”

  “Not directly, but most appoint stewards.”

  “Who must still take orders from town. Papa felt it was better that the steward report to me.”

  Her voice had assumed an edge Rafe didn’t like, but he stifled his pique. He needed facts before he could determined his course. So for the moment, he must remain in the background. When the carriage rocked to a halt before the bank, he let her take the lead. He would learn more from observation than from questions.

  “Helen St. James to see Mr. Formsby,” she said, handing her card to the doorman. “I was married yesterday and must discuss my trust.”

  In a remarkably short time they were ushered into Formsby’s heavily paneled office. Impressive – and unsettling. Helen was an important client. The trust must contain more than just Audley. Steven’s words echoed. Forty thou— That was as much as he had.

  “I’m pleased to meet you at last, my dear,” Formsby said, seating Helen before his desk. “As you requested, I’ve prepared all the documents for your signature.”

  “What documents?”

  “The usual transfers, Mrs. St. James. The trust terminates upon marriage – property laws, you understand. It is merely a formality.”

  “The name is Mrs. Thomas,” she snapped. “And my father drew up this trust so that marriage would change nothing, as you very well know.”

  “T-Thomas?” he stammered.

  “May I present the honorable Mr. Rafael Thomas, my husband. My banker, Rafe.”

  “Mr. Formsby.” Rafe bowed, applauding the steel in Helen’s voice. She would not allow this obsequious man to ride roughshod over her.

  “But—” Formsby’s voice cracked. “How— Why did you throw over your fiancé?”

  “What fiancé?”

  “Don’t deny it. I have your letter right here.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from a deed box, sorting until he found the one he wanted. “Eight months ago you announced your betrothal to Mr. Dudley St. James.”

  “Never!” Helen snatched the letter, reddening as she read. “My God. So that explains it.” She passed the letter to Rafe. “I told you Steven was devious. That is not my hand.”

  Rafe stared at the page. It informed Mr. Formsby that after careful consideration, Helen was convinced that Sir Arthur had allowed spite to strip his heir of property that should rightfully stay with the title. To rectify the injustice, she proposed to wed her cousin Dudley, restoring Audley to the baronetcy.

  “Don’t lie to me,” snapped Formsby. “You wrote that. If your memory is that bad—”

  “It is a forgery,” she insisted. “And not a very good one, as even a cursory look must prove. I am appalled at your laxity, sir. The assertions in this letter are ridiculous. Father warned you time and again that his brother would do anything to steal my inheritance. Yet within days of his death, you appointed him to oversee the estate, granting him power to dismiss staff that had been there since Father bought the place.”

  “I did no such thing! You demanded his oversight because your mother was ill.” He waved another letter.

  “Balderdash!” Helen leaned over the desk to glare. “I wouldn’t allow Sir Steven to oversee the cutting of a plum pudding. The man is venal to the core and the most avaricious schemer the world has ever seen. He has kept me incarcerated ever since you sent him there.”

  Rafe laid a calming hand on her arm. She would accomplish nothing if she lost her temper. “Relax, sweetheart. It seems that you are both victims of forgery. How close is that signature to yours?”

  “Not very.” Grabbing Formsby’s quill, she dashed off four signatures on a piece of stationery.

  “You are deliberately changing your hand,” snapped Formsby.

  “She’s right about your laxity.” Rafe held Formsby’s gaze. “You abrogated your fiduciary responsibility, sir. Appalling in a bank manager, and worse in a trustee. How can you ignore the evidence?” He turned to Helen. “Surely he has your signature on file.”

  “He should.” Taking advantage of Formsby’s shock, she pulled the deed box closer and leafed through the papers.

  A memory that had been tickling the edges of Rafe’s mind suddenly returned. St. James. You can’t go wrong buying shares in that woolen mill, his man of business had said eight years earlier. The primary backer is Sir Arthur St. James. He has a genius for sniffing out new enterprises and rarely makes a mistake.

  Brockman had been right. The value of Rafe’s shares had increased fourfold in only two years. Sir Arthur’s name had garnered respect, which meant he must have amassed a fortune. Rafe’s heart sank, but he would deal with that later. For now, he must support his wife.

  “Summon the other trustees,” he ordered as Helen laid several letters on the desk. “You have until they arrive to decide whether you are a credulous fool or Sir Steven’s accomplice.”

  Formsby blanched.

  * * * *

  By the time Goddard and Carstairs arrived, Formsby was shaking. All old correspondence matched today’s signatures. Nothing sent in the last nine months did, though some were better approximations than others.

  “We didn’t know,” insisted Carstairs, the trust solicitor.

  “You didn’t care.” Rafe glared at each man in turn. “Upon receipt of that first letter, conscientious trustees would have sent a representative to Somerset to verify its contents.”

  Helen nodded. “Malfeasance, at the very least. You were so pleased that I’d apparently come to my senses that you accepted even outlandish claims without question. Look at this.” She brandished a letter. “I have replaced Ridley as steward, due to continuing incompetence. Your own records show that Ridley doubled Audley’s income after I hired him three years ago. How could you accept this slander without an investigation? You should have questioned my intelligence for even suggesting such a change!”

