Ellianne would not believe her sister dead, either. After all, Isabelle had sent one water-stained, illegible letter—from who-knew-where. No, something was wrong, terribly wrong, and something had to be done about it. Ellis Kane’s daughter had not been raised to sit back and let others take charge, or wait for them to act. Hadn’t she dismissed those embezzlers at the bank and increased its holdings threefold herself, until she could hire responsible managers? Hadn’t she started that school where poor girls could learn to sew and cook, as well as read and write, so they could make something of their lives? She might not have built the structure with her own hands, by heaven, but she had made sure the thing got done. She’d hired the best architect and the best brickworkers. She’d found the most accomplished, dedicated instructors for the school and the most astute, honest financiers for the bank.
Then as now, if she could not accomplish her goals herself, she would hire the best man for the job.
Chapter Eight
Ellianne decided to sleep on her decision. The problem was, she couldn’t sleep. She was in a strange bed in a strange house, and she was about to entrust herself and her sister to a strange gentleman. Not that Lord Wellstone was peculiar; he was simply unknown to her. And she could not help still feeling intimidated by the viscount’s physical appearance, his air of assurance, those smiling blue eyes that might be laughing at her, even as he took her money.
On the other hand, he needed her money. Knowing his motives was almost as much protection as the pistol under her pillow. She was paying the piper; therefore she was calling the tunes. She would not be taken in by Wellstone’s charm, but she would demand his loyalty. She’d have to make that clear. And the need for discretion. And speed.
She got up to make a new chart. If she was going to deal with Lord Wellstone, it would be on her terms, all business, like at the bank. When entering into a transaction, one listed the clauses and provisions so both parties understood the agreement. Just so would she spell out the conditions of Wellstone’s employment. That way, she felt, she would be treading familiar ground, instead of hurtling into the unknown.
On one side of her paper she listed the duties she expected his lordship to perform. On the other side she wrote what seemed fair compensation for his time. Of course, she could not put a monetary value on loyalty, but introducing her to girls of Isabelle’s age could not take a great deal of effort on Lord Wellstone’s part. Helping her break into Lord Strickland’s house might be a bit more difficult.
She tallied the sums instantly in her head, as always, then retotaled the column. Now she was satisfied with her calculations and efficiency, confident that Wellstone would recognize her as a creature of logic and maturity instead of the blithering ninny of their first meeting. Then she reminded herself that she was the one in charge. He would be working for her, not doing her favors. It should not matter what he thought of her.
It did. She climbed back into bed, mentally writing the note asking him to call in the afternoon, so she had time to wash her hair. She planned what she would wear when he arrived, and what to have Cook serve. There. Now she could face Lord Wellstone with poise and dignity.
And shadows under her eyes. Ellianne still could not sleep. She tossed and turned for hours, it seemed. Then she took the pistol from under her pillow and placed it on the night table.
She awoke early, long before Aunt Lally arose, and composed her note, at least five times. She had to admit that she was reconsidering hiring Wellstone, but not that she was desperate for his assistance. When she felt she had the right tone, not too imperious, not too humble, she enclosed the same check, then affixed her seal.
Having inquired when she wrote the first letter, Ellianne knew that Timmy would have to send a footman across the square and over a few streets. The day was too young to have her messenger wait for a reply, though. Goodness, if Wellstone was like other London gentlemen, he would not be out of bed yet. He might not have returned home from his evening’s revels until a mere hour or two ago. Ellianne could have to wait for hours for a reply, unless he simply appeared at her doorstep again. Or simply did not answer. After all, she had rescinded her offer of employment. Perhaps he had taken another post.
Well, the sooner the letter got to him, the sooner she would know. And how foolish to take a servant away from his tasks when she had nothing better to do but fret. She could use the exercise and fresh air besides, since she was used to walking to the bank every morning. Then, too, she could still change her mind along the way, or once she saw how imposing the viscount’s town house was, or if his servants treated her disrespectfully.
So early, in such an elegant neighborhood, she did not fear being accosted by hoodlums. Since few people knew of her arrival in Town, she did not worry over being approached by so-called gentlemen either. She was tired of being so cautious, so afraid. It was time she took her own life back, instead of hiding in the house like some forest creature trembling in its burrow against unnamed dangers. Writing the letter to Lord Wellstone was a first step; delivering the letter herself was the second.
Making the decision to hire the viscount—if he accepted her terms—might have bolstered her confidence, but it did not make her a fool. Aunt Lally was asleep, and toothless Atlas was useless, so she took her maid…and her pistol.
*
Stony was going to wait three days, rather than two, so he did not appear desperate for Miss Kane’s blunt. No, he decided, the peagoose could get into too much trouble in another day. He’d stop by this morning on his way to Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Parlor and speak with the butler, Timms. Miss Kane would likely be asleep until noon, anyway, like most other females of his acquaintance. Old Timms seemed knowledgeable despite his age, and Stony needed to learn the lay of the land before he threw himself into the fray. He doubted Miss Kane could tell him what he wanted to know, if she even understood the perils of her situation. He was certain to get a better idea of conditions at Sloane Street from the butler than from the bacon-brained heiress. Hell, he’d get more coherent answers from the parrot!
