by Darcie Wilde
“No, she wouldn’t be able to interrogate me, as you put it, but she could cut me dead in front of the whole world, which will not do our plan to be accepted by society any good at all.”
Meredith had been giving Leannah regular updates on the progress of the whispering campaign surrounding their planned end-of-season party. So far, all things seemed to be going in their favor, but people were beginning to wonder why they weren’t seen together about the town. Meredith warned her that fresh whispers might soon begin—ones that said Leannah and Harry weren’t actually married.
“Have I asked to be accepted?” Harry snapped. “By anybody? The world can like us, or leave us alone.”
For a moment, Leannah’s nerve failed her. She looked again at her left hand, where the diamond ring had glimmered for so brief a time.
Leannah looked down at her bare left hand. On the list of things that had not happened was one very important item. Harry had not offered to replace the ring. She had not mentioned it. She had held hard to the belief it would turn up again. Besides, she told herself, Harry was already laying out so much money on her and her family that it was unthinkable to ask for yet another gift. There was one other reason she kept mum on the subject that she kept hidden, even from herself.
She did not want to hear him refuse.
“We have to try, Harry,” she said.
“Why?” he shot back. “Why should it matter what anyone else thinks?”
“Because soon or late, we have to walk out of doors together. How can what we have be considered at all real if it only exists in a single set of rooms?”
Please, she whispered inwardly. It can’t be over already. We haven’t even lived in our own house yet. There’s so much left to do.
“We are the ones who decide what we have together, Leannah,” said Harry and her heart ached to hear the affection and confidence that filled those words. “The world and its appearances and its reputations don’t matter. Not to me.”
Tears pricked at the back of Leannah’s eyes. She wanted so much to keep the doors to their private world closed. She wanted to move from the hotel to the new house in the dead of night, lock its freshly painted doors, close its new burgundy drapes, and never open them again. She wanted there to be only Harry and his arms and his passion and his smiles. Her fingers knotted together. She wanted to be selfish just a little bit longer.
But that was impossible and she knew it, just as she knew what she had to do. She had to make the first move.
“Harry? Will you come home with me tomorrow?” she asked softly. “It’s high time you met my father and my brother.”
The request clearly surprised him, and it was a long, painful moment before he answered her. “I’m not asking you to do this, Leannah.”
But you should have. Why didn’t you? What are you hiding from, Harry? “No. You are not asking me, I am asking you. Will you come?”
“Of course, if you want it.” He hesitated. “But not tomorrow. I’ve a meeting I cannot miss. The day after will do just as well, won’t it?”
Their eyes met for a long moment, and Leannah felt her throat tighten. She could tell he wanted her to change her mind and leave the doors of their life closed. When she did not speak, he turned back to his shipping news and she opened her memorandum book, and if they talked, they talked of new purchases and planned purchases and the tradesmen and the weather.
That night, his lovemaking was fierce beyond measure and afterward Harry held her like he never meant to let her go. Leannah lay awake for a very long time, listening to him breathe, and hoping he would not open his eyes to see the tear that trickled down her cheek.
Thirty-Two
“Well now, Harry Rayburn.” The grizzled man in the checkered waistcoat held out his hand for Harry to shake. “I hear you’ve been having quite the time of it.”
Harry shrugged and took the chair the other man kicked out toward him. The Turkish and Mediterranean coffeehouse was filled to bursting around them and Harry had not even bothered trying to fight his way to the counter to get himself a cup.
“I’ve got married, Mr. Brooks.” Harry shouted to be heard over the din. “That’ll bring changes in any man’s life.”
Thomas Brooks was a short, stout man. The seams of his blue coat strained across his arms, and his waistcoat’s silver buttons were on the verge of giving way. Combined with his gray hair, this might give him the appearance of being somebody’s kindly uncle, but that impression would only last until a man looked into his glittering little eyes.
