by Nichole Van
“Really, Belle dearest, you must give that letter a rest.” Anne’s voice broke into Belle’s internal monologuing, as it was wont to do.
Belle bit her lip, blinking furiously.
“My poor friend.” Empathy tinged Anne’s voice as she bent over her embroidery. “This situation is most difficult.”
“Yes,” Belle whispered, digging a handkerchief out of her pocket. “I just wish I knew what to do.”
“There isn’t much to do. He is a married man now, Belle.”
“I know.”
“You must tell him the truth of LHF. That point is not up for debate.”
“I know. But he will be significantly betrayed. I didn’t realize until receiving this letter that he thought he knew LHF.”
It only underscored how little she knew about Blake. It was odd. Knowing someone so well, and yet, not at all.
“Will you write to tell him? Or are you still set on waiting and doing the deed in person?”
Sucking in a deep breath, Belle dabbed at her eyes.
“I am unsure,” she whispered. “He will likely be angry. It is a most difficult matter. Our lives are so thoroughly entangled. He’s at sea at the moment, so any letter won’t reach him until he lands in England regardless. I could contact his solicitor and arrange a meeting . . .” Her voice drifted off. Just the mere thought of seeing Blake, face-to-face, and telling him . . .
She swallowed. Perhaps if they continued to exchange necessary business correspondence through Mr. Sloan, all would be well—
“Belle.” Warning in Anne’s tone. Her friend clearly read Belle’s vacillation. “This situation with Lord Blake was problematic before. Now that he is married and returning to England, it is most unseemly. It would utterly ruin you if it were made known. You cannot avoid telling him.”
“I will tell him, Anne.” Belle finished drying her tears. “I simply need several weeks to let the initial sting of this disappointment fade. Then I will map a course of action.”
Seeing Anne’s disapproving look, Belle rushed to add, “There is no urgent rush. Any letter I write will not reach him now. Blake is on a ship somewhere between here and India at present; correspondence with him is nearly impossible. I must think through what to do with our joint business ventures, and what I would like the rest of my life to be.”
Silence. The clock ticked on the mantelpiece. Traffic clattered outside. Somewhere in the house, footmen polished silver, metal clinking.
“Will you marry, do you think?” Anne asked into the quiet.
Belle asked herself that question quite frequently.
Unbidden, Blake’s words from all those years ago fluttered through her:
If you reach a point where you want a permanent companion or children, then seek out a man to share your life with you. But only marry because it is your heart’s desire.
Yes, marriage was her heart’s desire currently. She longed for it. After years of channeling all her energy into her business, she was more-than-ready for the next phase of her life: a husband and children.
She ached to build a family with someone. For quite some time, that someone had been Lord Blake. Belle closed her eyes, anguished tightness clenching her chest. She swallowed back the lump burning in her throat.
Any possibility of that dream was now shattered.
His marriage aside, had she honestly entertained the idea that Blake would forgive her trespasses? Her small white lies?
He was a good man, but even Blake’s warm heart had bounds.
Her only choice now was to plot a course for her own life without Blake.
“I can nearly see my children. I hear their laughter sometimes in my dreams.” Belle met Anne’s gaze.
“Children require a husband,” Anne said.
“Yes.” Belle looked out the window, forcing herself to think past her current heartbreak. She was not so naive as to believe she would meet another man such as Blake. “I . . . I will have to put this disappointment behind me . . . somehow . . .” Her voice ended on a whisper.
Silence hung in the room.
Both she and Anne knew that would prove a long road.
Belle waved a hand toward Blake’s letter. “There is nothing more to do. I must move on. I am six and twenty. Any longer, and there may be no children for me.”
Though Belle wanted to bury herself in the country for a solid decade, mourning the loss of what would never be, such a thing simply was not possible. Not if she wished for a family of her own.
More silence.
Anne smiled, a little wanly. “Shall I draw up a list of potential suitors for you?”
