“No, no,” said Helaine with a distracted wave of her hand. “You’ve as much a right as anyone to hear. Especially since…” Her voice trailed off on a sigh, and Irene picked up the rest of the thought.
“Especially since you haven’t the money to pay me right now.” She shrugged, the faith inside her shrinking despite her love for her best friend. Of course the aristocrats would duck their bills. That’s what aristocrats did.
“It’s just so maddening!” fumed Helaine. “They’re wearing the gowns. We deserve to be paid!”
“Which is exactly what my father-in-law says every time he has to deal with a peer.” She held her hands tightly together and forced her exterior to remain casual. “Well, not about the gowns, of course. But he’d much rather deal with the craftiest captain than any nobleman in England.”
Helaine grimaced. “Well, that’s a sorry state of affairs for our country. So what does he do?”
“He’s got his own brand of collection agents. Rough men. Ugly ways of demanding payment. He doesn’t talk much about it, but sometimes I overhear.”
“I’m not sure I can do that.” Helaine lifted up a list of debtors. “These are ladies of the ton. Lady Brandleton is in her sixties!”
Beside her, Wendy snorted. “Well, we’ll have to do something. And do it quick.”
Irene quickly scanned the neatly tabulated column of funds owed and funds available. The shop’s bookkeeper, Anthony, had a way of summarizing everything down to simple numbers. And what she saw told her that the shop was in trouble if they didn’t get paid. Immediately.
Then Helaine snapped her fingers. “I am going to throw a ball.”
She spoke as if that were the answer to their prayers, which—obviously—it was anything but. Irene frowned. Wendy was so confused, she stopped her needle in the middle of a stitch. Neither spoke. Meanwhile, Helaine looked up at their sudden silence.
“You don’t understand. I’m the newly married Lady Redhill, co-owner of a dress shop, and daughter of the Thief of the Ton.”
“Yes dear, we know—” said Wendy, but Helaine waved her to silence.
“If I throw a ball—in a week’s time, I think—then everyone will want to attend. I’ve only been back a day, and already we’re flooded with cards.” She pointed to the list of ladies who owed the shop. “Why, I believe Lady Edith has called on us twice.”
Irene nodded, understanding starting to flicker. “Everyone will want to attend.”
“Exactly. It will be the talk of the town.”
Wendy blew out a slow whistle. “You’re going to restrict the guest list, aren’t you?”
“Nonsense! There will be no restrictions. Only a butler at the doorway with a certain list in his hands.” She lifted the list of unpaid bills. “Anyone on this list won’t be allowed to attend. That’s all.”
Irene nodded. “But can you put a ball together that fast? You’ve only just returned.”
Wendy added her concern. “And can you get the word out that fast? A threat does no good if no one knows about it.”
Helaine’s eyes took on a martial gleam. “I can, and I will. You’ll see.” Then she pinned Irene with a dark glare. “And you’re coming to the ball too.” She shot Wendy a glare. “Both of you.”
Irene and Wendy started sputtering their objections. Irene didn’t even have a ballgown. The last time she’d attended anything had been before her marriage to Nate. But Helaine refused to hear one word. She simply folded her arms across her chest and waited until her friends grew silent.
“Then it’s settled. You’re coming. And not dressed in black,” she added with an extra glare at Irene.
“Helaine—”
Her friend ignored her, raising her voice to the upper stairs where her mother’s rooms were. “Mama!” she called. “Mama, I need your help. We’re going to throw a ball.”
The squeal of delight ended any objection. Helaine’s mother had suffered a great deal in her life. No one would take a treat away from her. Even if the treat was a ball.
“Well,” said Irene as she turned to Wendy. “I guess I need a gown.”
“Guess we all do, though heaven only knows how I’ll get them sewed in time.”
Irene set down her reticule and rolled up her sleeves. “Well, come on then. Tell me what I can do to help.”
And so it was done. Irene was going to a ball.