This wasn’t any relatively genteel establishment, like St. Alban’s. The Turkey and Mediterranean was as much a trading post as it was a coffeehouse, and just now it was getting ready for an auction. Men were crammed at the tables, watching the sacks of spice and bolts of cloth being brought in. The salesmen ran about waving papers, affixing seals to sacks, boxes, and bags, dodging in between those interested buyers who were prodding and fingering the merchandise. They skirted yet more men who stood around pursuing lists and bills and timetables that plastered the walls. All of these worthies seemed to be arguing with each other at the top of their lungs.
“Marriage ain’t the beginning nor the end of your adventures from what I hear.” Mr. Brooks planted both elbows on the splintered tabletop. “I hear . . .”
“I’m not here to discuss my home life, Mr. Brooks,” said Harry quickly. “I’m on the lookout for new employment, and I heard you were in need of a new buyer.”
“That I am.” Mr. Brooks rubbed his double chin thoughtfully. “Some trouble with your father is it?”
“It’s just time I struck out on my own,” replied Harry evenly. He’d spent most of the drive down here getting ready for this line of questioning. The haut ton didn’t hold any kind of monopoly on gossip. Coffeehouses and alehouses could spread rumors with an efficiency that would put many a drawing room to shame. “But my capital won’t yet stretch to setting up my own establishment.”
“Well, that’ll come, that’ll come.” As he spoke, Brooks narrowed his keen eyes at Harry. A massive river of goods flowed up the Thames to supply the needs and desires of London and its surrounding towns. All of it passed through the warehouses that filled the labyrinth of docks and quays. The men who ran those houses were a sharp crew. They could all of them smell a rat, or the inland revenue, a mile upwind in a freshening gale. They could smell trouble just as easily, and they were used to making quick judgments about the character of any man in front of them.
Mr. Brooks sighed and shook his head. “Well, I’d be sorry if I was helping keep up any kind of quarrel between you and your father, Harry.” He paused, and Harry held his breath. “But there’s no denying I could use a man of your savvy and experience on my side. So, here’s my hand on it.”
Brooks held out his meaty hand for Harry to clasp and shake. Harry hoped the noise around them covered the sound of the long, relieved breath that rushed out of him.
“You turn up at my place tomorrow morning bright and early, and we’ll settle the details. Are you staying for the sale?” Brooks nodded toward the men who were clustered by the hearth, arguing over yet another set of papers.
“No, not today. I’ve got some shopping to do.” Harry got to his feet and reclaimed his hat and stick.
“Ah yes. Heavy is the lot of married men.” Mr. Brooks winked. “Good luck to you, Harry. But if you don’t mind a word of advice . . .”
“Depends entirely what it is, Mr. Brooks.”
Brooks chuckled, but when he spoke, he was perfectly serious. “Mend this thing with your father. Won’t do you nor your new missus any good to start out on the wrong foot.”
Harry made no answer. Any reply he could muster would be an angry one, and this man was his new employer. He just raised his hat, and shouldered his way through the milling crowd.
* * *
Mend this thing with your father. Harry stepped out into the street and took as deep a breath as he could stand of the thick, dockside air. It took two to
mend a quarrel, just as it did to make one. Since his disastrous stop home, all he’d had from his father—from any of his family—was silence. The message in that silence seemed to Harry perfectly clear. Unless and until he could return in the character of the son they wanted, he would be left to go his own way, alone and unacknowledged.
Very well. If they didn’t want to know him, he didn’t want to know them. He and Leannah would manage perfectly well on their own. He had plenty of money to take care of what was necessary to get them started, and now he had employment. He could look forward to making a clean start for them both. He didn’t need his family’s prevarications or any attempt to explain away his life.
Harry glanced at his watch. He’d stroll up to the carriage house and hire a hack to take him over to Bond Street. He’d finally settled on a gift for Leannah and it was promised to be ready for today.