Belle barely avoided a grimace.
But . . . Anne had the right of it.
“You know that you will have your pick of men, Belle dear,” Anne continued.
Though it sounded arrogant, Anne spoke truth.
As the wealthiest unmarried woman in all of England, Belle was a highly-sought prize. Though she had not actively pursued marriage up to this point, she most certainly hadn’t hidden away as a recluse either. Attending social functions of any sort meant inviting the acquaintance of unmarried gentleman.
She knew that most potential suitors—particularly the penniless ones—viewed her as a challenge. To them, Belle was the proverbial sword in the stone. Like crusaders of old, they would throw themselves against her walls, knowing that winning her hand guaranteed them a king’s ransom. The man who succeeded in fixing her affections ensured for himself a life of ease and luxury.
Consequently, nearly every eligible gentleman in London would first try his luck with Miss Heartstone before proposing marriage to another woman. Such was the lure of her . . . assets.
Belle nearly snorted at her own cleverness.
No one ever praised her person, her wit, her beauty . . .
Well, they did, she supposed. But only as a way to her fortune. Such compliments were usually too extravagant to be taken seriously. What was it Mr. Carleton had said over the pianoforte four evenings ago?
“We should carve you a pedestal, so all can admire your exquisite beauty.”
Though Belle supposed she should be grateful. Mr. Carleton’s fawning manner was not nearly as ridiculous as some. Sir Reginald Spears had been particularly absurd. What had he said?
“We should change your name to Helen, dearest Miss Heartstone, because I am quite certain your radiant beauty could launch a thousand ships.”
After that particular incident, Belle had taken to preemptively declining many a gentleman to avoid such preposterous lip service. Otherwise, she feared her eyes would be permanently strained from the effort to stop them rolling entirely out of her head.
Honestly.
She was so much more than a mere ornament, even if she were a great beauty to be admired. Though it would be lovely to be known and admired for something beyond her vast wealth. Or, at least, to have a suitor who recognized the intellect and hard work that created it.
The passage of years had been kind to her, she supposed. Anne insisted that Belle was even more handsome at twenty-six than she had been at nineteen; her lingering baby fat had melted away, leaving her face regally sculpted.
Belle wasn’t quite sure she agreed.
Thanks to Blake’s friendship, she knew her own worth. She would never be wallpaper to decorate a man’s life—some polite, all-but-invisible bauble. Belle wondered if that sense of confidence was more her allure than anything else.
The problem remained, however. How to separate fortune-hunters from other genuinely eligible men? And, more importantly, would interest in another man help heal her shattered heart?
“Yes, Anne,” Belle conceded. “I suppose it’s time to create a serious list of potential suitors.”
Anne nodded. “Consider it done. I will look through your list of current invitations and see if there are one or two that will help us narrow the field down more quickly.”
Belle nodded.
In the meantime . . .
Six months.
She had six months before Blake would return. Time enough to shutter her wayward heart, sort out her own life, and decide how to address the wrongs she had inflicted on her business partner and best friend.
As with everything else she faced, Belle simply needed a plan.
PART II
Betrayals
April, 1823
9
. . . I would be honored to attend the balloon ascension with yourself and Lord Stratton, Monday next.
And in reply to your other question, you quite have the right of my situation at present. I have decided that this is the year in which I will finally seek a husband in earnest. You and Stratton have inspired me. So, yes, I am content to have Lord Odysseus included in our small outing . . .
—excerpt of a letter from Miss Heartstone to her friend, Georgiana Carew, Lady Stratton, dated April 14, 1823
Belle stretched on her tiptoes, trying to see over the heads of those around her.
“Oh, heavens!” She gave a startled gasp, clutching a hand to her chest.
An enormous, round balloon rose slowly into the air, its bright red and blue stripes glinting in the early morning light. The thousands of gathered spectators cheered and whistled.