***
Grant found Lord Redhill at his club. Grant wasn’t a member of White’s anymore. At one time he had been, though only briefly. He’d lasted about five weeks before he’d lost a bet on a pair of rats—or was it a cricket match between actual crickets?—and he’d had to let the membership lapse. No money to pay his tab, and so he’d been asked not to return. The only reason they let him in now was because he sent his card in to Robert who gestured him inside.
Robert ordered him a drink—a tepid tea—then leaned back to smile warmly. “I was just going over your last report. Amazing job you’ve done. Never would have thought you could turn that mill around. Not this well at least, but you’ve done it. I’m impressed, Grant. And I’d never thought I’d say that to you.”
Grant acknowledged the statement with a shrug. He could be proud of himself too. He had been all set to be proud of himself. Until he’d found out his brother had built a damned canal that had doubled the price of the land he needed to buy back. Now he was scrambling to do the one thing he’d thought he’d never have to do: marry for money.
Maybe the widow has money, suggested his madness. She’s certainly got assets!
“The mill’s making solid money,” he said, ignoring the lecherous giggles of his madness. “And the new manager seems to be holding up.”
“So have you found me so I can sign the papers?” Robert leaned forward. “I have to say, I don’t like you selling your share right now. Doesn’t make good business sense.”
Grant flashed a rather sick smile. “It doesn’t, Robert. Which is why I’m not going to do it. I needed the cash to buy the land back.”
“Problem?” Robert asked, his eyebrows raised.
Grant swallowed then slowly explained the details to Robert.
“Tough luck,” his friend murmured. “Damn tough luck.”
“It’s the only luck I seem to have.”
Ah, quit your whining, interrupted his madness. Good Lord, you’ve gone boring.
You’d rather I burned down a barn again? He shot back at his madness. Then he took a deep breath, realizing his insanity was getting the better of him. He was here with his friend, and for the first time in a very long time, he had no urgent need to read a mill tally of numbers. So he drank his tea and… he simply drank his tea.
Robert did the same, and so they remained for a good minute or two. Which was long enough for Grant to notice something close to earth-shattering. Robert was relaxed. Usually an intimidating man, Robert seemed downright casual today. He smiled easily, he wasn’t sitting ramrod straight or silently fuming, and he’d just chuckled at a joke spoken at a nearby table. Robert Percy, Lord Redhill, had chuckled.
“Good God, man,” Grant said with a bit of awe in his voice. “You’ve found it.”
“What?”
“Marital bliss.”
Robert’s eyes actually sparkled. A slow, lazy smile appeared, and he took a happy sip of his tepid tea. “Yes, it appears I have,” he said. “In fact, I highly recommend it.”
Grant stared at his friend. The man had all the luck. Sound business sense and now a happy marriage. Sadly, Grant doubted he would be so lucky in his choice of a woman, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he set down his teacup with a click. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Robert’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Found a woman, have you?” At least he didn’t sound doubtful. More… pensive.
A widow!
“It’s not like you think,” Grant said with a sigh. “Lawton’s put my family land into his eldest’s dowry. Her name’s Josephine or Megan. Don’t know whi
ch.”
Robert blinked. “Josephine, I think. Megan’s the younger one.” He leaned forward. “He refused to sell so he could make his daughter an heiress?”
Grant nodded. “I mean to marry her, but that means courting—balls and the like. So can you invite them to your ball? And me as well?”
His friend reared back. “Ball? What ball? We just got back in town yesterday.”
“It’s all the talk. Seems no one’s allowed to attend unless they’ve paid their shot to your wife’s dress shop. Damned clever, if you ask me.”
“A ball?” Robert huffed. “I was hoping to ease her into the social whirl.”
“You mean ease you in,” Grant countered.
Robert didn’t answer except to glower at his tea. Grant chuckled, pleased to see a flash of the old Robert. The one who always knew everything about business, but absolutely nothing about society. Thank God marital bliss didn’t change everything. Meanwhile, he waved to the waiter. “I think Lord Redhill is about to ask for something stronger than tea.”
Robert grimaced. “A brandy. What about you, Grant?”
Yes. The finest brandy Robert can afford. It’s been so very long!