Harry felt a smile form, and he was able to shake off the last of Brooks’s remarks. Let Brooks or the world make as many remarks as they chose. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but that he and Leannah were together.
He told himself this several more times, with improvements and elaborations. He let his thoughts linger particularly over the feeling of Leannah’s body in his arms, especially when they were in bed together and she turned toward him, her face flushed with heat and desire.
These pleasant thoughts so occupied Harry, he didn’t notice the carriage pulling up beside him.
“Hullo, Harry. Thought I might find you down here.”
It was Penrose. Nathaniel leaned out of an enclosed and thoroughly anonymous carriage. He also looked like he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. His chin was stubbled and his deep blue eyes had rings around them. A twinge of concern at his friend’s appearance touched Harry, but he did his best to ignore it. After their last conversation, he was in no mood to look with sympathy on any of Penrose’s troubles.
“On your own today?” Harry peered into the carriage. “Montcalm too fastidious to come down this way?”
Nathaniel declined to acknowledge this barb. Instead, he unlatched the carriage door. “Get in, Harry. We’ve got business.”
“I’ve got no business with you.”
“Yes, actually, you do,” replied Nathaniel evenly and he pushed the door open a little farther. “Because it concerns Mrs. Rayburn.”
Anger rose instantly in him and Harry took a tighter grip on his stick. “Penrose, I’m warning you—”
“You may warn me all you like,” Nathaniel cut Harry off with weary impatience. “Get in, Rayburn. This is important.”
Harry opened his mouth, intending to growl his dismissal at the other man. He had no need of any friend whose goal was to end his marriage, or any other part of his life. But the years of friendship proved too strong for that, especially when coupled with the serious expression on Nathaniel’s face. This wasn’t Nathaniel in search of a quarrel. Harry looked again at his unshaved chin and rumpled coat. Something really had happened.
Frowning, Harry climbed into the carriage and closed the door. Nathaniel rapped his knuckles on the roof to signal the driver to start.
“So, what is it?” Harry planted his stick in front of himself and folded his hands across the top.
Nathaniel contemplated him for a long moment, but what he was looking for Harry could not tell.
“How have you been, Harry?” he asked, as if he’d turned up during some pleasant little outing in the park rather than trolling the Cornhill district in search of him.
“Perfectly well, thank you.”
“Your family’s worried about you.”
“Then they can ask after me themselves.”
Nathaniel shook his head. “And Mrs. Rayburn? Is she well?”
Whatever momentary patience Harry might have mustered for his friend’s small talk snapped abruptly. “What’s this about, Nathaniel? You didn’t come to take me on a buggy ride so you could pry into my personal business.”
“No,” Penrose admitted. “At least, not entirely. Your family is worried and they have asked me how you’ve been. But that’s not my mission today.” He glanced out the window, and was apparently satisfied with what he saw, because he turned his gaze back to Harry. “Has Mrs. Rayburn ever mentioned a man named Terrance Valloy?”
“Not in my hearing,” answered Harry at once. “Why should she?”
“It was widely expected the pair of them would become engaged, up until the moment she married you, that is.”
“What of it?” Harry shrugged, irritated. If this was Penrose’s new attack against Leannah, it was pretty weak stuff. “It was widely expected I was to become engaged to Agnes Featherington, up until the moment she turned me down.”
“‘Widely’ is perhaps coming a bit strong, but never mind that. Terrance Valloy, like old Octavian Morehouse, is a speculator. Unlike Morehouse, Valloy is actually good at it.” Nathaniel paused again, and perused the passing street again. “What do you know about the markets, Harry?”
“If you’ve a lecture to give me, get on with it, Penrose. Unlike you, I’ve got business to attend to.”
Penrose sighed and rubbed his eyes, which once more emphasized their dark rings. Harry bit his tongue and tried to rein in his temper. Despite all, Nathaniel was his friend. He was wrong about Leannah and her character, but whatever “mission” brought him here, it was not mere gossip or vague suspicion. It took much more than that to rattle a man like Penrose.