  “Where is Ridley now?” asked Rafe.

  “God knows. Steven turned him off without a reference because he insisted on speaking with me. He knew that Father would never have allowed Steven on the property. Since then, Steven has drained the estate accounts.” She pulled out another letter. “This forgery demands that you send the quarterly trust payments to a new bank.”

  Carstairs blanched.

  Rafe shook his head. “Another nonsensical order you didn’t question.”

  “It was a reasonable request,” stammered Formsby. “We had remonstrated with Sir Arthur many times for trusting a provincial bank. It was one of the few changes Miss St. James made that we wholly approved.”

  Helen snorted. “Harold’s may be provincial, but Mr. Harold would never execute an order he hadn’t verified,” she snapped icily. “If you are typical of London bankers, then it’s time to move my trust to Harold’s. I cannot remain subject to such incompetence.”

  Rafe watched as three red-faced trustees struggled to explain their oversight. They had clearly thought Sir Arthur befuddled for leaving a lady in charge of Audley.

  Any suspicions he’d entertained in that direction disappeared as he listened to her catechism. She had a firm grasp of what should have bee
n done and a firmer grasp of who was at fault in the affair. Every time someone tried to sidestep guilt, she pounced. In minutes, their attempts to explain their behavior turned them into gibbering idiots.

  It seemed that Fate had provided him with a wife remarkably close to his ideal – the backbone and vivacity his mother had displayed, Alquist’s intelligence and acumen, more passion than any mistress…

  The passion was obvious as she strode restlessly about, flinging questions at her trustees. Every turn plastered her skirt against those long, long legs, reminding him how she’d rubbed against him in bed last night. His hands recalled the weight of her breasts and the smoothness of her skin. His body tightened as it remembered her ardent explorations. If he used her passion to attach her affections, perhaps they could find a solution to her wealth – maybe endow a benevolent society with it.

  But first he must win her trust. Hillcrest’s damned announcement had made her wary.

  You are also wary.

  He frowned. He had long admired his mother’s backbone and sworn his wife would also stand up for herself. Yet at the same time, he’d expected his wife to accept his decisions without complaint. Only now did he see the conflict between those ideals. And it was the first one that would cause trouble. Her determination could so easily turn against him. He could not tolerate a marriage filled with dissention. Nor could he tolerate a wife who tried to rule him. Rather than fight, he would have to live in town. Alone.

  It was not the future he had envisioned, but he might have no choice.

  Yet it was early days to walk away. He must give marriage a chance, though he would guard his heart against any attachment. If she turned into a tyrant, he could not afford pain.

  It ought to be easy – shielding his heart had never been a problem before. But Helen was different. Already, she’d enticed him more than any female in years. So he must be very careful.

  He tore his eyes from her form and concentrated on the meeting.

  “Lord Alquist was quite upset about Sir Steven,” Formsby was saying. “He called three weeks ago, demanding answers to the oddest questions.”

  “Yet you did nothing?” Helen’s voice could have cut glass.

  “We agreed to conduct an audit, but we’ve not had time to arrange it,” said Mr. Goddard. He had taken over for the trust’s original investment officer two years earlier and sounded so apologetic that Rafe wanted to ram his teeth down his throat – an urge that grew as he considered how many investments Goddard might be handling.

  “And why is that?” demanded Helen.

  “Lord Alquist’s concerns seemed so bizarre that after his death, we felt it best to consult with his successor before proceeding further,” said Mr. Carstairs.

  “But you didn’t,” said Rafe shortly.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m the successor – not that it matters. Overseeing the trust was never her guardian’s job. An audit should be a regular part of your procedures. When was it last done?”

  Goddard reddened. “Sir Arthur sent us copies of his annual reviews. We never needed to send a man out there.”

  “Actually, my father did no reviews,” said Helen crisply. “I have overseen Audley since this trust was established. I put together the annual summaries for my own records. Since you never requested further information…”

  “Well, um—” Goddard was clearly at a loss for words.

  Helen met Formsby’s eye, raising her chin high enough that Rafe tensed. “Mr. Thomas is correct. Audits are a fiduciary responsibility that you have clearly ignored for four years. But that lapse pales beside these letters. Each is in a hand that is clearly not mine yet orders changes in the trust that are outside your power to grant. Since you breached the trust conditions in blatant disregard of your sworn duty, I will expect you to restore every shilling drained from my accounts through your negligence.”

  “We can’t—” began Formsby.

  “I wouldn’t finish that thought,” said Rafe quietly. It was time to end this farce. “Your position is shaky already. No competent trustee would put Goddard in charge of investments.”

  “What?” snapped Formsby as Carstairs cringed.

  “He is known throughout the investment community for his ineptitude. What return did he show last year? Two percent? One percent? Losses?”

  “What with the war and the weather—” began Goddard.