“How marvelous!” That bit came from Georgiana, Lady Stratton, at Belle’s side. “This was a brilliant idea, even if it did require rising at such an appallingly-early hour.”
“Of course, it was a brilliant idea. I thought of it.” Lord Stratton chuckled at his wife’s side.
“They say Mr. Green took his horse up with him last year.” Lord Odysseus shook his head in wonder, leaning in closer to Belle. “I should desperately like to try my hand at such a thing.”
Belle smiled, exchanging a glance with Anne beside her.
They made a merry band—Lord and Lady Stratton, Belle with Anne as her companion, and Lord Odysseus Camthon. They had all risen early, trekking to Hyde Park to watch a balloon ascension. Mr. Charles Green, a noted balloonist, planned to fly in his balloon this morning.
Lord Stratton and Belle shared the same great-great grandfather, making them distant cousins. As such, they had consistently been thrown into each other’s orbits. Lord Stratton had been most helpful from time to time when Belle needed advice on dealing with parliament and assisting veterans.
More to the point, Belle had seized on the loose family connection as an excuse to claim Lady Stratton as a friend. Georgiana was close to Belle’s age and sparked with good humor. So naturally, Georgiana had instantly gone into matchmaking mode once she learned that her dear friend was officially seeking a husband.
“At last!” had been her precise words.
Granted, Belle was still reeling from Blake’s letter announcing his impending nuptials. Only four weeks had passed and her heart was still raw and sore. She had yet to receive a follow-up letter announcing that his nuptials had indeed occurred. Had he and his new bride decided to take a wedding trip? The wait for Blake’s next letter was proving positively criminal in its cruelty.
Worse, Belle didn’t really have time to properly nurse her dashed hopes. The London Season was in full swing. And all the civilized world knew that the height of the London Season was the place to see and be seen.
So if Belle wished to survey prospective husbands, this was the time to do it. She simply needed to summon the proper enthusiasm for the task.
All of which explained Lord Odysseus’s presence. Lord Odysseus was Belle’s most devoted suitor at the moment. Georgiana had introduced them and was convinced that Lord Odysseus would be the perfect match for Belle.
Belle was still undecided on that score.
More to the point, as the fifth son of a duke, Lord Odysseus Camthon was rich in impeccable aristocratic breeding and decidedly poor in everything else. He needed a wealthy wife.
His father apparently had a fascination with Homer and named each of his children after a different character. Lord Odysseus’ elder brother—Agamemnon Camthon, Lord Hentley (or Aggie to his closest friends)—was the current heir to the dukedom. But should something happen to Aggie, Lords Hector, Paris, Achilles, and Odysseus waited in the wings.
Belle shot Lord Odysseus a sideways glance.
To be sure, Lord Odysseus Camthon certainly took his heroic name to heart. Draped in a fashionable caped greatcoat, Lord Odysseus was danger and mystery personified. Darkly handsome with striking blue eyes and plenty of devil-may-care swagger, he had recently returned to England after years abroad. His charm and stunning good looks had cut a wide swath through the hearts of every lady in his path. No one quite knew how he had passed his time abroad, but rumor stated Lord Odysseus had been, at times, a privateer for His Majesty, an advisor to the Sultan of Bhutan, a marooned pirate, and a crowned chieftain among the people of Bligh.
Georgiana had her fingers crossed that Lord Odysseus had truly been a chieftain.
Belle hoped he proved slightly more stable than his name and reputation would suggest.
She could not, however, fault his flawless manners and dashing persona. Dressed in the first stare of fashion—long overcoat draping elegantly down to his polished boots, starched collar points high and extending above his chin—he oozed charisma. Lord Odysseus truly did appear to have stepped straight from the pages of a swoon-worthy gothic novel.
More importantly, Belle believed his interest in her to be genuine. Underneath his panache, she caught glimpses of an empathic heart. They had common interests and were able to talk with ease. And if sometimes Belle wondered if things would have been similarly easy with Blake, well . . .