He liked walking. He could be halfway to his destination before his curricle was brought ’round from the livery stable, and why should he pay the price of a hackney cab when he had legs of his own? What was the point of driving to an exercise session, anyway? This early in the morning he could enjoy the streets before they were filled with carriages and strolling Society. Stony noted that the trees were well budded, that the gardeners had been busy in the squares and the side yards of some of the houses, that one of the maids polishing the brass stair rails had a fine singing voice. The Woodruff sisters could have taken lessons from her. He tipped his hat to the soprano, and she gave him a friendly wink and a wave with her cleaning rag. Yes, he enjoyed mornings, especially ones like this when the sun was out and his fellow men were in. No blather, no bother with yesterday’s scandal or tomorrow’s gossip. No, the only ones out at this time of day were servants, tradesmen, and working people—like him.
His pleasure in the day faded.
Then it evaporated completely when he spotted two women on the steps of what was once Lady Augusta’s town house and now belonged to an imbecilic, ill-favored…dog. Miss Kane did not own the residence, he recalled. She was leaving it, though. Even from this distance he could recognize her height and spare form, and the black skirts.
Stony was not pleased to see the woman going abroad so early. Didn’t she realize there was no one about if she needed help? At least she had a maid with her, so the woman did have a shred of care for her safety and her reputation. He was also pleased to see that the maid, identified by a drab gray gown and a serviceable cloak, knew her trade, or had some pride in her employment. Today Miss Kane wore a fashionable green pelisse with black trim in the current military style over her black gown. She also wore a black satin bonnet, but at least the dreariness of the deep-brimmed, concealing hat was relieved by a green feather.
The same brim that hid Miss Kane’s face from view also kept her
unaware of Stony’s approach. He could wait for her to leave before speaking with Timms, or he could follow to see where she was going so early, before the shops were open. Church? An assignation? He thought Timms would accompany her to the first, and could not imagine who would join her for the second.
In the end, he decided on candor, if not complete honesty. He quickened his pace to intercept her before she reached the corner. “Miss Kane, how delightful to see you out and about.”
“Lord Wellstone?” Ellianne was stunned. The ink on her letter was barely dry, much less delivered, yet here he was. She hid the letter in a fold of her skirt, which was not the gown she’d intended to wear for their next interview. Nor was her hair styled properly. He, of course, was looking magnificent in fawn breeches and gleaming high-topped boots. The slight breeze had ruffled his hair and brought a healthy glow to his fair complexion. His eyes were even bluer than she recalled, bluer than the sunlit sky. “That is, good morning, sir.”
“It is, is it not? My favorite time of day. As a matter of fact, I was on my way to pay you a call.”
Ellianne frowned. Even she knew that proper morning calls were made after twelve o’clock. “So early?”
“Actually, I was going to ask Timms the best hour to stop by. But this is better. May I accompany you on your errand, whatever it is?”
What, let him walk her to his own house? Ellianne crumpled the letter into a ball in her fist. “Oh, we were just going to the park,” she replied, the maid’s start of surprise giving away the lie.
“Excellent,” he said, “that was my next stop.” He placed her gloved hand on his arm and turned in the opposite direction from where she had been headed. “Unless you mind my escort? I wished to know how you were getting on in town, and if matters were working out to your satisfaction.”
He meant Mr. Lattimer or Baron Strickland, she knew, and was being diplomatic for the maid’s sake. Ellianne could be diplomatic, too. “They are now.” For the rest of the walk to the park, Lord Wellstone kept up a steady stream of conversation, pointing out this notable garden, that impressive architecture. He remarked on the Thoroughbreds being ridden past for their morning gallops, and the drayhorses pulling their loads. Since Ellianne only had to nod and add the occasional “Oh?” she had a chance to think. If she was going to engage his services, she ought to be honest with the man. After all, she expected nothing less in return. And what happened to her resolve to be masterful, assured, in command? She refused to turn into a fluttering, flea-brained fool just because her companion was tall and handsome and charming and intelligent and built like a Roman warrior and….
“Millie,” she addressed her maid as soon as they were on the pedestrian path in the park and near some benches, “why do you not sit and enjoy the rare sunshine awhile? His lordship and I will stroll a bit farther, but not out of sight.”
There, she was acting decisively, while showing her acceptance of the rules for polite behavior, rules she expected the viscount to follow. Proud of herself, she held her head high and marched down the path until she found another bench, set on a higher rise, away from the foot traffic. “This offers a lovely view, does it not, my lord?”
All Stony could see was that wretched black bonnet, but he agreed, and took his seat beside her, not close enough to be suggestive, not so far away that their words could be overheard.
There were no words. Miss Kane was staring at the vista, wadding her handkerchief in her hands.
Finally Stony said, “Perhaps we should start anew.”
“Yes, I would like that.”
He nodded. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Kane. I am Aubrey, Viscount Wellstone, but my friends call me Stony, and I am at your service.” He held his hand out, and she dropped her handkerchief into it. Deuce take it, the woman still had no idea how to shake hands, or offer her fingers for a polite tribute. No, it was a letter, crumpled into a ball.