Grant shook his head. He hadn’t touched a drop for five years. He wasn’t about to change that while he still had a campaign to run, so to speak. “So will you talk to your lady wife? Put the Lawtons on your guest list?”
“And you as well, yes.”
The widow’s prettier.
Meanwhile, Robert curled his lip at Grant. “You have to dress the part, you know. You can’t show up at my wife’s first ball looking all shaggy-eared and haggard. And I won’t even dignify whatever that is at your neck. Not a cravat, that’s for sure. You show up like that, and Helaine will wonder what kind of friends I have.”
Grant chuckled. “Too late for that. She’s married you.”
“There’s reason to stay in a wife’s good graces,” Robert retorted. “So if you want your name on the guest list, you’ll get a haircut and something that isn’t Yorkshire wool to wear.”
Grant stiffened at the insult, mild though it was. “This is the best damn wool—”
“Yes, yes. Finest in all the land. It’s all I wear since you took over. But you can’t dance in it. Not while it’s still hot outside and not while it hangs on you like a sad sack. You’ve lost weight, my friend. Been working yourself to the bone, I know, but you need to loosen the purse strings. Get yourself a decent outfit for a ball.”
Pretty widows like pretty gents.
Grant snorted, knowing it was true. “Well, since I don’t need to save my pennies to buy back the land, it appears I must use it to dress the dandy.”
“You never lacked for style before.”
“I’ll dress to dazzle. Promise.” Once, that would have made him smile in delight. Once, he’d taken great pride in his clothing. But that had been years ago. Meanwhile, Robert grunted an acknowledgment, his mind obviously somewhere else.
“Good man. Now I’ve got some questions about the mill. I’m still half owner, you know, and you’ve made rather free with the changes.”
“They made good sense and are paying off handsomely.”
Robert waved for paper and pen. “Very well then, Mr. Grant,” he said, emphasizing the name Grant used to manage the mill. “Prove to me that you’re not the biggest idiot alive.”
“With pleasure,” he said. Then he grabbed the pen and began to sketch on the paper. The numbers would come later. First he had to draw the cloth-making process with pictures and arrows and all manner of designs. Thankfully, Robert listened with serious attention, and eventually, he nodded with approval. It was quite a heady moment for Grant, more potent than any brandy had ever been. More potent than winning a pony at rats or crickets.
Too bad he would have to give up his newfound sense. In order to win a dowry, he’d have to go back to the frivolous ne’er do well he’d always been. The man the ladies adored, even though he had no substance to his life. But that was what happened to a man forced to court his fortune rather than earn it. He just hoped this Josephine wasn’t a total disaster. But how wonderful could she be? After five seasons and no husband?
It didn’t matter. He’d sworn to get the Crowle land back, and she was the means. She could have a harelip and the breath of a goat. He’d still kiss her on the day they said, “I do.”
And it would all begin at Redhill’s ball.
Fun again. Huzzah! crowed his madness. But sleep with the widow first, then court the girl.
Six
Grant did his best not to tug at his newly tied cravat. Once they had felt as natural as breathing, but it had been five years since he’d worn one arranged so elegantly. These days he often went without the thing all together.
He looked at himself in the mirror, for once seeing the changes the last five years had wrought. His baby face was lean now, almost haggard. The muscles that had once filled out his clothing were still there, but no fat softened his body. He’d lost inches everywhere, except for his height, which was above average for a man. The whole effect could be considered dashing for a scarecrow. Provided he remembered how to flirt with a wallflower—how to find that twinkle in his eyes the girls had once swooned over.
Was it even there anymore? Wasn’t that a product of a bland insouciance about life? The idea that because he was titled, things would always work out? That the creditors would not come banging on his door to drag him to debtor’s prison?
Of course, that had never been him completely. If he were honest—and he’d tried for five years to be brutally honest with himself—the specter of the end had always haunted him. Juggling debts—and controlling his father—had been an exhausting process, especially as he’d maintained the air of a Titled Tom about Town. Winning had been about survival, not fun. And losing had always cut deeper because he had to pretend it meant nothing.
Oh, stubble it! You think too much. After five years, we’re finally attending a party! Smile, you damned fool!