Belle refused to contemplate what Blake would make of all this. Blake was lost to her and she needed to move on to the next phase of her life.
The balloon rose higher and tentatively reached toward the sky. Cables and rope stretched outward, as the small basket underneath peaked out from beneath the immense balloon.
Belle vividly remembered attending the balloon ascension as a child with her father. But that was years ago, and it appeared the entire process had been modernized since then.
“So how does it work again?” Anne asked Lord Stratton.
“It’s quite simple.” Stratton flashed a boyish smile. “The air inside the balloon must simply be lighter than the air outside. Typically, balloonists have used casks of hydrogen, but the cost is prohibitive. Mr. Green is the first to employ coal gas to fill a balloon—”
“Coal gas? Like that which lights street lamps?”
“The very same. You can see there—” Stratton pointed to several men who held a long tube stretching from what appeared to be a gas-light main. “—they have stretched a connection and have nearly finished filling the balloon with it.”
“But how will Mr. Green return to earth?” Belle asked.
Stratton shrugged. “He will ride the air currents until the gas in the balloon dissipates and the balloon descends.”
“That sounds . . . less safe.” Belle frowned.
“Yes,” Lord Odysseus grinned, “but infinitely more exciting.”
Belle and Anne exchanged a look.
Ah, men.
Forever boys.
The balloon rose upward, eliciting gasps and exclamations from the gathered crowd. The men pulled away the gas main hose and tightened the ropes tethering the balloon to the earth.
“Hurrah!” Lord Odysseus cheered, waving his hat high over his head. “Have you ever seen a sight so glorious?!” He smiled down at her, his eyes suspiciously bright.
Belle repressed a smile.
Lord Odysseus was a bit of a crier. He had wept for a solid fifteen minutes earlier in the week over the painful beauty of a fallen sparrow. On a less handsome man, such behavior would surely appear comical. But Lord Odysseus was so heart-achingly beautiful and pulled the entire affect off with such verve, one couldn’t help but be charmed.
The balloon rose higher and higher until the wicker basket became airborne, the form of Mr. Green and a few friends visible, waving to the massed crowd below. The crowd oblig
ingly hooted and clamored as the balloon sailed above the nearby trees.
Lord Odysseus shamelessly wiped a tear away.
Belle was quite sure Lord Blake, were he here, would be too enamored of the scientific aspects behind the balloon’s rise to become emotional. Blake was always looking to use mechanics to improve any aspect of their business. Perhaps she could include a description in her next letter to him—
Stop.
You are done with your letters to him.
Belle swallowed. The next time she interacted with Blake would likely be her last. It would be to tell him the full truth and swallow whatever bitter pill he saw fit to give her. The most favorable outcome would be for Blake to slowly disentangle their business ventures. The worst scenario? That one likely involved Blake denouncing her perfidy to the entire known world. Belle shrank from even contemplating it.
How ironic, she thought. For so many years, she had considered Blake to be the one who had tethered her to the ground, allowing her to fly free from the narrow constraints of society’s expectations but still create a space for herself. She had adored her freedom.
But as she watched the balloon before her lift upward—it’s vibrant blue and red stripes filling her vision—she wondered if that metaphor had shifted.
Men moved into place, intent on removing the mooring ropes. After which, the balloon would be at the mercy of the air currents, carrying it off into an uncertain future.
Was this her life at the moment? Had Blake cut her tether loose? And now she found herself to be a lost balloon floundering through the sky, sailing undirected into an unknown destiny?
She shook her head.
Enough.
These metaphors needed to stop.
Blake was lost to her. She might feel adrift, but the sensation was momentary. Soon she would set her life to rights—
Heavens, such melodrama.
Lord Odysseus would certainly approve.
The men released the first of the mooring ropes, sending an enthusiastic roar through the crowd. The balloon lurched higher, straining on the remaining ropes.