“All right. Here’s the long and the short of it. The financial markets are mostly illusion. That illusion is that anybody with a bit of money can get stinking rich if he’s a little smart and a little lucky. But the truth is the ones who make money are the ones who already have it; they’re the ones who know each other and who pass information along to each other from inside the exchanges and the clubs. Everyone else is just scrambling after their crumbs. Some of those men are more or less honest. Some of them, though, rig the game. They make sure of their outcomes by bribing public officials or the members of corporate boards to get the results they want. Others just pay for secrets, and get together to make sure they can play those secrets to their best advantage.” He lifted his head. “Has Mrs. Rayburn mentioned any recent contact between her family and Mr. Dickenson?”
“What’s Dickenson to do with it? I thought you were talking about this Valloy.”
“I have it on very good authority that Dickenson has been meeting with, and writing to, Terrance Valloy.” Nathaniel paused again. “He also recently had a meeting with the young Miss Morehouse. That meeting ended in a quarrel, and Dickenson raised his hand to her.”
Harry felt himself go quite still. It was a long moment before he could speak again. He should have taken care of Dickenson when he had the chance. A man who would even threaten to lay a hand on a girl was no man at all.
When he regained control of his voice, he asked, “What did they quarrel about?”
“My source didn’t hear the whole of it, but it seems she was supposed to bring something to him, and that something had gone missing. Afterward, he got angry with her, and threatened her.”
Leannah had said nothing of this, and Harry knew she was in Genny’s company almost every day. Worry rose in him, dark and restless. He kicked it angrily away. He needed to concentrate on essentials, and not let Penrose’s innuendo and suspicion distract him. “Was Leannah at this supposed meeting with Dickenson?”
“She was not seen.”
Bloody spy. Can’t talk straight even when it’s important. I’ll bet you’re your own “source.” “Then she probably didn’t even know the thing happened.” If her sister was the victim of such an outrage and Leannah knew of it, she would tell him. They already had ample proof, however, that Genevieve could keep her secrets. After all, it was her elopement that had started this whole business.
Her elopement with Anthony Dickenson.
“It is not a supposed meeting. It did happen,” said Penrose. How could a man speak so softly and yet remain so impossi
ble to ignore? “I’ve told you, Dickenson is bent, and Valloy has been known to wander from the straight and narrow himself, when he thinks it will be to his advantage.” Nathaniel leaned forward. “Harry, please believe me. I am here because I am your friend. There is an investigation happening. It’s not public yet, but it will be soon. The Dickenson clan have all been very busy of late, and money is changing hands. They’re covering their tracks well, so no one quite knows what their aim is yet. But the one straight line anybody’s got so far goes from Anthony Dickenson to Terrance Valloy, and now it’s headed for the Morehouse family.”
Damn you, Penrose. Harry ground his teeth together. Damn me, too.
Because he couldn’t stop his mind from running over everything Leannah had told him about her sister. He thought about all the time she and Genny had spent together, and the number of visits she’d made to her former home. She’d only shared the most trivial of news about what had happened there—new servants, new clothes, and such. He hadn’t thought much of it before. There was so much else to occupy his attention when he was with Leannah, first and foremost Leannah herself. But Nathaniel’s words cast a fresh, cold light over those vagaries, and they did not look so trivial at all.
Then there was all that Leannah had not said—like why she hadn’t yet reclaimed her wedding ring. He’d given her plenty of time. In fact, he’d carefully avoided bringing the subject up. He’d hated the ring anyway, and it was entirely wrong for her, but still, he’d been waiting for her to bring it back or at least say where it had gone. It was irrational and perhaps even mean spirited of him, but it hurt that Leannah had taken the thing off, and given it away, even though she had the best of reasons for doing so.
And it was Genevieve she’d given it to.
The worry in him rose higher. It closed over his head and dragged him down.