Grant frowned, wondering for perhaps the thousandth time if he were completely insane.
Of course you are. Now go enjoy yourself!
That was it then. He was mad. Not surprising really. Only a madman or a fool would believe that five years of hard labor wouldn’t change him. That he could pick up his old life as if he were putting on a favorite shirt or tying an intricate cravat. But it wasn’t easy. Perhaps it wasn’t even possible. After all, he’d been out of the game for five years. Could he charm a girl who’d gone five seasons without a proper offer? All he knew about her was that her name was Josephine, and she was generally considered too outspoken to make a proper bride.
That’s good. Proper brides are boring!
He flashed on the delightful Mrs. Knopp. Now there was a woman! Five years ago, he wouldn’t have bothered. Her general demeanor was rather dour, especially in her severe black. But now, he had some understanding of the strength it took to continue after something devastating. She’d lost a husband. He’d lost his entire lifestyle. That she’d had the fortitude to not only survive, but to work as a buyer, impressed him. She was smart too, which was fun. But what really set his heart to pounding was the way she’d relaxed into his arms as they were dancing.
Imagine what other things you could coax her to do!
He tried to resist his madness’s suggestions, but some thoughts would not be denied. Her body was too stiff, but once she’d started enjoying their dance, he’d felt the suppleness that came with delight. Her body had molded to his, her eyes had widened in surprise, and her lips had gone soft and moist. After years of hard things—the bed, the factory, the ledgers—her softness against him had felt like a miracle. That it hadn’t come easily to her either made the sensation all the sweeter.
You should have kissed her!
Yes, he ruefully admitted, he should have. Now that he was about to sell himself into an unwanted marriage, he wished he’d indulged himself one last time with a woman of his own choosing. He co
uld have peeled Irene’s severe black off her body. He’d bet a pony she had a body that would glow. Skin that would flush rosy pink, legs that were long and strong to grip a man, and a sweet wetness that would taste like ambrosia.
He closed his eyes, imagining the moment when he penetrated her. He’d watch her eyes widen, her lips part on a gasp, and then he would stroke her slowly. He’d build the passion with a steady thrust and grind that never failed to delight both man and woman.
There’s still time to do it! Tonight, before you set to seducing the heiress.
He couldn’t do that, he told his madness. He had to focus on charming Miss Josephine, the too-wild heiress.
He stepped into the ballroom a half hour later. He’d walked to save money, using the time to calm his racing heart. But what had really happened was that his mind began spinning with a million possibilities and possible outcomes. So much so that when he was announced at the top of the stairs, “Lord Crowle,” spoken in booming accents, the shock of unreality had him swaying slightly on his feet.
It all looked the same. The ballroom, the people, the slightly bored stares as they turned to inspect him. It felt exactly the same, as if it were still five years ago. And yet, damn, it wasn’t the same! Or rather, he had changed, while the rest of the ton hadn’t.
He descended slowly into the ballroom proper, trying to orient himself to this old landscape. With his merchant’s eye, he noted the cut of fabrics, the new styles, even the details of cloth and stitching. He’d never have seen that before. But with his old eyes—the bored aristocrat’s eyes—he saw the women inspect him, the men raise their eyebrows in greeting, and the elegant spread of food that would feed him this night. Fortunately, no one was shocked to see him again. He’d spent the last week visiting his old chums, such as they were, to garner invites to all the balls this season. He couldn’t very well charm an heiress if he wasn’t invited to the balls. And then he looked for Miss Josephine.
There!
His body suddenly jerked to a stop. He saw her. Not Lawton’s daughter, but Mrs. Knopp. Except it wasn’t the woman as he’d seen her before—all widow’s weeds and canny intelligence. No, this time she’d discarded the black. She wore his gown. The fabric he had designed with the flames building up from the skirt. It was stunning, especially as the seamstress had stitched gold threads throughout, giving a thousand tiny sparks to the fabric. And it brought Irene to life. Suddenly, she appeared to him as a woman mysterious, passionate, and on the verge of flaring to life.
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