  “Poppycock!” snapped Rafe. “My man of business made eight percent despite those problems. Most years he returns much more. Sir Arthur would be appalled at your performance. Men show better returns by placing all money in three-percent Consols.” Rafe glared at Formsby. “This smacks of deliberate sabotage. You needed something for Goddard to do, so you put him in charge of a lady’s affairs, assuming that she wouldn’t notice his incompetence. Your brother-in-law, isn’t he?”

  Goddard reddened. Carstairs looked ready to swoon. Formsby feebly stuttered.

  “This meeting has lasted long enough,” said Helen, rising. “I want a detailed report on trust assets within the week, Mr. Formsby. And you have four weeks to conduct a full audit and restore every shilling paid out improperly. That includes funds siphoned from my regular accounts, funds deposited in fraudulent accounts, and the restoration of any securities sold without my authorization. We will discuss further measures at our next meeting.”

  Formsby nodded. “The matter will be dealt with immediately. I will assign my best—”

  “We will send our own representative to supervise.” Rafe watched Formsby swallow an objection.

  Helen nodded. “I will insist that my own man of business oversee the trust in the future. In the meantime, Mr. Goddard will buy or sell nothing without my direct authorization. Is that clear?”

  Formsby and Carstairs nodded. Goddard looked like someone had kicked him.

  Rafe offered Helen his arm. “Gentlemen.” He escorted her from the room.

  Chapter Five

  “Do you know a good man of business?” asked Rafe, sliding his arm around Helen’s shoulders as the carriage headed home.

  Tremors shivered under her skin. He hoped it was pleasure at his touch, but he suspected it was fury at Formsby’s obsequious condescension.

  Disturbing heat swept his body as she snuggled closer. He had set himself a grim task – using passion to bind her heart while keeping his own heart free in case he failed.

  She removed her hat so she could finger the bump on her head. “I know no one in London. Papa’s man of business died two years ago – that was when Goddard took over the investments. Is yours really that good?”

  “You’re thinking about my rooms, aren’t you?”

  “Can you blame me? You live by gaming. Hillcrest cut off your allowance. Everyone knows people present prosperous façades to the world even when in debt. How many ornate entrance halls and ostentatious drawing rooms exist in tumbledown houses?”

  Rafe cursed ten years of secrecy. “I’ve never bothered correcting society’s misconceptions.”

  “Why?”

  “To protect myself.” He’d shared his secrets only with his mother and Alquist – he’d never fully trusted others, even Carley – but Helen deserved the truth. “I won ten thousand guineas playing cards ten years ago.”

  “And didn’t lose it the next day?” she stared.

  “Never. It meant freedom. Hillcrest was furious that I’d moved to London. He threatened to cancel my allowance unless I returned home – he’s always used money as a whip.”

  “You don’t like being threatened.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Who does?” Hillcrest’s blatant bribery attempts were worse than the demands that he repudiate his mother. He would never forgive the man for slashing his allowance after Dudley sliced up his face. Despite that the headmaster had placed the blame squarely on Dudley, Hillcrest had decided that Rafe was a troublemaker. In his opinion, the girl was merely a merchant, so Rafe should have ignored the assault. Interfering had created a scandal.


  He met Helen’s gaze. “I hate threats, and I hate bribes. Winning that game freed me from both. I hired the best man available to invest it and have lived on the proceeds ever since.”

  Helen stared, fighting to keep her shock from showing. Rafe was the most secretive man she’d ever met. Even Alex had been more open.

  She couldn’t figure out who Rafe was. She’d believed him when he swore his reputation was exaggerated. She wanted to believe his betrothal was false. But now he claimed to be wealthy. “Why haven’t you said anything?” she demanded. “Who in his right mind pretends poverty? It has to feed the gossip about you.”

  “I feared Hillcrest would confiscate it. I wasn’t of age.”

  “You are now.”

  He shrugged. “Old habits die hard. But it no longer matters. We’ll look for a house tomorrow. Something—”

  “I already have one.”

  “What?” Rafe cursed as his voice cracked. Her control of her fortune gave her an advantage that his mother had never enjoyed in her long war with Hillcrest. Then there was her secrecy. His mother had shared everything with him. He knew it was too soon, but he’d expected his wife to do the same. Yet every time he turned around, she shocked him with something new. “Why didn’t you mention your house yesterday?”

  “I knew Steven would be there.”

  “He has his own house.”

  “But he wants mine.” She sighed. “We had to avoid him yesterday, Rafe. You saw how he reacted this morning. How much worse would it have been if we’d faced him with you drunk, me concussed, and no servants to lend a hand? Besides, I’ve no idea what condition the house is in. Papa let it once we moved to Audley. It’s been vacant only a few months.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Hanover Square. Number fourteen.”

  “That’s just around the corner.”

  “I hadn’t realized.” She bit her lip. “I’m also not sure how suitable it is. Childhood memories often exaggerate size, yet I remember it as small. Papa could afford nothing larger when he married, but perhaps we should sell it and buy something else. The Post listed a house in St. James’s Square for sale.”