He looked at her, or what he could see under the brim of her bonnet, but found no answers there, only pale cheeks and shadowed eyes, so he smoothed out the folded, sealed page and saw his own name on the outside.
“I was going to call at your house to deliver this.”
When he broke the seal with his finger the bank draft fell out, much creased and crumpled, but still legible, still worth one hundred blessed pounds. Stony raised one blond eyebrow.
“I need your help,” was all she said.
“You have it.”
“But there are conditions,” she said at the same time he added, “Depending on your requirements.”
“That is only fair,” Ellianne agreed. “You should not commit yourself until you know what is expected of you.”
“Nothing illegal, I trust,” he said with a smile, to think of this sober-sided spinster asking him escort her to gaming hells and bordellos, the worst he could think of her expectations.
“I cannot promise that.”
Which wiped the smile right off his face. “Perhaps, since we have begun anew, you should begin at the start.”
“Very well. To put it simply, my sister is missing. I will do anything it takes to find her, including hiring a—”
“Bow Street Runner?”
“Precisely. Mr. Lattimer. Except that he cannot go the places you can go. He cannot introduce me to members of society who might recall meeting her, or remember whom she spoke to, or who was the particular gentleman who took her fancy. He cannot make inquiries at the gentlemen’s clubs about who left Town, or who needed money so badly he might have abducted an heiress.”
Stony let out a deep breath. “Is that what you think happened to your sister?”
“I do not know. No ransom note has been sent, nor a wedding announcement with a demand for her dowry. I do not know what to believe anymore.”
At the quaver in her voice, Stony started to reach for his handkerchief, but Miss Kane gathered her composure and said, “Nevertheless, I do believe I will find her.”
Gwen would have turned into a watering pot by now, Stony knew. He was glad Miss Kane was made of sterner stuff. She would have to be, to face such a crisis. Now he felt bad about the disparaging thoughts he’d had of her. No wonder the poor woman was ready for Bedlam. Anyone would be, he supposed.
“Why don’t you tell me what you know, so I can better understand what you want me to do?”
So she did. She explained how Isabelle had come to London at their aunt’s invitation—and Ellianne’s own urging—to see something of Town, to meet eligible gentlemen and attend parties. She was under no obligation to find a husband, not at nineteen years of age, not with her substantial income. She had left home four months ago, well before the start of the social Season, so she might shop and see the sights.
Her first letters were of the places she had seen, the stores and the commotion that was London. Then she mentioned paying calls with Aunt Augusta, and receiving invitations. Their aunt’s health was deteriorating, she wrote, so they did not accept as many of those as they had hoped, but Isabelle was content. Not used to having three entertainments every evening or changing her outfits four times a day, Isabelle was happy enough to have made some new acquaintances. One was a special friend, she hoped, but would not dare put her emotions on paper, not even to her sister, until she was certain her feelings were reciprocated.
“Ah, the unnamed suitor.”
Ellianne nodded. “She never mentioned him by name, only as her special friend, and that Aunt Augusta did not encourage his interest.”
“Which might have meant your aunt knew the fellow was unworthy.”
“Or it might have meant she had another choice in mind for Isabelle, one of higher birth.”
“Not…?”
“Yes, Baron Strickland.”
“But he is far too old for a young female, far too worldly for an innocent maid. Surely your aunt could not have promoted a match between them?”
“I assure you she could, despite my remonstrances. Isabelle’s next-to-last letter was about a d
rive she took with his lordship. Aunt Augusta declared herself too ill to leave the house, and Strickland was the only escort she would permit my sister.”
“No wonder the chit disappeared.”
“No, she did not leave because she feared marriage to Lord Strickland. She knew I would never allow her to be wed against her will. And he knew that I controlled her dowry, so he would never get his greedy hands on the property he craved.”
“Unusual, isn’t it, for one young woman to manage another’s estate?”
“Unusual, but not unheard of. When I turned one and twenty, I decided to examine our inheritance more carefully. I found that the bank’s trustees, our trustees, were embezzling funds. With proof, I had the courts make them surrender their guardianship—and replace the funds, of course—or face imprisonment. No one was named in their stead.”
Stony was impressed and said so.
She thanked him, saying, “I have a head for figures.”
Which made up, he decided, for the fact that she had no figure. “So you have been managing Kane Bank?”
“Not the day-to-day operations, of course, for which I found honest managers. But yes, I oversee the bank. And our investments, and Fairview. That is our estate, which used to belong to Baron Strickland, until he forfeited on a mortgage loan before Isabelle was even born.”
“You say you control your sister’s dowry, but could not a desperate man force your hand?”
“You mean force Isabelle to the altar? I do not think so. I taught my sister how to discourage importunate suitors, and how to defend herself against those like the baron who might become, ah, amorous.”
“You taught her from experience, I take it?”
“To my regret. I was Baron Strickland’s first choice of bride, naturally, being older and less well protected than Isabelle.”
A Perfect Gentleman Page 8
